Friday, February 27, 2015

Sunday, February 22, 2015

Horoscopes: No More Emergency Water

Pisces (2/19 – 3/20):  I finally threw out my stash of emergency water.  But first, I acted out the scene where I'd need it -- I set it on the floor across the room, and crawled toward it as if I'd been struggling toward it for days, maybe because my legs didn't work, or perhaps I needed to stay low for some reason (shooters outside?), or maybe I'd been transported into a Wyeth painting.  I drank as if my life depended on it, as if this two ounces of expired horrible-tasting water was all that stood between me and death.  Pisces, I dunno.  I think that when 2 ounces of icky water is all you've got, death might not be so bad.  Your week will be full of grace and birthday festivities.  Enjoy!

Doesn't this look like an orchid?  Guess what?
It's red cabbage, left in the fridge for waaaay too
long.  And poof, it turned into an orchid.
Aries (3/21 - 4/19):  Are you wondering why I had the water?  Yeah, I know.  So, there's a parenting ritual that started sometime between the time I was a child and became a mother.  It involves sending an emergency kit to school with your child.  They give you a list of what should be in it:  water, a snack, a comfort object, and a comforting note from you.  I always got hung up on the note.  What do you write that's true and comforting when you're beloved children are in the situation where they need to drink two ounces of water from a foil satchel?  
Dear Child of Mine Whom I Love More Than Life Itself,
I'm so sorry I can't be there now.  I'm don't know why I'm not  -- it's possible I'm hopelessly trapped under several tons of rubble, or perhaps the apocalypse or the shooter got me first.   You know I'd be there if I could.  
But at least you have this cool package! Six ounces of water, a granola bar, a teddy bear, and this note!  Right?   
Advice from beyond:  Listen to your teacher.  Drink the water, but look for more!  You've got less than three days to live without it.  I hope you make it!! :-)  And I hope you like the snack.  I hope you find this letter comforting.  
Love,
Mom  
P.S.  I loved every minute of being your mother, except this one.  I hope you get to grow up.

Taurus (4/20 – 5/20):  And how is it that water expires?  See the date?  2007.  If water gets old the same way baked goods or meat do, we're so doomed, because we're drinking the same water that's been around, well, since the beginning of time.  But suddenly, we put a few ounces in a plastic sacket (is sacket a word?  It should be!) and it goes stale?  Luckily there's no expiration date on you, Taurus.


Gemini (5/21 - 6/21):  I've been super excited about Amazon delivering packages by drone, because nothing says "we're in the future" like clicking the "buy-it-now" button and having a tiny unmanned spacecraft materialize to deliver your next print cartridge or even a brand new puppy!  But when I start thinking about drones, I end up thinking about Mars, and argh, I know, I bring this up every week, but please don't make me go live on another planet.  Oh, how I love this one.  Gemini, you should stay on this planet too, unlike that guy from Bellevue (the city, not the hospital -- but I can totally see how'd get that confused.) He's one of the finalists for going to the red planet, ready to say goodbye to everyone and everything he's ever known and hurtle off into space.  When asked if he'd get bored, he said no, because he has his kindle.  I shudder as I type this.  Gemini, pact:  Let's stay on this planet FOREVER.

Cancer (6/22 – 7/21):  I've been thinking I need a new mattress.  Well, that's an exaggeration -- I think it for about five minutes once every morning when I get up and my back hurts, and I wonder if it's related to my 20 year old bed.  And then I promptly stop thinking about it, the way I do with things that involve spending money, going to stores that are complicated or fluorescent, or committing to things that you have to sleep with every night.  It sounds like a complete hassle -- first, mustering up the courage to cross the river (I don't think they don't sell mattresses on this side.) And all the other steps that I won't spell out because your life is hard enough already, Cancer.  But I picture all the steps involved and act them out in my head, overcoming one after the next: finding time, getting in the car, finding the store.  I even imagine that I've worn nice socks because I'm guessing I'll take my shoes off to try on beds?  Is that how it goes?  But I get stuck right there.  I take the shoes off, and then I balk at imagining what's next.  Do I actually take a little nap in the store?  Because how else would you know?  Don't you want to sleep with something before you marry it?  I mean, one quick coffee date and you bring the giant thing home forever?  That seems wrong.   And it occurs to me:  why is a mattress left to personal choice?  It's not like some of us are made out of different materials.  We all have spines and muscles and organs and a heart that beats.  Shouldn't there be a right way to sleep, a definitive mattress choice?  Shouldn't the FDA tell me what to buy?  Is there a mattress pyramid?  Couldn't I just yell my BMI into the sky and a drone will drop the perfect bed for me?  Cancer, I don't want to sound alarming, but you should wear good socks this week.  

