Back in 2005, I posted about a vaguely humorous piece of junk mail that I found in my mailbox from a self proclaimed psychic called Karina Natalia.

The web had remarkably little to say of Ms. Natalia. There is slightly more information now, but my post seems to be number 5 on the Google search list under her moniker. I can always tell when she’s done another mailshot due to a flurry of comments and emails that I receive. I have to admit that I’ve heard nothing from my psychic “friend” since the original mailing and assume that she has gone on to plow more fertile pastures of utter bullshit.

Here begins the Public Service announcement:

While I don’t claim to know everything there is to know about the working of the human mind, someone who sends you a letter out of the blue claiming to know that you’re in need of healing (and who isn’t, really?) is probably a crook who’s yanking your crank. No one, I repeat, NO ONE is EVER going to send you an unsolicited email offering you something for nothing. It just doesn’t happen. Never, ever, EVER send money to someone offering such a dubious service.

While I’m not religious, I can’t dispute evidence that leans in the direction that prayer has positive benefits. Someone directing positive energy your way certainly can’t be a bad thing. If you feel that you could benefit from prayer, join a church prayer circle. Join an INTERNET prayer circle. Try meditation. You don’t need to pay for prayer because there’s an awful lot of people out there who will be more than happy to direct good vibes your way TOTALLY FREE.

In other words, NO PAY FOR PRAY.

Karina Natalia, if you’re reading this, please tell me……

Just WHAT am I thinking?

So, we have chicken pox.

By we, I mean the Prawn, as illnesses of children tend to tip the whole family into chaos. We noticed one or two quite revolting spots on her back during her bath a few night ago which have since bloomed into a rather magnificent crop of pox that cover her entire body, concentrating most heavily and cruelly on her ladybits, which seems most grossly unfair. Strangely enough, The Prawn seems less than bothered by the repulsive boils all over her that I have to spend every waking second fighting the urge to pop. (I’m kind of a monkey that way.) In fact, she is in great spirits and takes tremendous pleasure in cuddling the both of us despite the fact that she looks like the creature from the Zit Lagoon.

We have discovered a few things about the Prawn in the last few days. One of those things is that she has a deep and abiding fear of doctors. Strangely, none of them have ever done anything heinous to her;  like sticking something up her butt for example. If this were the case, I could totally understand the unrestrained screamfest that accompanies every visit, but so far, none of the doctors she’s ever seen has done anything worse than attempt to listen to her heart or look in her ear, both of which are near impossible when the subject in question is wailing like a banshee and squirming like an angry squid. The nurse, however, who, every time we see her, gives the Prawn a jab….she has no fear of whatsoever. Go figure.

We have a really lovely GP who actually gave us a diagnosis at first of hand/foot/mouth, but who, when consulted today with the Prawn’s multitude of spots, was like, “WHOA! Sorry about that. That’s DEFINITELY chicken pox.” He probably couldn’t get a good enough look due to the extreme wigglage of my offspring.

I’m pleased that she’s got them now, to be honest. Better now than in October, in time for Trumpet an BoyRacer’s wedding. Better now than if I get pregnant again in the future, forcing me to abandon her and the Rock Star until the pestilance subsides. But….did I mention that I’ve never had them?

Despite being exposed numerous times as a kid, I never came down with the dreaded poultry lurghy, so I suppose now is the time to test my theory that I have a natural immunity.

If my theory should prove incorrect, I am in for some VERY unpleasant times indeed.

Occasionally, I like to have a toot for small business. My long term pipe dream is to be a small business owner myself, but my coffeehouse/performance studio/craft centre/unicorn breeding model doesn’t seem to be the most viable business strategy in this current economic climate of recession, so I may just have to be content to dream a while longer.

I’ve always been rather a fan of the worst kind of sweets; the ones with blindingly bright packaging and more e-numbers than a bottle of Fruit Shoot. Candy for second graders, really. Things that make your cheeks turn inside out with their sheer sourness and turn your tongue every unnatural color of the rainbow. I have many happy memories of lounging poolside with a friend on a scorching summer day, burning lobster red and gleefully chewing sour strawberry taffy that would slip between our wet, chlorinated fingers like sticky serpents. It’s as much a memory thing as a taste experience, so I can be forgiven for occasionally indulging in the most childish of gastronomic experiences.

