Definitely In The Wrong Profession

["Let Inga Tell You,"  La Jolla Light, published January 1, 2026] 2026

OK, I know it's not nice to make fun of other people's occupations, but I really have trouble with animal psychics. Part of that trouble is my regret that I never entered this lucrative field myself especially in a place where there is both lots of money and lots of pets.

Some years ago, I had an acquaintance who shall remain nameless who told me that her dog kept getting out of the yard while she was at work. Now, it seemed obvious to me that the poor animal was lonely and didn't like being left alone all day. To entertain itself (and hopefully seek some companionship), it spent its time digging a hole under her fence to escape.

Finally, the acquaintance engaged the services of a pet psychic to meet with the dog and see what its issues might be. She first met with the psychic, explained the problem and then had the canine clairvoyant meet privately with the pup.

My acquaintance couldn't sing the praises more highly of the psychic afterwards.

"It was amazing!" she effused. "She said that Bowser was feeling sad while I was at work and felt incredibly stressed and was just trying to come and find me."

"Um,"  I said. "But isn't that kind of what you told her? (I didn't add: "and freaking obvious?")

"But not exactly like that!"  insisted my acquaintance. "I couldn't believe the details Bowser told her! I never would have guessed!"

Personally, it seemed that the money spent on the pooch portender might have been better spent on enrolling it in doggie daycare. But that's just me.

During this conversation, I kept having a deja  vu to a long-ago psychology class about a therapeutic style called "emphathic paraphrasing."   This involves restating, using different words, someone's thoughts and feelings in a way that demonstrates understanding and compassion. It makes the client feel heard and is a genuinely powerful therapeutic tool.

So are pet psychics simply experts at empathic paraphrasing with maybe a side of fabrication?

In fact, this reminded me of another situation that I wrote about a long time ago when a neighbor's cat, known as Butterscotch, was left behind when they moved. Tracked down, they said they thought someone else might also be feeding him so they d felt OK departing without him. (Gah!)

Butterscotch showed up like clockwork at our doorstep every night meowing piteously until I came out to the front porch with a can of people tuna. Meanwhile I posted his photo on "Do you know me?"  fliers around the neighborhood. We couldn't keep Butterscotch ourselves as my younger son was anaphylatically-allergic to cats.

A day or so later, two women called. "Yes, that s our cat Tiger,"  they said. "He adopted us a few months ago but disappears for days at a time. We've spent $600 on his vet bills."

When Tiger/Butterscotch showed up at my doorstep that night doing his starving homeless cat act, I stared him down and said, "I'm on to you, you kitty con artist. Just how many homes do you have???"

Several, as it turned out. Once the tuna train ended at my house, he began frequenting the master bedroom of another neighbor, Jeff, whose French doors were often open. Jeff had no interest in a cat but Tiger/Butterscotch was not to be dissuaded.

I connected Jeff up with the two ladies on the next street. As often as Jeff returned the marmalade manipulator to their house, Tiger would be back to Jeff s an hour later. The two women were distraught at Tiger s rejection (especially after their financial investment in the furry felon's medical care) and finally concluded there was only one thing to be done.

They called in the cat whisperer. 

The kitty psychic ($150 hour) closeted herself with her feline client for a private consultation. Tiger, the cat shrink reported when she emerged, was distraught that there was now another male cat on the women's block who was more dominant than he. His male ego bruised, he had sought refuge at Jeff's where there was less competition, not to mention gratuitous male bonding. (The cat whisperer didn't specifically mention it, but I'm sure Tiger told her that he, like Jeff, was a rabid Yankees fan.) While Tiger didn't want to appear ungrateful for the ladies many kindnesses, at this stage in his life, he needed a more guy-centric environment.

"Well," said Jeff, who didn't want to admit just how attached he and his girlfriend were to the cat at this point, "if it s really what Tiger wants..."

Easter Sunday was to be the official changeover day. Jeff's girlfriend made a nice brunch and the two tearful ladies showed up, Tiger in tow, for the official handover of distemper shot records. They surveyed Tiger s new home, and approved. Food was served. But when it came time for the relinquishment to become final, the ladies had a sudden change of heart. What if the Feline Freud had misunderstood the tabby terror's wishes?

