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The problem with trying to prove clairaudience, clairsentince, out-of-body, and Near Death Experiences to a Mudblood is not as simple as it could have been. Is it because Para-science is totally unsubstantiated? Not in MY family. Scientifically un-sound? Sure, by those who thought the world was flat, and would not budge. And who solved that? A NON scientist, that's who. Here's the problem, scientific GENIUSES (say this loudly with a sarcastic tone): When a known skeptic - you enters the room to harass, debunk, roll her eyes and sneer, the spirits that have been entertaining the empathic - me simply blow me a kiss and totally and damingly disappear. Do they leave the smell of Old Spice in their wake? Damned right they do. Who smells it? Ten guesses, and none of them is you. I am under the influence of strong medication taken in the form of a pink pill over 8 days ago, but here I am, trying to read this damned SCIENTIFIC JOURNAL to my committee. My hands are shaking. Remember the Bible-thumping Sunday School teacher who used to shout the CORRECT pronunciations at me? I blame her. “Can you please read this, and tell me if it sounds right?” I ask my para-committee. Helen places her hand on my head, and looks over my shoulder. “No, Honey, you forgot to put those dashes in the out-of-body again.” Crap. She's got on the strong stuff; the stuff that triggers my asthma. I nicely put a big blue towel to my nose and say "You smell like a whore house." Uncle Bill laughs loud and proud like I do when I'm not crying. It's either loud and proud or crying these days. I blame the doctor who gave me a triple dose of predizone. “This will put your family into orbit, being how insane they get when you talk about this stuff,” Uncle Bill says. “There are gobs of them that will be not speaking to you at Christmas, and that includes our close-minded cousin, Finn.” Uncle Bill has a kind of degree in people. He used to own a Western Auto store in a small Iowa farm town. As a little joke once he had another employee follow Aunt Marjorie around, telling him she was a "known shoplifter." The funny part of this is... Oh, crap. Here comes manic now. GULP. Swallow. Acting normal, right, Mom? Deep breaths. Aunt Marjorie, Uncle Bill's sister has NO sense of humor, so she came flying out of that candy aisle and started hitting Bill on the head with her purse screaming, "I don't know what you did, but you did something!" My eyes immediately flit up to the ceiling, knowing Mr. Leprechaun man is there. Mr. Leprechaun man is my dad, toothless, happy, grinning like all get out. We blow each other kisses. I don’t know how I know, but I always know when my father has arrived, because of his Old Spice smell, and a presence sense I never get at any other time. “Dad, can you get down here, and give me an opinion, PLEASE?” Dad, who has been on involuntary astral travel since the age of 28, grins at me from his corner of the ceiling. “Not today,” he says. “There’s a lot going on up here today, I’ve got to be ready at a min…..” My mother-in-law Helen laughs at his swift departure. “He’s got baby cherub duty again,” She rolls her eyes. “He pretends he doesn’t like it But I’ve never seen him happier.” She did not believe in astral travel, and now she’s doing it at least twice a month. I give her a high five. Thank God Dwight is nowhere around. I'm not breathing well, and he always brings smoke with him. Smoke in the car, smoke on the porch, smoke in my clothes. The smoke starts into my lungs. "Okay," I yell. "You can stop, Dwight. I KNOW you're here." This is a trick I learned about a year ago. It works. The smoke immediately disappears. "HERE COMES THE BABY!" Helen says. Dad is back, lying on the floor in front of Mundred, trying to get his attention first. Helen swoops down in front of him and puts her arms out wide. Mundred, our two-year-old grandson - actually MY 2 year old grandson whom I am willingly sharing with his deceased great-grandparents toddles in, babbling and chortling. "What's he saying?" I ask them. "SH!" Mundred walks straight up to the counter, and reaches his hands up to Helen. He was her husband in this lifetime; now he’s her great-grandson, and boy, is he a doll. She plunks him in her lap, and rubs his back soothingly.” He leans back into her bosom, sucking on his giant green pacifier I keep throwing away. If my daughter had her way, he'd be sucking on it in Middle School. “MOM!” My visitors disappear as soon as the angry voice appears. “WHY IS MUNDRED SITTING ON THE COUNTER AGAIN? I THOUGHT WE HAD TALKED ABOUT THAT!" She grabs up her son, and they start out of the kitchen. Mundred gives me the bird on the way out, behind his mother's back. I have to smile, thinking about what a merry little chase he's going to give her.

