Limbic Health List

I’ve been talking with a friend about limbic health lately.  I have a goal of being solidly on the half-full side of the line every single day.  Do less weeping (or, as Ms. Moon says, "motherfucking crying") and more laughing.  There’s a list on the internet, but it has things that seem unnecessary, like "wear a helmet".  I can’t remember the last time I took my helmet off.  Right?  You guys are wearing head protection, true?  
Anyway, here’s my list.  

1. Bring flowers inside.
2. Deadhead flowers in the garden so it doesn’t look like an abandoned graveyard the minute the columbines are done.
3. Speaking of cemetaries, visit some of my favorites.  Maybe even that one by Lake Quinault near the old growth forest with Pacific rhododendron scattered about looking cheery.
4. Listen to Wagon Wheel. A lot.  
5. Laminate more lyrics for the shower so I can learn songs while I wash my hair.
6. Burn incense.  Buy it from that really nice guy on the Ave.
7. Clean the window next to my bed so that when I wake up I’m not already faced with the alarming and disappointing fact of entropy.  Wake up as if everything’s not falling apart at a rapid clip.
8. Close drawers and doors after myself.  I know.  That shouldn't have to be on a list.  But I’m that person, the one who opens doors but doesn’t close them because I might need to go back outside/into that drawer/cupboard, whatever, soon.  As if opening a cupboard or closing a door is hard.  Behave as if I have the capacity to open the door as many times as I need to.  
9. Hang out with lovely fun people who are interested in things.

   

   That bright spot is the lantern, carrying
   messages up to high far away places.  And of
   course, the other big orb is the super moon.
   (Photo courtesy of Erin)

10. Release hot air lanterns with messages to the universe.  I'd like to confess right here that watching the glowing rice paper orb float up into the sky, propelled only by burning lard, just as the super moon began to peek through the clouds, is possibly the best thing I’ve done in a long time.  Thank you for including me, lovely people.
11. Figure out if there really is a painting that I remember seeing, a commentary on Seurat’s A Sunday on La Grande Jatte, but with one nude woman picnicking in the midst of it all.  Did I make that up?  Was it a dream?
12. Actually listen to the birds when they sing.  Oh, and The Byrds too.
13. Figure out where I heard stuff.  Did I really listen to a whole podcast about processing baby carrots?  Or was that a dream?  It's better than the other dream, the one where JJ has only ten minutes to live because of a giant gash at the top of his head, and I keep misdialling when trying to call 9-1-1.  
14. Stop dreaming that.
15. Watch the movie that my customer, the one who built this treehouse, recommended: Wings of Life.

    

    Permits?  Who needs a stinkin' permit?
    It's only a treehouse!
    Source:  This blog

16. Give more gifts to friends and loved ones for no apparent reason.
17. Create more friends and loved ones.
18. Make a treasure hunt for adults.  (I don’t mean that in an “adult treasure hunt", like x-rated” way.  But the sort of hunt where you need resources: a car and a tiny amount of cash.  And perhaps a flashlight.)
19. Have a picnic that involves a picnic table and a table cloth and perhaps salt and pepper shakers.  Oh, and food.  Abundant good food.
20. Go crabbing in about 11 days, not that I’m counting.  
21. Learn to make excellent crab cakes like the ones at Lowells.
22. Get proficient at Astavakra, although, as S. says, “It’s just a fucking pose.”
23. Cook more feasts and never be cheap about cheese or other ingredients.  In fact, just never be cheap about anything.
24. Get bees again.  Next year.
25. Appreciate every quirky thing about this town.  Even the fact that we're always dropping pianos from the sky for no apparent reason.
26. Figure out which things are traditions that I do every year, and which things are random, so I don't always have to ask.  E.g., "Hey, do we run for the pies every year, starting last year, or is that just one time thing?"
27. Get genetic testing, not to learn my health future, but to discover where my people came from and if I’m related to Gengis Khan.  If they accidentally send my health future, try not to look, because the last thing I need to know is that I’m going to get hit by a bus next week.  Someone clarified that this would be a genotype, not a fortune cookie, but I still think it’s possible that I descend from the sort who get hit by a bus.  That wouldn’t be so terrible except that it means my kids could die first, which would be unbearable.  
28. Swim in our little lake every day, even if it's cloudy and cold and doesn't look like a good swimming day.  Because every day is a good swimming day.
29. Do as much yoga as this lifetime allows.

Adieu, gum wall

Aries (3/21 – 4/19):  So, the gum wall was removed.  Well, the wall is still there, but the gum is gone.  Disappointing.  I'm trying to summon all of the compassion I can for the poor guy who doesn't appreciate it when an actual attraction happens in his very own alley.  Removing a gum wall is not unlike book burning, wouldn't you agree?  So, he's obviously living in his own kind of hell.  A butterfly lands on his nose and he swats it with a billy club.  Wrong in so many ways. Aries, summon compassion where you can this week, even when it's hard.

