One upon a time, I made an appointment to meet with a psychic who my friend had told me was “really good.” Whether it was due to nerves or lack of fundage, I cancelled several days before my session. I’ve never been the sort to buy in too much to the whole mystic, new-agey stuff, because I prefer my life to be lived by more concrete rules. Maybe it’s the (now latent) scientist in me, but I can’t seem to wrap my mind around vague mentions of strife, love, or predictions of my future, mainly because I can see both how easy it would be to buy into this sense of greater meaning, and because I suck ass at interpreting these kinds of things. During any given month, I can fit whatever my horoscope is into what has happened, but it doesn’t matter much, because EVERY month is filled with strange happenings here at Casa de la Sausage.

It becomes a self-fufilling prophecy, or complete and utter crap, if you ask me. Even if I COULD see into the future, I’m not sure that I’d want to. If I “knew” that 10 years down the road, my cat would be hit by a car driven by my son, or that I would finally succumb to The Crazy, would I live my day to day life any differently? Would I accept this as an inevitability and not bother to try and change it? Or would I caution my son to watch for animals while driving AND try and prevent him from learning to drive? I can’t be sure, so I don’t want to know.

After Daver and I got married, we made it a weekly tradition to go out to breakfast together on one of the weekend mornings. A favorite haunt, harkening back to my days as a single smoker, was the local Baker’s Square, where we were often waited on by a strange woman who took a decided interest in me.

As a rule, if there is a certified Odd Duck somewhere in my vicinity, chances are they will be drawn to me like a magnet. I, apparently, am a positively charged Weirdo Magnet (but thankfully these are not Completely Crazy Emotional Weirdos, just strange ones. My husband, however, seems to have the Emotional Crazy Magnet implanted in his head). Dave shakes his head and laughs each time that we meet a new one, but I usually find them to be pretty interesting.

I always enjoyed this Odd Duck of a waitress. She was harmless, friendly, and thrilled when we announced our much anticipated pregnancy. She took one look at me, grabbed my palm, and pronounced that this child was a boy, which I immediately denied. Dave and I were certain that it was a girl (what with the vomiting and all. Such a lovely reason to think that I was carrying a girl.), which I tried to explain to her. She maintained that THIS baby was a BOY, just like my first (whom she had never met) and our next (and last) child was a girl and that I would have “you know, the high blood pressure” with her (my blood pressures run insanely low, and always have).

Needless to say, she was correct in guessing the chromosomal makeup of our offspring, and now I am left to wonder: will I have another child someday? Will it REALLY be a girl (meaning, I will no longer live in the Sausage Factory as a lone XX among a sea of XY’s.)?

On my good days with Alex and Ben, I doimagine that someday, I will be foolish enough to get pregnant again (God willing), and on my bad days I wonder what I was thinking in the first place. I adore the chaos that comes along with having two children, but I am sick to death of the sleepless nights, cold meals, and moreover the WORRY that comes along with having an ickle one. At the same time, I don’t want to go through the rest of my life wishing that I’d had another child (Someday, I’m going to want at least ONE of my children to come home for the holidays).

I suppose that I don’t know what to think about her prediction, but I can’t seem to shake it no matter how I attempt to logicate it (yes, I said “logicate,” which I am aware is not a real word. But it’s such a GOOD fake word.)

What do YOU think about that sort of stuff and/or her prediction? Do you buy that someone could really KNOW that kind of thing? Has this kind of thing happened to you before?

(and no, I am not currently pregnant, in case I haven’t made that clear).