The Rock Star and I spend last Saturday morning with some of my long lost Western cousins who I’ve not seen since I was 12. After a joyous reunion in Covent Garden, said cousins hurried off to catch a train to Paris and seeing as how we don’t get into the city as often as we like, we decided just to have a mooch around. Of course, a mooch with the Prawn is slightly more of a slog than mooches used to be, so we kept to back streets around the Covent Garden/ Leicester Square area and this is where we ran into two rather fabulous sweet emporiums.

Hope and Greenwood sits directly opposite the Royal Drury Lane Theatre and although the street is quieter during the day, the shop is almost assured “Which way was Leicester Square again?” traffic. It’s lovely 1930’s “jolly good fun” seaside atmosphere is tremendously welcoming and when walking in, it’s hard to know which way to look for all the brightly colored confectionary and beautiful packaging. The piece de resistance, however, is the old fashioned wall of sweet jars brimming full of childhood remembrances. At least, this is what The Rock Star told me, because all of the sweets were rather unfamiliar to my American palette. The Rock Star gleefully asked for a quarter of aniseed balls; one of his favourites. (I can always count on him to finish black, green and yellow candies that I leave behind. Aniseed makes me feel vaguely nauseous due to an encounter with Pernod in college.) I chose a quarter of candy necklaces; another throwback from childhood that I’ve never outgrown a taste for.

After a brief trip into Leicester Square, (“Why did we come here again?”) we headed back down Garrick Street, which we trusted would lead us eventually to our parking garage and came across Cyber Candy.

Being an ex-pat, some of my most favorite sweets are obviously unavailable to me, so when we came across a store that seemed to be stocked to the brim with all of my favourites, it took all of my will not to begin squealing with delight. Tootsie Roll pops. Twizzlers, Some of the sourest candies known to man. They were all there. And all pretty freaking expensive, but to my mind, worth it for the nostalgia. (If I lived in the US, I’d probably not be so excited by a packet of Sweet Tarts, but when you can’t get a hold of things, they suddenly become VERY APPEALING.) The Rock Star was beside himself at the prospect of Twizzlers, which we always bring home from our US sojourns in enormous quantities, only to see them disappear much more rapidly than we hoped. (The same thing happened this time. They didn’t last a week.) I personally am still working on my roll of Sweet Tart Shockers which are delightfully puckery.

I’d encourage those of you that are possessed of a sweet tooth to check out both of their sites on the web from which you can order all manner of satisfying treats!

Right, you guys. We’re all tuned in to the fact that you LURVE to whip us proles until a state of pant-wetting hysteria over things that are a) relatively minor or b) simply not true, but my plea to you today is to please try to reign yourself in while engaging in headline writing and concentrate on, you know, WHAT THE ARTICLE IS ACTUALLY ABOUT.

Exhibit A: “Toddlers who dislike spicy food ‘racist’”

Right. So no one is going to argue that racism is not a societal problem, but picking this particular throw-away comment from the report and plastering it across the top of the page is really quite obviously headline whoring. The article describes a study that’s been made available to primary school teachers that points out possible manifestations of racism in children including name calling, peer group relationships and yes, an adverse reaction to unfamiliar foods. If the headline was to be believed, toddlers the world over would be budding racists by refusing all manner of culinary delights. Is this to say that my daughter, upon refusing a hot chilli, has a bias against Texans? No, this header’s only function is to mislead and worry parents.

So, strike one, media. This headline? BOGUS. Shame on you! I thwack you with the Newspaper of Literary Correction.

Exhibit B: “Teen Decapitated by Ride at Six Flags Georgia”

Okay, NEVER a nice story. But the header would IMMEDIATELY cause the more worry prone among us to cancel that outing to roller coaster land. However, if one reads on, one would discover that this hapless, and now headless teenager climbed over about 10 fences with signs stuck to them that read, FOR THE LOVE OF GOD, DO NOT CLIMB OVER THIS FUCKING FENCE at which point he was struck by a roller coaster.

The media loves a good gristly death story, but perhaps a more suitable headline would be, “Local Dumbass Dies Doing Something Unbelievably Stupid” or “Darwin At Work”? Or, if not wishing to incur lawsuits from the young unfortunate’s family, then simply, “Death At Six Flags the Result of Ignored Safety Warnings”?

Bad Media! Bad!

Suck it up and try to show some objective behavior.

Or I’m getting the water bottle.

An HM Customs and Revenue audit.