Taurus (4/20 – 5/20):  My mom recommended a movie to me recently, Stone Reader, which is by a guy who loved the book "The Stones of Summer," and created a documentary about hunting down the author.
"Oh," I said, "maybe I'll read the book first."
"Don't do that," my mom replied.  "You'll spoil the movie."

Is that a real thing, Taurus?  Spoiling a movie by reading the book?  I fell asleep watching it a few times, so I guess I spoiled it in my own way.  It was slow in an okay way, which is precisely how your week will be.  I'd tell you more, but I don't want to spoil it.

Gemini (5/21 – 6/21):  Someone recently told me that I'm pretty awkward.  I know!  This is not news.  But it started me wondering how non-awkward people behave, and in particular, what they talk about.  I get the, "hi!" part.  But after that, I'd prefer to talk about causes for Neanderthal extinction or colony collapse disorder, which isn't always what the other humans are interested in.  But I spent an evening this week with someone who spent a good deal of time talking about medical issues with his testicles.  I was curious and fascinated for a while, but after a long time, maybe 45 minutes, I wanted to say, "I'm not exactly sure where you're going with this, but my interest in your testicles was minimal to begin with, has vanished entirely."  I think if it's not already written down, there should be a rule, or at least a guideline:  No one will ever be as interested in your testicles as you.

The small town, tasteful gum wall before it was removed

Cancer (6/22 – 7/21):  Seriously, who would take down a gum wall?

The garish unhygenic gum wall in Seattle

Leo (7/23 – 8/22):  Speaking of sad things, here's something.  This woman is conducting an experiment in which she is "living on light" which is another term for starving herself to death.  On camera.  Her idea is that we would free up so much time and resources if we didn't need to eat.  Right?  How does one get to be 65 and think, even for a minute, that the humans don't need food?   It's one of the saddest things ever.  She thinks this "experiment" can last for 4 - 6 months.  She announces her weight and girth in each video, and I just want to say, Hello!  You see the trajectory here, right?  THIS IS NOT SUSTAINABLE.  Science, people!  There are some things we already know, and one of them is that food is a basic human need.  Leo, don't forget that this week.  Eat well.

Virgo (8/23 – 9/22):  Speaking of food, I had my third breakfast yesterday with some lovely people (because it's such a great meal, you should partake as much as possible.  Oh, and Rule Number 6:  When invited to eat with other humans, always say yes.).  Among other things, we talked about someone's visit to a nudist colony.  One of the images I was left with, and I'm sorry to pass it on to you, but pendulous breasts resting on the dinner table right next to a pan of lasagna.  Virgo, for that and other reasons (like the climate) I wouldn't recommend you join a colony just yet.

Libra (9/23 – 10/22):   I went to a wedding recently, and among the vows the couple exchanged were, "I will not be subject to disappointment."  I don't know what that means, or how to pull that off.  I will not be subject to gravity, myself, but it's not going so well.  Libra, act well through the disappointment.  This week will give you lots of practice.

Scorpio (10/23 – 11/21):  I'm not a big follower of the Miss America pageant for the obvious reasons.  Like, for example, what does a bathing suit have to do with anything?  Oy.  But I did watch the clip this morning of Miss Utah.  It is painful.  That woman, my dear readers, was deemed the third most worthy of the pack, and awarded a $15,000 scholarship.  Which proves once again that just showing up with a ton of eye make-up is really all it takes.  Cleavage helps too, I think.

Sagittarius (11/22 – 12/21):  When B. got laid off from the job we both used to do, he said, "You know what this is like?  It's like you were dating a mean fat girl, and she broke up with you!.  And you're bummed about it, because you'd like to keep going out with her."
I had the occasion to text B. this week:  "Booty call from mean fat girl.  I said yes.  Try not to judge."  So, at least there will be some material.  Bad for the soul, good for the blog.  Your week, though, Sag, will be good for the soul.

Capricorn (12/22 – 1/19):  There's a robin nesting outside my kitchen door, but there's something off about it.  There's only one bird, and she flies up every time I go out that door, which I try not to do too much.  But I forget, and I feel bad about it, because there she goes, flying up, wasting calories on flight when she should be sitting on eggs.  And I'm not here to judge, but I've never seen or heard any babies, and I've never seen shells on the ground, and I've never seen her fly back with a worm in her mouth or anything.  She's been doing this for about 3 months now.  I believe it's a hysterical pregnancy.  There's something about it that makes me sad, but I can't quite put my finger on what it is.  Your week, Capricorn, will be nothing like that.  Happy happy happy all the time.

Aquarius (1/20 – 2/18):  Speaking of material, The Great Sandini asked to talk to me when I went back to the office.  We go into this giant conference room with a table that seats 30 people.  "Do you think this room will be big enough?" I asked.  "Yes," was all he said.
He starts shuffling papers nervously, the way he does, and showed me this multi-page spreadsheet of all the work that hasn't been done,.  Anyway, I was trying to pay attention, I truly was, but I was distracted by the fact that he had a bandaid around the middle joint on each of his fingers.  I stared at his hand instead of taking the tour of the spreadsheet with him.  I got the gist -- we've been tracking the work but not doing it -- and now you're here to actually do the work; let's see if we can change some of the red cells to green.  (Do I sound bitter?)
"Where you in a fight?" I finally asked?
"Yes.  With an angry, machete wielding woman.  My wife."
I decided to stop asking questions at that point, and just focus on making the red cells turn green.  Stay away from angry machete wielding people this week, Aquarius.  Try not to marry them (if you have a choice).

