More Medical Misadventures and Technologically Capable Gypsies

Slippy and I cruised back to Loyola for more medical misadventures yesterday. After lunching at Windy City Subs and sitting in gridlock traffic for a while, we still had plenty of time to kill before her appointment. As we drove north on Harlem, we pondered what we could do to waste a little time. We soon found our answer ...

The sign read ASTROLOGICAL READINGS, CHARTS and COMPUTER REPAIR. $10 SPECIALS.

How ever could we deny ourselves the pleasure of having someone with cosmic and technological knowledge give us insights into our lives and futures? We couldn't. Despite the fact that the sign said "By Appointment Only!" we decided to take our chances with a walk in. I rapped on the paint-peeled grayish white door of the two-story house and we were invited in by ... well, a gypsy.

Anna looked to be about our age. Her living room was modest, yet nicely furnished. She asked us to wait for a moment, and I checked out her business license framed on the wall. She's licensed as an astrological bookseller. I wondered, was she bonded, too?

Anna returned with a pencil and a pad of paper and began to describe her services. The $10 special includes a handwriting analysis. Great. My chicken scratch was sure to reveal me clearly to this mystic. I analyzed my own handwriting once in a book. It said I was a psychopath.

"I want the $10 special; two of them, please."

Of course, she tried to upsell us immediately, hoping we would let her fleece us for $30 each for the great honor of having her do our astrological charts (which I have done myself for free, thanks to the fucking LIBRARY and the INTERNET!).

"I want the $10 special; two of them, please."

"Okay, but just so you know, the handwriting analysis really only gives you a character outline," she warned. "I can't really answer questions about your future."

It's a good thing Slippy and I are completely unaware of ourselves and our own characters. Upon walking up to the house, we both agreed that we were about to get ripped off, but we didn't care. We had time to kill, and as everyone knows, time is money. So, my twisted logic led us to believe that killing time = killing money. Besides, does entertainment usually come this cheap? Mais non, mes amis!

"Who wants to go first?" Anna asked.

"I do! I do!" I bounced in my seat. I couldn't wait to get to know myself better.

"Write your first name, your birthday and the first thing you think of," she instructed.

"Nora, May 4. My aura is pink and yellow."

She stared at the yellow slip of paper. "Ok, what does this say?" She pointed at my name. This wasn't going well already.

"Nora."

"Ah, I see. Ok..." She launched into her spiel. "You're going to have a long life, good health."

I began to believe in her powers ... I waited for more wisdom and insight into my life.

"I see ... three children around you. Twins. Do twins run in your family?"

That bitch. My hand itched; I wanted to slap her. "No. Not really," I answered.

She went on and on, using the typical mystical sounding bullshit that is based on her observations of my very transparent and obvious personality traits, but general enough that it can apply to almost anyone.

Then it was Slippy's turn.

She commented on her tendencies toward privacy and reservation; she did touch upon some interesting things with her that I thought were accurate, but again, probably based more on her observations than anything. She promised true love and two kids, which, let's face it: telling a woman with no wedding ring that true love and kids is in her future is probably Fortune Telling 101. If she had said, "I get the feeling you enjoy the stress-free nature of the single life and you'd prefer to be around the children of your friends and relatives, so you could leave after a nice visit, while maintaining a relaxing lifestyle of your choosing," I would have been way more impressed with her insight.

The point is, though, is that we wanted entertainment, and that's what we got. We killed about fifteen, twenty minutes and told Anna we'd TOTALLY come back for our chart readings. She gave us fliers that detailed her services, and we chuckled again at the "computer repairs" amongst all the mystical mumbo jumbo. Ah, contemporary gypsies are diversifying!

We didn't manage to kill as much time as we'd hoped, though, so I took Slippy on a search for Dairy Queen. I wanted a Heath Bar Blizzard, and nothing else would do. We passed no less than ten Baskin Robbins, but I was having none of that. Finally, after touring the western suburbs for a good hour with no luck, we were ready to head back for her appointment.

Hopefully, we are coming to the end of medical misadventures. The doctor said she's looking good, stabbed her with a swab filled with silver nitrate and told her to make an appointment for two weeks later. If it looks all healed up, he said she could just blow it off. Fingers crossed, everybody! This has been a shitty summer for our Slippy, indeed. Fortunately, she has me to drag her into time- and money-wasting misadventures to entertain her until she's all healed up and ready to get back to work.