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The Paratotallynormal

The problem with trying to prove clairaudience, clairsentince, out-of-body, and Near Death Experiences to a Mudblood is not as simple as it could have been. Is it because Para-science is totally unsubstantiated? Not in MY family. Scientifically un-sound? Sure, by those who thought the world was flat, and would not budge. And who solved that? A NON scientist, that's who. Here's the problem, scientific GENIUSES (say this loudly with a sarcastic tone): When a known skeptic - you enters the room to harass, debunk, roll her eyes and sneer, the spirits that have been entertaining the empathic - me simply blow me a kiss and totally and damingly disappear. Do they leave the smell of Old Spice in their wake? Damned right they do. Who smells it? Ten guesses, and none of them is you. I am under the influence of strong medication taken in the form of a pink pill over 8 days ago, but here I am, trying to read this damned SCIENTIFIC JOURNAL to my committee. My hands are shaking. Remember the Bible-thumping Sunday School teacher who used to shout the CORRECT pronunciations at me? I blame her. “Can you please read this, and tell me if it sounds right?” I ask my para-committee. Helen places her hand on my head, and looks over my shoulder. “No, Honey, you forgot to put those dashes in the out-of-body again.” Crap. She's got on the strong stuff; the stuff that triggers my asthma. I nicely put a big blue towel to my nose and say "You smell like a whore house." Uncle Bill laughs loud and proud like I do when I'm not crying. It's either loud and proud or crying these days. I blame the doctor who gave me a triple dose of predizone. “This will put your family into orbit, being how insane they get when you talk about this stuff,” Uncle Bill says. “There are gobs of them that will be not speaking to you at Christmas, and that includes our close-minded cousin, Finn.” Uncle Bill has a kind of degree in people. He used to own a Western Auto store in a small Iowa farm town. As a little joke once he had another employee follow Aunt Marjorie around, telling him she was a "known shoplifter." The funny part of this is... Oh, crap. Here comes manic now. GULP. Swallow. Acting normal, right, Mom? Deep breaths. Aunt Marjorie, Uncle Bill's sister has NO sense of humor, so she came flying out of that candy aisle and started hitting Bill on the head with her purse screaming, "I don't know what you did, but you did something!" My eyes immediately flit up to the ceiling, knowing Mr. Leprechaun man is there. Mr. Leprechaun man is my dad, toothless, happy, grinning like all get out. We blow each other kisses. I don’t know how I know, but I always know when my father has arrived, because of his Old Spice smell, and a presence sense I never get at any other time. “Dad, can you get down here, and give me an opinion, PLEASE?” Dad, who has been on involuntary astral travel since the age of 28, grins at me from his corner of the ceiling. “Not today,” he says. “There’s a lot going on up here today, I’ve got to be ready at a min…..” My mother-in-law Helen laughs at his swift departure. “He’s got baby cherub duty again,” She rolls her eyes. “He pretends he doesn’t like it But I’ve never seen him happier.” She did not believe in astral travel, and now she’s doing it at least twice a month. I give her a high five. Thank God Dwight is nowhere around. I'm not breathing well, and he always brings smoke with him. Smoke in the car, smoke on the porch, smoke in my clothes. The smoke starts into my lungs. "Okay," I yell. "You can stop, Dwight. I KNOW you're here." This is a trick I learned about a year ago. It works. The smoke immediately disappears. "HERE COMES THE BABY!" Helen says. Dad is back, lying on the floor in front of Mundred, trying to get his attention first. Helen swoops down in front of him and puts her arms out wide. Mundred, our two-year-old grandson - actually MY 2 year old grandson whom I am willingly sharing with his deceased great-grandparents toddles in, babbling and chortling. "What's he saying?" I ask them. "SH!" Mundred walks straight up to the counter, and reaches his hands up to Helen. He was her husband in this lifetime; now he’s her great-grandson, and boy, is he a doll. She plunks him in her lap, and rubs his back soothingly.” He leans back into her bosom, sucking on his giant green pacifier I keep throwing away. If my daughter had her way, he'd be sucking on it in Middle School. “MOM!” My visitors disappear as soon as the angry voice appears. “WHY IS MUNDRED SITTING ON THE COUNTER AGAIN? I THOUGHT WE HAD TALKED ABOUT THAT!" She grabs up her son, and they start out of the kitchen. Mundred gives me the bird on the way out, behind his mother's back. I have to smile, thinking about what a merry little chase he's going to give her.