Pisces (2/19 – 3/20):  One of the problems in Washington State these days is that the weed sniffing dogs are unemployed or in a retraining program where they learn other useful stuff, like "grab robber's pants" and so on.  Pisces, once again, you get gyped on the horoscopes.  I didn't really have many ideas to begin with, but I was trying to just show up the way Chuck Close recommends.  Do that yourself this week!  Oh wait.  I thought of something.  I was in Seattle last week, and a woman I didn't know came winding her way through a throng of people, directly toward me.  "Do you know where the gum wall is?" she asked.  I know!!  Of all the people she could have asked.  Like I exude some gum wall vibe, which I won't think too hard about.  I escorted her directly to the wall, wandering our way through the crowds, and she gave me a piece of gum for my trouble.

Horoscopes: The Small Town, We're All Gonna Die Edition

Aries (3/21 – 4/19):  Today is the annual parade, which, against my better judgment, causes me to weep, because it's so extremely hokey that it comes around and turns into one of those ridiculous stands of good cheer that is just lovely.  What gets me is this:  half of the town walks down the middle of the main street with a group, essentially saying, "Look!  I'm in a group, and I'm really proud of it!"  And the other half stands on the side and waves, which says, "I see you!  I see that you're in a group!  I'm waving at you and your group!  March on, You!"  How crazy is that?  But it's like everyone is just flipping mortality the bird, saying, dammit, we know we don't have much time.  And this is how we're going to spend it, by god.  It's incredibly sweet and I can hardly even type about it because it makes tear up.  March on, Aries.  We see you.  (Not in a creepy way, of course.)

Taurus (4/20 – 5/20):  I was talking to my sister the other day and I told her I want to learn to draw.  The first thing she said, no kidding, is "I guess that's okay if you can't collect clouds."  Right?  How I miss her every day.  Her point is that it's good to look at all the different kinds of clouds and think about them, and that's way easier than drawing and you don't even need a pencil.   But in our area, it's often just one big cloud, so we're forced to draw.  All I draw is Julianne Moore though.  If she were to drop by, she might be a little concerned, seeing her likeness taped up all over the house.  But odds are slim on that, right?  Taurus, let your week be not one big cloud, but lots of collectibles.  Bring a pencil.

Gemini (5/21 – 6/21):  Oh, my dear birthday people.  How to celebrate.  Oh, I know:  with cake!  And a bike ride!  And a picnic!  Right?  Let's do it!  Because the humans have a few things going for them:  1.  opposable thumbs; 2.  Love of cake; 3.  Ability to weep and laugh and yearn and remember each other's birthdays.  Gemini, celebrate all month long.

Cancer (6/22 – 7/21):  Every time I sit down to write, I end up googling the Neanderthals and learning something interesting about them.  I don't know why I do that.  Is it another actual disability?  Did you know that at their peak, the Neanderthal population was only 15,000?  What that means, Cancer, is your numbers don't have to be very large in order to make a significant impact 40,000 years later. That's good, right?  But that's not your horoscope!  Here it is:  I have a rice bag that a dear Cancer made for me about 20 years ago, and it's one of my best relationships ever (both with the Cancer and the rice bag).  I've been thinking lately that it would be good to have a whole rice outfit. Some rice pants and a jacket that I could heat in the microwave and slip on after gardening.  Would a puffy, steamy outfit look good with a gin and tonic?  Do these rice-filled pants make my butt look big?  Who cares!!  Maybe something in seersucker?  This might be the idea to doggedly pursue, Cancer.

Leo (7/23 – 8/22):  Speaking of weeping, a friend told me recently that she was sobbing uncontrollably about, well, I guess you could say she was sobbing about the fragile beauty in the world.  Someone looked at her with alarm and said, "Are you okay?"  It was too hard for her to explain at the time, but here's the deal:  first the weeping, and then the wings!  Wing buds, Leo!  When weeping happens, think wing buds!

Virgo (8/23 – 9/22):  Grr.  I had this dream the other night where I got a lucky number, and I tried really hard to remember it because I wanted to give the number to loved ones.  But it was six digits.  I spent the whole night clinging to that number.  (You know the deal:  dreaming I'm a chicken, 643212, now I'm in math class, haven't studied, 643212, now I'm slurry under a table in the library but it's closed and I didn't bring snacks, 643212, now I'm a waitress in a diner at the Jersey shore and a drunk person is throwing up in my station, 643212.  All night long.)  Then I woke up, and poof.  Just like that, the number was gone.  And now I feel skeptical that I fell for it.  Who's ever heard of a lucky number that's in the hundred thousands?  Shouldn't a lucky number be one digit, like six?  Oh Virgo.  You don't even need a lucky number.  Your week will be lucky without some sham of a prop that nearly came to a fake astrologist in an elusive dream.