Tiger was put on the phone during an emergency call to the cat psychic whose skills fortunately included aural communication over optical fiber. The ladies were assured that Tiger had re-asserted his wishes to live with Jeff.

And that was that. Jeff was now the proud owner of a kitty bigamist.

Personally, I was always suspicious about the story of Tiger being threatened by other male cats on the block but who was going to dispute it? Definitely not Tiger who lived a long and happy life at Jeff s.

But I do feel that maybe I'm in the wrong occupation. And by the way, I'd be willing to do it for $125, treats included.

 

 

The Hazards Of Hostessing

["Let Inga Tell You,"  La Jolla Light, published December 25, 2025] 2025

I love to collect stories from friends who host large groups during the holidays and have to deal with picky eaters.

Seriously, these women qualify for sainthood. Unless it's a genuine allergy situation (verified by a note from the guest's doctor), I tend to go with my mother's philosophy which was the same both for entertaining and weeknight family meals: dinner is served!

Since there appears to be a new health fad just about weekly, trying to accommodate what guests are or more to the point, are not eating is pretty much doomed to failure. But this does not keep my heroic friends from trying.

A good friend of mine recounted how she was planning a Christmas day dinner for 11 (her table can only accommodate ten but she decided she could squish two people together at the end of the table) which would include three young grandchildren plus some family friends.

One of the guests was her husband s ex-wife with whom both she and her husband have maintained an enviably cordial relationship. The ex-wife called and mentioned that she had a new boyfriend and wondered if he might be able to attend as well? My friend, ever accommodating, decided she could probably squish two people together at BOTH ends of the table, and said yes.

Ex-wife calls back the next day. Boyfriend wants to know if he can bring his teenage daughter since it will be a custody day. My friend starts to panic. But the grandkids are tiny, she can maybe double them up, so she says yes.

That afternoon, another call. The teenage daughter would really like to bring her boyfriend who is in a horrible family situation and will not otherwise have any celebration at all. It would be a great kindness to include him, and of course, would be in the spirit of the holiday. My friend says yes, realizing that she will probably be eating by herself in the kitchen. Or maybe she can rent some folding chairs to put around the table instead of using the comfy chairs that go with her dining room set.

She then learns that all four of these guests are vegetarians.

She decides to make this meal really simple: pasta with a choice of a red marinara sauce with meat or a green pesto sauce. Very Christmas-y. There will be a big salad, and some fabulous bread. Voila!

But then she hears from her daughter-in-law. DIL has decided that the grandtots, who have been eating bread and pasta for their entire little lives, including the day before, are gluten-sensitive and will henceforth be eating only gluten-free pasta and gluten-free bread. DIL notes that that would include any croutons in the salad.

My friend decides, OK, so she'll serve two types of pasta, one gluten and one gluten-free, with the two sauces, along with both gluten-y and gluten-free bread. Croutons will be eliminated from the salad. Or she could make some using the gluten-free bread? Nope, that might push her into the zone of hostility.

There went the pies she was planning to serve for dessert too. Can't serve a dessert (gluten in crusts) that the grandkids can t eat. Relationship with the daughter-in-law could not be saved.

One of the other guests then reminds my friend that in her dietary regimen (no allergies, has something to do with blood type?), she does not consume fungi (that would be mushrooms), root vegetables (including onions), or meat. Dang! That red sauce was going to have all three of those ingredients. And the now-crouton-free salad was going to have mushrooms too. Okay, so my friend makes a note to remember to put the mushrooms on the side and let people add them to their salad if they want. But eliminating onions, mushrooms and meat from her treasured family red sauce was going to be problematical at best. She realizes that there are just going to have to be two red sauces, the traditional one that she usually makes, and one that will pretty much be...tomatoes.

But now the problem is how to serve all these dishes since her sideboard really doesn't have enough room for so many options. It will also be critical to make sure that everything is scrupulously labeled so that nobody eats gluten-y bread and mushroom-tainted marinara sauce by mistake.

Of course, it would be so easy to get all those labels confused! Imagine the horror to find that the gluten-free preferers (not actually allergic) had accidentally eaten the gluten stuff by mistake, or that the onion lady had ingested not only fungi but cow!

