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of a book?” I nodded. “Funny . . . a funny manuscript?” I nodded again. “I’m feeling big things, big success . . .” Like a fly to poisonous sticky paper, my ego clung to every word. Yes, yes . . . more, more . . . Who was I to decide if thereare forces not recognized by natural laws out there? I had no evidence either way, and Patricia Arquette was so convincing in Medium . Maybe Donna did have second sight? I stared into her eyes with razor focus, like a samurai preparing for battle. I wanted more. Would a studio option my book? Would Reese Witherspoon play me?
    Clearly exhausted, Donna moved on to Ashley. Damn, just when I was about to ask her if she could visualize me on Jay-Z’s yacht. While Ashley tried to recall whether she had golden retrievers growing up, I hatched a plan. I would fly to Los Angeles once a month for readings, and when I was prevented from coming because of stomach flu or parent-teacher conferences, perhaps I could Skype? I’m really not a fan of phone sessions. When I left Los Angeles years ago, the two things I missed most were inexpensive avocados and my shrink. I would erratically book phone sessions, but became increasingly distraught when I heard what sounded like frying or maybe a hair dryer in the background. No matter. I would find a way.
    My reverie was interrupted as Tina, the birthday girl, leaped to her feet with an empty glass and bid Donna farewell. It suddenly occurred to us that the birthday girl had gotten little focus. A psychic should sense when the party is over; it’s called reading the room. Donna put on her rope sandals and started collecting her goods: afringy leather purse, a nylon wrap, and an empty Starbucks cup. “Donna,” I said as she counted her money like a payout at the track, “I wanted to discuss maybe having some future readings?” She smiled so hard I could see the pale creases under her copper foundation. “Oh yeah, come walk me to my car.” Donna had a faded sky blue Dodge Dart with an underlay of rust. She opened the trunk and tossed her bag and the empty cup into the mess of jumper cables, bags of kitty litter, and a box of head shots. Yes, head shots of Donna, circa Shields and Yarnell, sporting a razzle-dazzle smile and permed hair. “Oh, you’re an actress?”
    “Oh yeah. Mostly commercial auditions now.” It didn’t compute. If she had this otherworldly superior power, wouldn’t it have been used to further her thespian career? Suddenly, my spiritual guru seemed as omnipotent as the guy who makes my egg and cheese sandwich at the deli on Sixth Avenue. But again, I was not going to judge her on her success or even the fact that she owned a cat.
    And then there it was, in the side pocket of the fringe purse (imagine something Cher hit Sonny with). It had been unearthed by the collision with the kitty litter. An illuminated iPad. A Google page on Ali Wentworth. A flash of images of my last book cover, talk show appearances, and eye surgery. My cheated heart sank. I had been duped. Conned by the Lady Donna. She wasn’tstealing muscle relaxants from Tina’s medicine cabinet; she was getting CliffsNotes on my life from social media.
    M y elder daughter recently celebrated her twelfth birthday. We have a tradition in our family that on your actual birthday you can have dinner at the restaurant of your choice. Nobody ever opts to stay home and have my halibut lasagna. For the past few years we have celebrated my younger girl’s birthday at Benihana’s (catching a flying shrimp in the paper chef’s hat never gets old). But this year my almost teenager wanted something swank and chichi. She chose Nobu, a super-hip haute sushi restaurant chain with outposts in pockets of expensive real estate from Aspen to Dubai. The menu of yellowtail with jalapeño, black cod miso, and monkfish pâte is not the usual or even appropriate request from a kid, but it beats the germ-infested Chuck E. Cheese. But she opted out of a class party with all its