Libra (9/23 – 10/22):  Last week, the Washington Ghost Society visited the coffee shop and offered to reveal the unwritten history of the building.  I was so excited, and apparently they've researched other buildings in town, and apparently, the place is haunted.  Not too surprising.  My wish, Libra, is that someone with an older house will contact them and have the seance or whatever.  They use actual microphones, that apparently detect noises that the human ear can't hear!  And the ghosts are saying stuff.  Anyway, invite me to the seance, please.  I'll even chip in if it costs money.

Scorpio (10/23 – 11/21):  I'm still working on the gum wall, calling myself the curator (though I

Photo by Cake Boss (I know, my
toes should be pointed. Next time.)

have also been called the perpetrator.)  My vision is that there will be street performers and buskers hanging out, and the gum will grow and people will carve little stamps out of potatoes to impress on the wads of goo.  Come get your picture taken!  Count the gum, play the ukelele, do a hand stand, juggle!  We're all going to die anyway, right?  Why not at the very least, be part of something amazing for a minute first?  

Sagittarius (11/22 – 12/21):  I was in the Grill the other night with two of the loveliest young people, and we were looking around thinking that everyone looks familiar, and we could name at least five facts about several people.  The beauty and the peril of a small town.  But then there was this couple, the quintessential, "stranger comes to town" thing.  She, wearing a silk suit and pumps, and he also in a suit, but a cheesy one that made him look skinny.  You could see from a mile away that he was way more into her than she was.  But the sad detail, and that's where the story always lies, in the tiny details, is that he had wheely luggage and a big laptop case with him.  I know.  (Like, "Hi!  Oh, sure, I'd love to spend the night.  In fact, I don't even have to go back to my car, my luggage is right here!  I've brought my pajamas, and my blow dryer, and vitamins..."  I had a pretty bad feeling about it.  Sag, this week, don't get carried away.  Keep your luggage in the car.

Capricorn (12/22 – 1/19):  I'm pretty sure the best short story ever written is "In the Cemetary Where Al Jolson is Buried" by Amy Hemphill.  Does it seem like the horoscopes are sort of morbid this week?  No, that's not it.  But that story is just beautiful.  And your week will be too!  Read while you still have some eyesight.

Aquarius (1/20 – 2/18):  Last week I mentioned to someone that I'm considering of having a tree cut down on my property because it's leaning towards the house.  Less than 24 hours later, a woman hunted me down in the coffee shop, "I hear you want my husband to come cut a tree down.  When?"  That's what it's like in a small town.  Does it seem like our brains are a bit like a small town? Like, oh, there's that vaguely familiar thought.  Didn't I run into you yesterday?  (Uh oh.  I hope that's not just me again.)  Aquarius, your week will be like a new exciting big city on a far away continent.  Pack up!

Pisces (2/19 – 3/20):  Someone asked me today what confuses me, and I'll tell you one thing:  why don't we just put that last "g" in orangatan?   You know we want to.  Is there a shortage of the letter g?  Are we saving them up for some special word that hasn't been discovered yet?  Why so miserly with the g's?  Now helium, that's a real shortage.  Pisces, your week will be filled with bouyancy and laughter, as if helium were plentiful.

The Lawnmower Saga

It seems like this blog has gotten a bit lame because it's all horoscopes all the time, which is due to a combination of my tiny attention span and the miniature episodes that happen in my life.  I've been trying to think of something else to write about, but all I have is this long lawnmower saga that  I’ve mentioned, but here it is, in it’s completeness.  I'm so sorry.  It's all I've got.

Earlier this spring, I spent four hours, or possibly forty, attempting to start my lawnmower.  Trying all of the things that I could do with potions and sprays, like using starter fluid, and replacing the gas, and buying “mechanic in a can,” (which, by the way, caused the woman at the hardware store to say, “Wow.  Cool.  You mean I didn’t have to get married?  Come back and tell me if it works!”)

But nothing worked, so that woman is still married, and all this effort was spread over several weeks.  Meanwhile, the grass kept growing.  I eventually realized I needed to take it in to the very kind but quirky small engine repairman who fixed it last time.

But the truck was full of compost, so I had to spread that around the gardens first, but first I had to weed them, and then the truck didn’t start, so I had to jump it and drive it around while it charged, and then I eventually moved all the compost, and then waited til someone was around to help me load the lawnmower, and while all this was going on, I had to go to the coffee house every day to see if I could find Lawnmower Guy.  He doesn’t have a sign or a business card or anything; you just have to bump into him.

Meanwhile, the lawn continued to grow, creating nice habitat for Jeffrey and his babies.  (Who says a family is one boy rabbit, one girl rabbit?  We in Washington celebrate all kinds of loving partnerships.)  But I never saw Lawnmower Guy.

