Hi ya'll, Wanda the Psychic here. Contrary to popular belief, I do have a real last name and it's NOT "Psychic," despite what my husband Earl might tell you. My middle name is not "The" either. Earl's been a little huffy ever since I was on that radio program a few months ago and the DJ started joking that I should legally change my last name to "Psychic" since that's what everybody calls me anyway. Earl is a little bit too proud of his family name, which I won't say here (but I'll give you a hint, it starts with "S" and ends with "Mith"). Very common name and I don't see what the big deal is. After all, if unidentified dead folks get your last name in the morgue then I wouldn't think it would be something to be overly proud of.
Anyway, back to what I was saying. For my debut column here on this fine website, I thought I'd answer two of the questions I get asked the most.
Dear Wanda,
Where are my car keys?
--Nancy S, right down the street.
Wanda:
(Nancy S. is my next door neighbor who kindly agreed to assist me with this column by providing the first question. Her keys are always missing though, so maybe she's not the best example. Once, she managed to lock herself out of her car and her house at the same time. Her husband Roy had to come home early from work with the spare keys. Bad thing was, she'd also locked their Cocker Spaniel Buffy in the car too because she was on the way home from the vet. Poor Buffy was a little car sick and barfed all over the backseat of their brand-new SUV. It was warm that day and by the time Roy got there with the keys, that car smelled like the 5th level of hell. Earl says that's exactly why we won't ever have a dog. I said that would never happen since I'm psychic and all. I never lose my car keys. Earl just hates dogs in general. He had a bad experience with his Grandma's Chihuahua when he was a kid. I won't go into details cause Earl 'd kill me, so we'll just say Chihuahuas don't particularly like being stuffed into Grandpa's big work boot and driven around and around the living room forced to pretend they're driving an Army Tank. They also apparently really, really hate little boys who taste their dog food right out of their bowl on the floor. More than once. Earl says he was just curious to see what it tasted like. I told him that it should've only taken one taste to answer that question, so why did he go back for seconds? Earl said he wasn't sure what it tasted like and had to taste it again to determine what the flavor was. He decided it tasted like chicken with a hint of beef broth. Ladies and gentleman, my husband the connoisseur of dog food! And I married him anyway!)
Anyway, back to the question at hand. Where's my keys? You'd think there'd be nobody out driving on the roads as many times as I have been asked this question. The answer is: Wherever you left them!
Ha ha! I never get tired of that joke. Nancy, your car keys are on your kitchen table underneath the mail you got out of the box yesterday afternoon. And I swear I knew that because I'm psychic and not because that's where Nancy always leaves her keys.
Now for the second question I get asked the most:
Dear Wanda,
Is my husband cheating on me?
--Nan...err, Ellen R.
Wanda:
Dear Ellen,
You know the answer to this question just as well as I do. All it takes is a little common sense. Listen to your instincts. And your husband's private phone calls. You know, the business calls that he takes on his cell phone in the bedroom with the door closed? And for the record, most business lunches are NOT conducted at the downtown Hyatt Regency as he explained that receipt you found in his jacket pocket last week. Honey, the Hyatt doesn't even have a restaurant! Let me make a little prediction, Ellen. I predict that at this time next week the truth will be revealed to you. (That's when you've got the appointment with the P.I., right?)
Well, that about does it for my debut column. Next time I will cover another common question--Is my house haunted? I can give you a little advice right now if you think your house is haunted. Check for squirrels in the attic. That's what my aunt Dottie used to tell me whenever we'd hear weird noises coming from upstairs in her big, old scary house. "It's squirrels in the attic!," she'd say. I thought it was ghosts up there walking around. Of course, now that I think about it, those squirrels sounded an awful lot like my Uncle Dan. Especially when they yelled obscenities and fell down.
But enough about squirrels and my Uncle Dan. I'll be back next month to tell you all about haunted houses.
Psychically yours,
Wanda
