Dear Madam Carlotta:
Last week, I read a news story about a woman who is suing her surgeon. It seems she went in for a hysterectomy, and while she was under the knife, the doctor branded her uterus with the initials of his alma mater, the University of Kentucky. This disrespectful bit of horseplay, the woman said, has caused her considerable mental anguish. I don't doubt it.
I'm particularly concerned because I myself underwent a medical procedure a few months ago. And now I'm starting to wonder if my doctor, too, took the occasion to inscribe something on my uterus without my knowledge. Using your vast powers of visualization, can you see if anything is written in there?
— Womb With a View
Dear Womb:
I'm in a state of deep concentration, trying to get a precise mental picture of your uterus. And, yes, I do see words starting to form. There are ... nine of them. They're fuzzy now, but getting clearer ... clearer ... there! It's plain as day. The message says, "If you can read this, you're too darn close."
I'd say you have a strong case. Good luck.
Dear Madam Carlotta:
I am a single man nearing middle age. Though I date occasionally, I am becoming progressively disenchanted with the quality and character (not to mention the number) of the available females I encounter. Sometimes I wonder if it is my destiny to die alone and unloved. Please tell me if there is really someone special out there just for me.
— Lone Injustice
Dear Lone:
I'm seeing a woman in your future. She is a tall woman, with a welcoming smile and a proud body made strong by years of manual labor. Is her name Jade? Her name is Jade. She is carrying a bottle of Jergens lotion and swiping your Visa card. Guess that's a "no."
Dear Madam Carlotta:
Um, hey. Tell me: What do you think happened to that bin Laden dude, anyway? Is he, like, dead, or what? I need to know quick, because I'm at work, and they're taking up a pool.
— Timmy the Greek
Dear Timmy:
Madam Carlotta does not sully her spiritual gifts by allying them with cheap money-making schemes. Nor does she support, encourage or in any way condone the blithe contempt for human life exhibited by you and your coterie of cubicle-dwelling ghouls. Please make no further attempts to contact me in the future. (Personal note to "Roni" in Missoula, Mont.: I give Bobby Brown a year, tops. And you can take that to the bank.)
Dear Madam Carlotta:
I am the mayor of a second-tier city in Central Florida. At the end of this month, I am leaving town to take a better job in another part of the state. Last night, while packing, I noticed that a few items were missing from among my personal effects. I could not account for a cloisonn? Christmas pin, one of my summer nightgowns and $12 million from our city's operating budget. A quick search of the house turned up the pin (behind the sofa) and the nightgown (playful hubby). But I couldn't find the money anywhere. Can you help?
— Harried and Hopeless
Dear Harried:
Locating misplaced items is a major part of my job. Unfortunately, I cannot pierce the veil of your particular dilemma. One of your area's cable-TV providers has blocked off the frequency on which my extra-sensory abilities operate.
But don't lose heart! There are still many options available to you. Try to retrace your steps. When was the last time you remember being in possession of a large burlap sack with a dollar sign emblazoned on the side? Where were you at that exact moment? If you can put those pieces together, consider your problem solved.
Perhaps you need extra help in jogging your memory. There are several typical environments in which people tend to lose track of their belongings. Some of the most common are sushi bars, photo kiosks and clothing-optional resorts. Ringing any bells? Also, try to remember if you have used public transportation recently. Perhaps you took a light-rail line to a factory-outlet mall, or a city bus to the bedside of an ailing firefighter. If so, your troubles may soon be over: An efficiently managed lost-and-found desk is an essential part of any respectable metropolitan bus system.
And if all else fails, don't discount the idea of appealing to a higher power. Walk slowly through your living area, reciting "St. Anthony, St. Anthony, please come down. Something is lost that can't be found." I think you'll find that the 12 million simoleons will be back in your hands in no time. Don't ask me how I know; I just do.