Eventually, everything else came together, so I decided to take it to the other guy, the one who has an actual sign and a phone number, the guy who lives about two houses away from Lawnmower Man.  He was pretty creepy in the way of having lots of pinup girls in his shop and an NRA sticker on the door and other things that are supposed to look patriotic but really just make a person look angry.  But he took the lawnmower, and called me a few days later to say I could pick it up for $100, cash only, which seems steep, but whatever, sometimes you have to throw money at your problems and not think too hard about it.  So I went  to pick it up, and even though it was only 3 days later, he looked at me blankly, and said,

“Yes?”

I told him I was there for my lawnmower, and he gave that kind of creepy up-down checkout look and made a comment that made me uncomfortable, but I handed him a wad of $5 bills, not to be passive aggressive, but because that’s what I had, and we loaded the lawnmower and I drove away.

Anyway, every day after that, I ran into Lawnmower Man.  Three weeks, I didn't see him once, then I started seeing him every day.  One day, I was drinking coffee with a friend, and he walked in and I waved hello, and it reminded me to tell this long and tedious story, which is really becoming one more of my disabilities, right?  Like, why do I keep telling this story?  Is there treatment for this?

But it's what our life is composed of.  Lots of long and tedious stories that have a few interesting human connection parts to them.  I'll pretty much sift through anything to find those little human bits.  Oh, how I love the humans.  So I told my friend the story, blah blah blah.

Skip ahead a week, and I was once again sitting in the coffee house (does it sound like that’s all I do?), and Lawnmower Man entered, saw me, and walked over to my table.

“Betsy, we need to talk about something.  Is it okay if I sit down?”

“Sure,” I said, smiling.  “Have a seat.”

“Wow, I’m really disarmed by your smile.  Give me a minute.”  I didn’t add that detail to suggest that I have an amazing smile or something, which I don’t – it's pretty average: a few teeth, an upturned mouth, etc – but rather, to round out the picture of Lawnmower Man.  (WAIT:  I just reread that and it sounds like I only have a few teeth.  What I meant is, it's a typical smile that reveals a few teeth.  Sheesh.  It's not like I'm some toothless cat lady or something.  I have many teeth, people!  Toothlessness is not one of my problems.)

So he sat down and composed himself for a minute while I waited, and then said, “So, last week, you were in here with a young woman, and I got the impression that you were talking about me.”

I felt pretty embarrassed, because he’s a super nice guy and had apparently been wondering for a week whether I was talking about him, so I had to tell my whole long story (I know!  Do you see my point?  I'm stuck, telling this stupid story over and over in which literally nothing happens.)  I told him that I had hoped to bring it to him but didn’t bump into him, so I had to go to the creepy guy down the street.

“Would you say he’s creepy in a sexual way?”

Right?  How do you even answer that?  And is it appropriate to go into it?  Like, should I explain, "I appreciate the female body as much as anyone, but I prefer not to see  women in skimpy leather thongs posed with Stihl chainsaws."  So I was silent, which I think says, "Yeah.  Creepy in a sexual way."  (Are there other ways to be creepy?  Like in a ghostly way?)

Anyway, he decided I should have his phone number in my phone to avoid this issue in the future, but rather than just saying it aloud, he leaned in, looked around furitively, and in a very quiet voice said, “Old prefix, eleven sixteen.”  (Although I changed the eleven sixteen part for the obvious reason.)

Did anyone else love that movie, Lars and the Real Girl as much as I did?

(You could choose to be grateful, if you're so inclined, that I stopped myself from recounting the lawn-cutting itself, which only took about 11 hours due to the length and wetness of the grass.)

Horoscopes: The Jeffrey is Real Edition

Aries (3/21 – 4/19): I was walking in the woods at a site the other day when a new client, whom I'd never met, came to find me.  He walked up, held out his hand to shake, and said, "Do I have bad breath?"  I didn't know that was a question we get to ask random business associates, but I guess I was wrong.  We walked around for a bit, and then he said, "Oh, excuse me, my pants are falling down." I looked, and it was absolutely true.  They were falling way down.  After a bit, he said he had something to show me in his office, and as usual, I was super curious, so I followed him into his house and into the upstairs office (which is one of the big differences between being 22 and 52).  The office was filled with half-built model airplanes, a larger than life cardboard cutout of himself as a cowboy, x-acto knives, glue, stacks of snapshots, hundreds of bowling trophies and ribbons, saws, sharpies, and reams and reams of paper scattered in disorderly piles on the large mahogany desk.  If this were a movie, the lead would enter the room and say, "Oh my god!  We've been ransacked!"  Be he seemed okay with everything.  The whole episode was on that razor thin boundary between creepy and refreshing, which is precisely how your week will be, Aries.  See if you can stay on the refreshing side of things.

