The Witch’s “Duh”

You know how it is. You gather all of the ingredients for a really groovy spell. You think it through, get your psyche all worked into a lather, you have everything set to cast and “Shazam!” you get just what you asked for.

 

Only what you asked for is not what you intended to ask for.

So now you’re in a muck. And They are laughing Their heads off: “Yuck, yuck yuck.”

Like the guy who cast to be released from work responsibilities.

Shazam!

He lost his job.

Yuck, yuck, yuck.

And the chick who cast to have a new car.

Shazam!

Yup, her transmission fell out on the Eisenhower Expressway and so had to buy a Pacifica with massive blind-spots.

Yuck, yuck, yuck.

I have a friend with whom I cannot have a phone conversation. Something happened about three years ago (it was Samhain season) and ever since then, we cannot go two weeks without being together otherwise our phones stop playing nice. Texts get lost in telecomspace, calls drop at the most witchy moments, just when we are about to get to “the good parts” of our conversation, the phone will garble our speech and we will find ourselves talking to androids, rather than on them. Our language is English on one end and Tralfamadorian on the other.

Yuck, yuck, yuck.

These instances have a very evocative and high-tech name, derived from erudite translations of the most ancient and esoteric grimores penned by the most endowed magicians ever to walk this plane: The Witch’s “Duh.” (We have used this phrase for eons; well before it was usurped by Charlie Sheen, the winningest loser in a duh-hat.)

“I want to know the truth about this situation.”

Betrayals revealed.

Wailing.

Yuck, yuck, yuck.

Duh.

“I want to figure out what’s really important in my life.”

Stuck between rocks and hard places for moths on end having to realign priorities at every turn.

Wailing.

Yuck, yuck, yuck.

Duh.

“I want to lose ten pounds.”

Flu.

Vomiting.

Yuck, yuck, yuck.

Duh. That was too easy.

I’m in a bit of a spot right now.

Yuck, yuck, yuck.

Two spots actually, double yucks.

A good while back, I had a complete extended family meltdown. No details, please. All you need to know is that I reclaimed my place in the family and called it back for November.

Guess who’s hosting Thanksgiving? Particularly bizarre and convoluted family awkwardness aside, I have to cook.

Yuck, yuck, yuck.

As I have told you, the Southern Kitchen Witch likes to tell me I’m a little bit kitchen witch (and a little bit rock-n-roll). When I get heavy into the slish, slish of my knife and the chum, chum of my spoon, I tend to evoke things. And sing to them. And they sing back. And before I know it . . .

Yuck, yuck, yuck.

So, Thanksgiving. Cooking, no casting. Got it.

You see, the second rock/hard place combination came from the best intentions and a recent batch of Jambalaya.

Someone I love very much had been asking for the gods to reveal themselves and their intentions for life. I must have thrown my hat in.

Revelations.

Yuck, yuck, yuck.

Duh.

Life’s interesting. And that’s all I’ll say.

Aside from, “Yuck, yuck, yuck.” And, “Duh.”

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