Personally, I would feel really really bad if that happened. For about five minutes. And then I would sit down with my glass of chardonnay looking at the twinkly lights on my tree, chuckling maniacally, and basking in the spirit of the holiday season.

 

Getting A Christmas Tree Hasn’t Always Gone Smoothly

[“Let Inga Tell You,” La Jolla Light, published December 8, 2025] ©2025

A few days ago I went to buy my Christmas tree and couldn’t help but reflect on the ghosts of Christmas trees past.

My first husband always insisted we get a small live tree which we would then plant in the yard in what he considered a charming post-Christmas tradition. Folks: do NOT try this at home!  Little did we realize how much those suckers would grow - one to 40 feet! By the time my husband and I divorced ten years (and Christmas trees) later, anyone driving by would think our place was a tree farm with a driveway.  Meanwhile, the interior of the house descended into a cave-esque gloom since the tree tops had created a rain forest canopy effect. The tree roots made for constant plumbing problems and grass wouldn’t grow under pine needles. Ultimately, it cost me $4,000 to have ten originally-$20 trees removed from the property.  (I knew I should have had a Christmas tree removal reimbursement clause in the divorce decree!)

Post-divorce and single with two little kids, I went for the six-foot Douglas fir simply because they were the cheapest. I’d be on my stomach trying to screw the trunk into the stand while six-year-old Rory was holding up the tree. Three-year-old Henry was supposed to tell me when it was straight.  I crawled out from under the tree to discover that it was listing 45 degrees. Irrefutably demonstrating the principle of gravitational vector forces, it promptly fell over.

It was several more years until we had a Christmas tree that wasn’t leaning precariously. In a brilliant Single Mom Home Repair School move, I tied a rope midway up the trunk and tethered the other end to a ceiling plant hook.  Miraculously (since I guarantee that butterfly bolts are not rated for Christmas tree stabilization), it stayed vertical.

Some years later, Henry, who was about 11 at the time, and I brought home a bargain supermarket tree. Our tree, alas, had lots of branches right at the base of the trunk which we were attempting to amputate with a rusty jigsaw (left over from Pinewood Derby days) - in the dark in the front yard via flashlight - so that we could get the trunk into the stand.  What’s amazing is that we didn’t sever any digits in the process. I finally ended up calling a neighbor who came over with the appropriate tools and did the job for us. Decision for next year: better saw, or a tree from a Christmas tree lot.

Since I wasn’t all that interested in replicating the experience even with good tools, the next year I did indeed go to a tree lot and got full-service branch trimming. The tree lot guys mentioned that they could probably get the tree on top of my little Toyota if I wanted to save the delivery fee. (I think they sensed a cheap tipper.)  I was dubious but they did indeed get the tree tied securely on top of the car by having me open the two front windows and running the rope through the car and around the tree, knotting it on top.

IQ test: What’s wrong with this picture?

Off I went in the early evening darkness driving as slowly as possible through back streets.  I was terrified that a sudden stop would put this tree on the hood of my car, or worse, through the windshield of the car behind me. With enormous relief, I pulled up in front of my darkened house. It was the kids’ night at their dad’s, and my second husband, Olof, and I were not yet married.  My plan was to untie the tree, drag it onto the front porch and have the kids help me set it up the following night.

Obviously over-focused on saving the delivery fee and failing to engage even a single synapse, I had not stopped to realize that with the rope threaded through the car windows, the doors couldn’t open. I was trapped in my car. It was well before cell phones. I sat in my car thinking, “Geesh, Inga, it’s amazing you’re allowed to leave the house without a conservator.”  (And also: Would it have killed those tree guys to ask if there would be anybody at home???)

I sat there shivering in my open-windowed car and pondering my options. I didn’t really want to have to go all the way back to the tree lot. But it would probably take all evening to cut through the rope with my car keys. (Note to self: Keep 9-inch Bowie knife in glove compartment!)

As luck would have it, a neighbor arrived home from work shortly after, and, graciously avoiding voicing what must surely have been his assessment of the situation, extricated me from the car. Why all of my neighbors were not hiding from me after the first year I was single is still a mystery.

But ultimately, I married Olof and we could afford to have not only the Noble fir I had always coveted but have the nice Christmas tree lot people deliver it and set it up to my satisfaction. Personally, I think I’ve earned it.