Taurus (4/20 – 5/20):  I had dinner with a friend the other night who, not once or twice, but three times asked if I wanted to know a secret.  (Has anyone ever answered no to that question?  "Yeah, why don't you just keep that to yourself.  I'm not very interested."). And now I know three different secrets which I hope I'm worthy of.  Of course I can't tell you what they are, but it did make me think I should do more of that.  Rather than having a dumb blog, I should be a woman of mystery.  Right?  Like, hang out with me, people, and there will be super interesting secrets ahead!  I'm more like, "here are all my cards.  Yep, that's all of them."  Taurus, you already are a person of mystery.  Keep it up.  (Oh, and maybe just tell me one or two secrets that I can add to my dossier.)

Gemini (5/21 – 6/21):  As we circumnavigated The Nation the other day, we did some planning for the apocalypse.  I don't really have much to offer as a team member, so I try to emphasize how much salt I have, because I like to think that makes me useful.  As you know, I make salt out  Puget Sound, which isn't actually making anything at all; it's just waiting for evaporation to happen.  Anyway, during our circumnavigation, my companion mentioned that cow parsnip can be used as a source of salt.  Gemini, am I being replaced on the team by a common weed?  I'm trying to come up with another attribute, something that would be useful during the apocalypse that I'd be uniquely positioned to offer, but nothing is coming to mind.  Just the salt.  Grrr.  Gemini, you won't have any problem getting on a team.  And in case you end up being the team captain, I have salt, and I know the King County Code really well, and I own a digital thermometer.

Cancer (6/22 – 7/21): Last week I had the giant good fortune to be present when Dr. A defended her dissertation, which was a ton of hard work in all the ways that the humans work hard, and she did important research about that topic that causes me to cover my ears (climate change).  And a lovely side benefit was getting to see The Others.  Even though I hadn't seen them in forever, after about five minutes we had inside jokes and laughter, and they were actually at 6th and I.  Right?  Anyway, Cancer, this week, work hard in all the good ways, and enjoy a festive drink with me.  Maybe some Spanish coffee or something off the beaten path.

Leo (7/23 – 8/22):  I'm sitting at a different coffee shop (I know!) and the woman behind me, who's hogging the only actual desk, started vigorously and loudly stirring her iced drink with the plastic straw.  I turned around to see what was going on. "Wow," I said, "I thought that was a pencil sharpener."  That's kind of funny, right?  Like, who has pencils anymore?  Who sharpens them, who brings a pencil sharpener to a coffee shop?  Etc.  But she just stared at me blankly and said, "You thought that was a pencil sharpener.  Oh.  No, it was me stirring my drink."  In a flat  non-curious monotone.  I'm so not a fan of non-curiosity, Leo.  This week, wonder more.  Wonder about everything.

Virgo (8/23 – 9/22):  I had this dream the other night, you know the one.  Where I'm lying on the floor under a table in the library trying to write a stupid book because all the chairs are full, and the book seems pointless.  And then I remember that I have a plane to catch in an hour, and I should pull myself up off the floor and ride my bike the 45 miles to the airport, because I was supposed to be there an hour ago.  I go out to my bike and it has a flat tire, so I start fixing that, and then I realize that I don't have a good way to carry my huge suitcase, so I'm just holding it in my hand and it's banging against me while I pedal, and I can't really change gears with one hand and even though I know I'm not going to make it, I pedal on doggedly.  And that's sort of what we do in our lives, right?  We're all dying, as is everyone we love, but we keep pedaling anyway.  I think that's good, Virgo, and so will your week be.  (Can a legit sentence end with "be"?  Yes.)

Libra (9/23 – 10/22):  I think there's only one person besides me who actually believes I have a pet rabbit named Jeffrey, so I'm including a picture.  This is my pet (noun), which, it's been pointed out, I never engage with as the verb, but we talk to each other and he's so completely not like that other rabbit, Harvey, because Cake Boss actually saw him the other day.  Libra, talk to the animals this week.  They like that.  

Scorpio (10/23 – 11/21):  I'm listening in to a conversation, and the man says, "Yeah, I don't really know anything about the Grateful Dead."  It doesn't make sense, because he's the right age and demographic to know more.  "I've heard Casey Jones, but that's about it."

The woman says, "Oh, you should go home and listen to 'Ripple'.  It's a great song."

"Oh cool!  My wife would like that too.  That's how I seduced her the first time!  With Ripple."
Proving once again how people can be excited about a big misunderstanding.  At the risk of seeming like that creepy person who never is really in a conversation, but rather, just lurks around listening, I will say that it's pretty amazing what's going on all around me.     

Sagittarius (11/22 – 12/21): I hardly remember anything from Goulds Book of Fish, which I read about 10 years ago, except for one part where a guy says, "You know, life only hands you so many chances, and if you piss all over them, life sort of gives up on you."  I think that's true.  Don't piss on any chances this week, Sag.  Just be your charming self.  And drive carefully.

Capricorn (12/22 – 1/19):  Do you know those people, the ones who never own anything, and all of the problems in the world are someone else's fault?  Yeah, me too.  I think the best thing for the planet right now is if we all take it upon ourselves to own our shit, apologize well, and be generous with our feelings and our things.  Tall order, I know, but picture the world if everyone behaved that way.  Lead the way, Capricorn.