Leo (7/23 – 8/22):  I know.  You think we should get to have preferences in our mattress.  I guess so.  Maybe.  But think about the basic human needs:  food, sleep, water. We've identified daily dietary requirements.  When it's left to choice, there's always that guy sitting on the couch eating pop tarts who eventually dies of organ failure, and the fire department has to excavate him from his childhood bedroom, although he's 28.  Is it the same with mattresses?  I wish someone would just tell me the right mattress for my species.  Oh, you're a human?  Click on this button, and the proper mattress will arrive tomorrow.  

Virgo (8/23 – 9/22):   The saddest thing ever is that the gorgeous, gangly, un-realistically white trumpeter swans that winter in our little valley are dying.  The rumor is that they're ingesting lead shot that remains in farm fields where the swans graze.  I can't tell you how heartbreaking it is to see a swan bobbing in a puddle, head down.  It's the swan equivalent of the floating belly up dance that fish eventually do.  Ugh.  One species at a time, Virgo.

Libra (9/23 – 10/22):  I was wondering recently why it is that I don't eat much fruit, and I finally figured it out.  It's sticky, and it's a commitment.  I tend to avoid sticky commitments whenever possible.  Take an apple:  you have to bite in with all your teeth - no nibbling.  And once you've taken that first bite, you're in for a whole apple, and it rapidly starts getting brown, and suddenly you're in a hurry to gobble this sticky orb that's splashing juice, and you can't resume your normal life until you've chewed through the whole thing, and then there's the core -- do you eat that, or find a way to dispose of it?  I have no complaint with the taste.  Or an orange:  First you have to peel it, and then, again, it starts drying out right away so you have to eat it all, and your hands get sticky.  I won't even get into the peach, T.S.  No, I don't dare.  So I've taken to roasting fruit.  All of it.  Try it.  Let me know what you think.  Bring roasted apples and goat cheese to your next potluck, Libra.  People will love you for it.  (Of course, they love you anyway.)

Scorpio (10/23 – 11/21):  There's an artist who's described as "collaborating with the bees to create art".   I'm not saying these pieces aren't cool, but is she really collaborating?  It looks more like she puts stuff out and the bees make the art.  But, if we're adopting this loose definition of collaboration, I'd like to announce that I'm collaborating with the spiders and mice in my house -- we've been working together on a gigantic art project.  We call it, "Home."  It's adorned with small and large webs and other items we made together.  I might let you see it when it's finished.  Leo, let the line between art and home be blurry.

Sagittarius (11/22 – 12/21):  Oh, my loved ones are all suffering, grieving, grieving.  Learning how to love and the why of it as well.  Arrgh.  How I wish I could spare you from that.  But in the end, deep true feelings are all we have.  Stick with them, feel instead of avoiding.  It's why we're on this planet, Sag.  You have all my blessings.

Capricorn (12/22 - 1/19): I had a dream last night where I was supposed to solve a really complicated formula -- there were exponents and parenthesis and lots of x and y and square roots and so on.  And the answer was supposed to get me somewhere, I'm not sure where or why, but I couldn't solve it, couldn't solve, kept trying and felt dumber and dumber, so I started climbing up the snowy mountain, and guess what?  There was a pig roasting on a spit.  I think that means things don't have to be solved, they just have to be.  We know what we know, Cap. Whether things get solved or not, the truth lives on.  Thankfully.  Grateful for you, Cap, on this day.

Aquarius (1/20 – 2/18):  There's some amazing research that shows that crows recognize faces, which is definitely more than I can claim.  If my own kids wear a different hat, I hardly can be counted on to identify them.  But more than recognizing humans (that's seriously amazing -- can you fathom being able to recognize one crow from another?) - they also appear to mourn their dead.  So be kind to the crows.  They're grieving too.  In fact, be kind to the living things.  Even if we can't all recognize you, it's still just a good way to be.  Enjoy your week, Aquarius.

