I got cute beans.
Back-story: One of my cats – I have four – is ridiculously adorable. I mean, they all are, of course. One is neurotic, needy and affectionate. One is shy, nervous and spends most of the day hiding from carpet lint. One is adventurous, athletic and bossy. And then there is Siris.
Siris is … well, adorable. Soft little belly, big pouty eyes, dark markings on his mouth that make you wonder if he found some kitty-sized lipstick somewhere and is looking into cross-dressing. He does have a shoe fetish. We’ve never determined exactly what it is about this cat that makes him so adorable. True, he is physically cuter than many a cat. We frequently remind him that there are a score of dreadfully ugly felines out in the world because he stole all the cute. He just says “meow”. Is it his cute ‘fun-sized’ stature that makes him so adorable? He’s never really sprouted into a cat size; still walks around sporting a kitten suit. Is it this petite frame that makes him so endearing? Or the fact that he snores when he’s asleep? I mean, serious snoring, like your old favorite grandparent on the Lazy Boy Sunday afternoon. Or could it be all the funny adventures Siris has gotten himself into, and we just automatically believe he is charming because of his hilarious past? The burrito eating contest. The spontaneous cast he made for his arm. His random art projects. Regardless of the reason, he is just freakishly delightful.
And he knows this. In the ten years that we have had Siris, the only days he hasn’t been told he’s cute are days that we were off with family for the holidays; or traveling through Bellinzona, Italy; or landed in jail for indecent exposure in a public place. Hey come on. I thought there was something called Freedom of Religion? Cult rites should be included in that, especially if they involve nudity, honey and shocked onlookers. But back to the topic at hand; me.
Reality is, no matter what the reason, this cat is damn cute. It can’t be denied, ignored, or refuted. And according to my sister, I’m cute too.
It’s a frequent occurrence in my house, the mentioning of “cute”. And it often is attached to me somehow. Throughout the course of the day, I apparently do things that are funny, endearing, stupid, silly or bizarre. I say things that are equally goofy, ridiculous or hilarious, and apparently these silly things create a feeling of affection on the end of others. Or at least this is true with my sister because she is constantly saying how cute I am. Forever now I’ve been responding back to this comment with “why?” or “what did I do?” I want to understand what thing I did that was weird or silly or particularly funny. It’s not like I’ve done anything interesting or humorous in my eyes. I’m just being me. So what on earth is making her smile and shake her head? What did I do?
The other day – after mentioning my cuteness and appropriately being drilled as to the reason of said cuteness – my sister simply said “It’s just in your being”.
“My beans?” I said, jokingly, an old family tradition of purposely mishearing someone’s comments. “I got cute beans?”
She smiled, shaking her head.
And finally it made sense to me. I’m like my cat. And now I no longer need to question the authority or accuracy of my sister’s statements. Because some of us are just innately created to be wacky, weird, wonderful creatures that make others pick on you, laugh at you, and shake their head in wonder. So why fight it? Why question it? I got cute beans.
I have the sight. I have to admit it.
And I love it, quite honestly. I love knowing things spontaneously and without prompting. Like the fact that I should pick up a pack of mustard flavored pretzels at the store, because my sister will be trying some at work in about an hour and will want some for her own. I love knowing that one of my sisters is pregnant before she even finds out. I love talking on the phone to people and knowing what they are wearing and whether they have their hair in ponytails or straight. And I love telling people that someone they know called Anna needs to get ahold of them, or someone they know that has just painted their living room yellow wants to talk to them.
I also love more important information, like that a friend will be dating someone soon, or will succeed in getting the job that they want. I love knowing that someone will successfully receive a hard earned scholarship for the school they want to go to.
Often this information comes to me because I am doing a psychic reading on someone. I’m actively seeking information on the querent, and so pick these bits up out of the stratosphere somehow. Other times I’m just sitting in a Taco Bell minding my own business, when I suddenly am prompted to tell a complete stranger that something wonderful is coming into her life.
And usually my information is greeted with thanks. People are almost unanimously grateful for the input that my quirky psychic bones get to them. Still, there are those times that my information is awkward, if not off putting.
Like the time I had to tell a friend of mine that she should give in to her husband about something in the bedroom. Well ok, I didn’t really tell her she SHOULD, I just mentioned that the topic was coming up in the reading. Turns out her husband had been badgering her about a particular position to try every since they’d gotten married. He finally got his way. However, they divorced a short time later. Ooops.
My little gift jumps out of my mouth from time to time. I wish it were predictable, like some of the shows on TV make you believe. Where the world around you goes all fuzzy or cloudy, or you start getting a headache, or colors change and shift. Then I would know I was having a psychic meltdown, or moment, and I would know how to behave accordingly. But that’s not the case. True, sometimes I can see the information inside my head, like it’s on a billboard or a marquis. But often I just blurt something out, before the thought has even solidified itself in my brain. One minute information is not there, and the next it just is. Which is great.
Except for when I accidentally blurt out something that is a true statement, when I think I’m only being funny. Like, “oh that guy likes to wear women’s underwear”, and it turns out to be true. Ooops. He probably didn’t want everyone finding out quite like that.
Well, I guess you can’t look a gift horse in the mouth, what with the nasty horse breath and all. So I will just have to take the knocks that come along with all the fun psychic information. It wouldn’t hurt if I could find a way to slow down my big mouth before it starts spewing out information that could get me into trouble.
But then, that just wouldn’t be me.