Aquarius (1/20 – 2/18):  I keep thinking that it shouldn't be that hard to get rich when I look around and see all the people who've done it.  It seems like all you need is an idea and the ability to doggedly pursue it.  It's that "doggedly pursue" part that's escaped me.  I'm more the kind of dog that naps on the couch.  But Aquarius, you should totally doggedly pursue something this week.  Let me know if you need companionship on your journey.

Pisces (2/19 – 3/20):  I've been carrying my one little beer to the private beach each night and drinking it while I watch the water, which is about the cheapest vacation one could have.  It also reminds me that yes, there are beavers and giant fish and quite possibly monsters in there, and they're kind of fun to watch.  Pisces, let's do some water-y things this summer.  Bring your wetsuit or at least your thermometer.

The Week Ahead

Aries (3/21 – 4/19): The other day, I met M. for a picnic at the river, and as we met, she handed me what looked like a loaf of homemade bread.  It surprised me, because she lives in a tent.
"Wow, thank you!  This looks homemade!"

"Oh, no, I got it from a dumpster.  But it was only like, 45 minutes after they put it in there, I think.  I knew you'd like that."

Which I totally did.  The whole thing.  The picnic, the gift, the fact that she gathered 37 loaves of bread from a dumpster and started giving them out.  Aries, you'll get some unexpected gifts this week.  Accept them with grace.

Taurus (4/20 – 5/20):  So the other day, I was walking by the gum wall when the man behind me stopped to marvel at it.  I know!  He was just staring at it, saying, "Nice."

I walked back to talk to him, and yes, let him know that I'm the curator.  "Do you like the gum wall?" I asked.

"Very much," he replied, and stood there staring at it for a while longer.

There are cultures, I hear, that don't have a word for the color blue, and in those cultures, people are unable to identify the color in a line up, even though they have the capacity to see it.  I guess what I'm saying here, is that maybe nobody had the ability to notice the significance of the gum wall until it was named.  Do you think so, Taurus?

Gemini (5/21 – 6/21):  Not to make all the horoscopes about the gum wall, but last week, I went for a beer, and as soon as I walked in, the bartender said, "The gum wall is looking awesome!"  It reminds me, Gemini, that life is so short, and we're all milling about looking for things to celebrate and marvel over.  We celebrate to keep the hounds at bay.  If nothing else is available, we'll celebrate chewed up gum.  You could find that depressing or inspiring, depending.  Pick inspiring when you get the chance, Gemini.

Cancer (6/22 – 7/21):  I noticed this tree in the river, which is odd, right?  Completely submerged, and it's not even close to flood season, although the river is a little high still.  I mentioned it to my companion, who said, "Wait, isn't that a tulip tree?"  Which it was, making it all the more strange, because they don't even live around here.  Vacationing, I suppose.  Cancer, why haven't we planned a vacation yet?  Lt's do it.

Leo (7/23 – 8/22):  The other day, I overheard a woman say to the man she was sitting with,

"Do you like the comic, 'Peanuts'?

"It's okay," he replied.

"I just love it, myself.  Ever since I was little, I've really associated with Lucy.  She reminds me of me."

I had some advice for that man, but I didn't want to meddle, so I kept my mouth shut.  Leo, watch out for the Lucys this week.  They are so disappointing.

Virgo (8/23 – 9/22):  Finally, Redhook has taken that hideous "Cheers to Ben Harris" off the bottle caps.  It's about time.  But they've just defaulted to the same lame half dozen sayings.  I tried their new beer, Redhook Wisecracker Wit, even though it's a wheat beer, not my fave, because I thought there might be wit involved.  Which is a reasonable assumption, right?  I'm so not crazy.  And they had a joke about Ginger/ Marianne on the label which was a little funny, but alas, the same dumb sayings on the cap.  It's going to be a disappointing week, Virgo, but stay open, in spite of everything.

Libra (9/23 – 10/22):  Why don't we know exactly where the Biderbost site is, Libra?  Shouldn't we go there? I guess we'll have to settle for going to the museum, which contains desiccated relics of the magical real place.  So much of life is like that.  One or 16 steps removed from the actual magical thing.  But it could be worse.  Anyway, if you figure out where it is, can we go there?  Maybe have a picnic or just breathe for a while?

Scorpio (10/23 – 11/21):  Oh, Scorpio.  What would I do without you?  Anyway.  I was apologizing to someone I don't know very well for something tiny, at least I hope it was tiny, but as soon as I started saying I was sorry, I got this huge lump in my throat and couldn't really finish my sentence because I was sort of weepy, making it super awkward.  Because, really, it was a tiny thing, every-so-slightly bigger than accidentally stepping on someone's toe the day before.  But the words have power importantanc, and no matter what the context, it evokes that thing.  Scorpio, evoke that thing this week without all of the awkwardness.