And one final thought, for you dear readers who make it all the way to the end.  My essay will be in the NYT next Sunday, 3/1.  It comes out a little earlier online, and will be posted here.



Sunday, February 15, 2015

Horoscopes: The Zipper Merge Edition

Pisces (2/19 – 3/20):  The poor polar bears are suffering from all manner of trouble.  First, melting ice.  Then, PCBs found in their tissue.  And now this:  the penis bone is getting smaller, and not only that, but it's weak and breakable.  I know!  This is also happening to the otters, thought to be the result of the many challenging environmental factors, especially global warming and pollutants. Sometimes horrible things, though, can  be used to propel action.  Currently, the thinking of the 56% of congressional republicans is this:  "If we acknowledge that humans have a role in global warming or pollution, then we'll have to act, and if we act, corporate profits go down.  Let's put our hands over our ears and point off in the distance to something, anything -- Obama's birth certificate, Malia's outfit, whatever we can think of!"  

But what if the understanding was, "If we don't address global warming, our genitalia will become tiny, vulnerable, and prone to breaking." If there's one thing the repubs care about besides corporate profits, it's the penis itself.  Anyway, moment of silence for all the shrunken, friable penii out there, Pisces.

Aries (3/21 - 4/19):   When you need to look up a phone number, Aries, do you:

  1. slog down the long driveway to find the phone book that some semi-unemployed person has hurled out the window of an older Nissan? or
  2. Use the internet.  

Why are they still throwing phone books at us, Aries, as if it's 1989?  My first instinct is to yell, in my most outside-est voice, MAKE IT STOP!  But now I'm wondering -- it seems so unlikely that this would be an actual job, phone book delivery.  Like, "Now hiring!  We're looking for people to deliver a tiny fraction of the internet to people who have the whole internet!  But you'll put this bit of the internet outside, down by their mailboxes to make it even less convenient than the actual internet."  

I've learned that when things are really unlikely, well, maybe there's something else going on?  Maybe it's a magic trick of sorts or a secret code?  Is that soggy phone book in the driveway actually a portal to another time or dimension?  Check it out, Aries, and get back to me.

Taurus (4/20 – 5/20)
:   Speaking of magic tricks.  It's like this:  we're on a bus, who knows if anyone's driving  -- I tend to think no one's at the wheel, but that's neither here nor there -- regardless, it's for sure not you or I in the driver's seat.  And all indications are that the bus is heading for a cliff.  We aren't certain which cliff it is:  over population, climate change, war, decivilization, ebola.  (Just kidding about ebola.)  Who knows.  But one things we humans can do, which is why I'm so grateful to be one, is make merry on the bus anyway.  Snacks, music, laughter.  It's all we've got, Taurus.  Be that.


Gemini (5/21 - 6/21):  I had this little bit of good news this week, and then it turned out to be a mixup -- the good news wasn't really for me.  It was the e-mail equivalent of someone waving at the person behind me.  But for a minute, I thought an artist was going to take something I wrote and animate it.  I felt like Cinderella, and someone called and said they wanted to make a gown for me, and I get to go to the ball.  But oops, the gown was for someone else.  It's weird, though, when I was just merrily sweeping the hearth, all was well, but then, for a moment, dreamed of the gown for my essay, and then back to the hearth, which was worse.  Oh Algernon.  I feel your pain.  And Gemini, yours too.

Cancer (6/22 – 7/21):  Sad to see that David Carr died.  He was an interesting person, and after seeing Page One a few years ago, I realized that I'll subscribe to the NYT until I die, because it feels like the right thing to do.  It feels like an act of good citizenship.  I know, that's just me.  But watch the movie if you haven't already, Cancer.  And then go out into the garden where it's all happening right now.  

Leo (7/23 – 8/22):  Speaking of the NYT, I am super excited that one of my essays will be published in the Modern Love column.  No solid date yet but it looks like March.  That's never happened before!  Stay tuned.  Might be a good time to buy a lottery ticket.  Luck seems up.

Virgo (8/23 – 9/22):   I was sad to see how many haters there are out there, Virgo.  Bleh.  But here's something interesting I learned in massage medical school:  if someone feels ticklish, have them put their hand on your arm, and the ticklishness subsides.  How does that work?  

