Taro Cards


It was kinda creepy.

My Italian mother had the ability to read taro cards. She could also hold something personal in her hand given by someone–like a wedding ring they wear all the time–and tell them uncanny details about their life even though she’d never met them before.

crystalballShe bought a crystal ball. When I saw it, I could only think of The Wizard of Oz and flying monkeys. I held the crystal ball one time and it dropped on my foot. This just goes to show you my uncanny ability to immediately see into the future that I was going to have a sore, black and blue foot.

A lot of people are afraid of the future and what lies ahead, but there are others who will go to great lengths to seek out their destiny.

My mom would spend hours sitting at her desk in her bedroom, smoking cigarette after cigarette; laying out taro cards in complete silence. I don’t know what she wastarocards trying to find out, or if she was doing readings for others’, but to me it seemed like a complete waste of time. I mean, I would have preferred playing Pong or listening to my Boston records over and over until she would yell, “Quit playing that damn song over and over again! You’re ruining my concentration!!” Personally, I think she just didn’t like my singing, but whatever.

One day, I looked through the mail we received and there was something for my mom. When she opened up the letter she gasped.

“Can you believe this shit?”

“What is it?” I said. I didn’t recall getting in trouble at school or wasn’t recently arrested. The house I TP’d with my friends was a few weeks ago, so I didn’t think the letter she was reading had anything to do with me.

“There is something wrong with her.” Read it.

I read the letter. The woman was a friend of my mom’s. She wanted to send my mother something personal in which she always had on her person, but didn’t want to put a wedding ring, bra, or panties in the mail. Instead, she sent my mother her nail clippings.

Her long nail clippings were in the envelope. Yellow, hard nail clippings is what this woman expected my mother to hold in her hands and get a vibe on what her future held.

I suppose this would have been better than a fake eyeball, prosthetic limb, or ear wax.

My mother got a vibe, alright. She immediately burned the letter along with the yellow nail clippings.

I think after that, she didn’t do readings for people any longer. She lost friends because of it. Her friends, she said, thought that she could read their minds just by walking past them.

Of course, this was nonsense. She already knew what they were thinking by looking into her crystal ball and reading those taro cards.

Flying monkeys, I tell ya.

As for me, I don’t read taro cards or really believe in any of that stuff. What I do believe are my very vivid dreams. The big issue here is that I really don’t know what any of them mean.

Here are a few that I remember:

Dave, my husband, sent me an email one morning…

Good morning, I love you. You punched Crusher and scared Lucy this morning. You just started swinging and hit Crusher directly on his head. Poor guy went straight to his crate, Lucy took off as well
When I grabbed your arms, you said “I’m fighting with someone who won’t let me shoot pop tarts out of the rifle.”

Yeah. It gets better…

I had a dream in which I bought the New England Patriots while performing a high school pom-pom routine. Once I signed the papers, I waved the pom-pom into the air and an older man comes out of nowhere; which makes me think he’s the coach (since he’s wearing an orange hat), and in fact, was the coach. I had to fire someone. Right away. I fired whomever it was–work with me on this because my dream is sketchy–and madedreaminterpretation my first executive decision to get rid of the clowns to entertain the crowd and brought back the cheerleaders.

And, a recurring dream:

When I was a little girl, I had a light green bedroom with a canopy bed. As I recall, the dream would occur almost every night, but I’m sure it didn’t. I was shoved into a barrel looking up through the hole. My grandmother was standing over the barrel looking at me smiling, laughing, and spinning the crap out of this barrel. She spun it so fast, it could have been a toy top.

I screamed for her to stop, but she just kept on spinning the barrel and laughing. It was like she couldn’t hear me–or didn’t want to hear me.

When I would wake up, I would have a funny taste in my mouth; it was something I can’t even compare it to–even to this day.

Lastly…

My husband and I were in a hotel. It was very swank and contemporary on the inside with red and black accents; rich and dark.

Mysterious.

Dave told me to meet him in room 103. As he rushed ahead of me, I tried to keep up, but started losing track of him down the many hallways we were walking through. As I started looking for the room number, the numbers weren’t in order. Room 103 was missing.

Where was room 103?

I had to ask a bell hop where it was and he showed me the location;  tucked away into an alcove–sort of where public bathrooms are typically located.

I opened up the door. I walked into the red room and saw my husband looking at me smiling. Oh, I forgot to mention he was banging an Asian chick from behind.

As you can imagine, I have issues. I’m not quite sure what any of those dreams meant, but I remembered them. Some people don’t recall their dreams.

At times, I wish I didn’t recall my dreams either. It would make me feel less of a freak.

 

 

 

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