Libra (9/23 – 10/22):  For a while, the motion sensor light on my back porch didn't work, and then it randomly started working again, but no matter how I adjust things, it only stays on for about 3 seconds unless there's a new motion.  What this means, Libra, is that when I have a guest departing in the evening, I have to stand on the back porch and wave goodbye furiously, kind of like the Clampetts would.  At first I was kind of self-conscious about that, but now it seems sweet, to really send people off with a lot of waving.  Try it, Libra!

Scorpio (10/23 – 11/21):  My bees have been out a lot lately because it's been so unseasonably lovely, and I cannot begin to describe how glad it makes me.  All those little insects, buzzing around, looking for life and finding it, carrying pollen around on their little bee legs.  Here's what Aristotle believed about bees, 2,300 year ago -- wow, that's a long time -- but anyway:
"The honey is what falls from the air, especially at the risings of the stars and when the rainbow descends; on the whole there is no honey before the morning rising of the Plieaed.  The bees do not make honey; it fetches in what falls from the air.  .  .  (Historia Animalium, V XXII)
Jeez, that's beautiful.  Will someone draw that for me please?   

Sagittarius (11/22 – 12/21):  I'm always kind of amazed that so many of the anti-vaccine people are fine with getting tattoos.  Right?  Tattoo ink: contains mercury, lead, arsenic, and phthalates, among other things.  If that stuff were in the tiniest trace amounts in our food, we'd be picketing or something.  But sure, go ahead and inject it directly into the body!  Let the white blood cells spend the rest of their days chipping away at it, and carrying the color, bit by tiny bit, directly to your liver where it will stay forever, and wreak it's own havoc.  But god forbid we try to prevent disease outbreak by injecting a carefully developed, regulated vaccine.  Oh, Sag, I'm sorry, that was kind of a rant, and not a real horoscope.  Here's a horoscope:  The stars are all lining up for you this week! Carpe the diem, as they say.

Capricorn (12/22 - 1/19): I was cc'd on an e-mail rant to The Powers That Be, I'm not sure why, but the rant was about a traffic/behavior issue on a  particular stretch of road. Here's the deal:  the road has a stretch that goes from one lane to two lanes and back to one.  Most of us obedient folk stay in the same lane, because we know we'll end up there eventually, and getting in the right lane for a short stretch seems weird, rude, cheater-ish.  But there's been a lot of emphasis on promoting the Zipper Merge lately, which says that all lanes should be used for as long as possible, and then we should politely alternate at the merge point.  In reality, in this  particular road stretch, people get irritated by the right-lane passers, and don't want to let them back in, but they're usually in a giant white truck and they muscle their way in anyway.  But I've been wondering if we should all zipper merge more.  (OMG, it's tiring to be me sometimes.   Seriously.  I spent about 6 hours thinking about this, making little models, trying to figure out how to make the little video.  All just for these two shaky, amateur, inconclusive videos.  And I know while I'm doing it that there's so much more to life than modeling traffic on the kitchen floor, but I can't stop).  But the results are: it takes 3 times as long to travel that stretch of road when people use the right lane.  I wish I were smart enough to figure that out without building a whole traffic jam on the kitchen floor, and wasting a bunch of daylight at it.  But, I feel like there's something in there to learn and I can't quite put my finger on it. Something about how we don't need to take up all the pavement all the time, which might be a metaphor for something about living life.  If you figure it out, write that book.  Don't forget me when you're rich.  And, stand strong with data in the face of the zipper merge lecture.




Watch the orange car.  (You knew it was a car, right?) 14 frames.


And here, it takes 29 frames for the orange car to get through.  I was going to draw
trees and stores so you'd know what was going on but sheesh, I would NEVER waste my time, 
that's fer shure.


Aquarius (1/20 – 2/18):  You know the trajectory of a joke, how it's funny, and then, when repeated a few times, not funny anymore, but sometimes, if someone keeps picking it up and batting it around, it gets funny again?  And then, maybe even hilarious?  Only sometimes, though.  I think it's like that with disappointment, which, if batted around enough, turns into gratitude.  I've pretty much given up on romantic love, financial stability, and companionship, which are kind of big.  I've learned not to yearn.  But I've finally gotten to the point of noticing the big chunks of time to study things like the zipper merge, and of course, to take naps.  

I'm excited to report that the author Celeste Ng has selected m y modern love essay to read for the Modern Love podcast next week. Suc...