Sagittarius (11/22 – 12/21):  I try to assume the best from people and imagine that everyone's doing the best they can, and that most of the harm that happens is unintentional.  Keep believing that, even when it doesn't look that way, because it's probably true.  If a butterfly lands on your nose, appreciate it and try not to swat it away, even if it's annoying and you can't quite see past it, because there is some good luck and magic there.  Don't lose track of that.

Capricorn (12/22 – 1/19):  I was sitting in the coffee house the other day and saw one of the lovely young women come in crying, as she has for the past several days.  She received hugs from a few friends.  I texted her an encouraging message from across the room because I didn't want to intrude.  She left.  I asked, after she'd gone, "Are all these tears about a boy?"  "Yep."  I guess that's the way of the world.  Women crying about some boy or another, and men going, huh?  I had no idea!  But maybe that's where art comes from, and maybe it's better to have the capacity to feel and care deeply than not, and maybe it's better to be the one who can cry than the one who's chosen not to feel any more.  Or at least that's what we comfort ourselves with, because secretly, it looks a whole lot easier to not give a shit.  (Oh, did I say that out loud?)

Aquarius (1/20 – 2/18):  Oh, you want to know how the lawnmower situation is?  Unchanged.    Pretty

much everything is unchanged.  But I have a tip about the to do list:  if you stop adding to it, it will eventually get shorter.  Some things will just drop right off with no effort, and some things, you can rename. That's all I've got for you, Aquarius, but it could be useful.

Pisces (2/19 – 3/20):  Someone shared a Ghandi quote with me this week, "I will not let anyone walk through my mind with dirty feet."  That seems like a good strategy, if you can pull it off.  So many problems, though. No one means to have dirty feet, that's for sure.  And you really don't notice the feet are dirty until after the mud has been tracked in, right?  So Ghandi, as great as you were, that's just not super useful.  I think it's better to be able to forgive those dirty feet, for surely, they meant no harm.  Or just get dark carpeting in there.

Horoscopes, the memory edition

Aries (3/21 – 4/19):  I tried to read David Carr's memoir, The Night of the Gun this week, and it was sadly disappointing.  I've had a thing for him after seeing that movie about the NYT, but poof, all gone!  The only reason I read as far as I did is because I was trapped on an airplane and had done everything else that I could possibly think of:  the crossword puzzle and sudoku in the in-flight magazine,  3 visits to the bathroom, cleaned my wallet, listened to dumb jokes told by the man next to me, pretended to nap, did alternate nostril breathing.  So I kept reading. It's a very well-written book about sorry escapades that happened when he was drunk or on coke that didn't seem to have a point, and just made me cringe.  It turns out, the bad jokes were better than the book.  Aries, your life this week will be better than a book.  Enjoy.

Taurus (4/20 – 5/20):  So what were the jokes like, you ask?  Here's one:

A bunch of (insert ethnic or hair color group you wish to bash) were in an airplane when the pilot said, "We've had one engine fail, so unfortunately, we'll be an hour late in getting to our destination."  A while later, he came on the intercom again and said, "I'm sorry to break it to you, but we've had a second engine fail, which will make us two hours late."  One of the passengers turned to the other and said, "we better not lose that third engine or we'll be up here all night!"

Taurus, listen well this week.  Wait, listen, lean in, listen again.  Maybe something good will come of it.

Gemini (5/21 – 6/21):  One thing I've been reading about lately is forgetting, for the obvious reasons.  Here's the Ebbinghaus formula for the rate at which we forget:

where R is memory retention, S is strength of memory, and t is time.  So, some number to the power of elapsed time divided by strength of memory.  I think, yeah, that makes sense.  But of course I had to test it.  So I open Excel.  I know.  I wish I could stop myself too.  

But it doesn't work out.  It's not true that I remember a boring story heard recently better than childbirth!  I think the formula needs work.  Alert readers will note that this graph doesn't represent a logarithmic curve, but just the t over S.  But still, it should reflect the relative strength of a memory at a given time point, right now.  If you're the person who noticed that, we should probably talk and maybe make some kind of pact.

And Gemini, I'll stop here because I don't want to lose any more readers than I already have, but you and I both know that I went in and plugged in a bunch of other things, trying to establish another factor that would make it work.  I've spent literally hours on it.  There must be medication for this, right?  But your horoscope: Don't worry about the formula this week.  Just remember what you remember, and put the rest down.  

Cancer (6/22 – 7/21):  Why I hate plane travel, reason two:  I get to the airport, park, go inside, meet my offspring (which was the best part of everything.  In fact, the highpoint of the journey was quite possibly getting a text from R. as I entered the terminal that said, "I'm here.  You'll recognize me because I'm the guy wearing all purple playing the ukelele.")  Okay, let's skip the part about waiting for hours, then going all the way home again, then going back to the airport to catch a different plane.  We'll jump right to the hating:  I sit down in the middle seat for a red-eye, and the woman in the aisle says, "I'm about to take an Ambien and pass out cold, so I don't know what you're going to do if you have to get out."   Cancer, see if you can get through the week without passing out cold, and without trapping someone with a small bladder in an uncomfortable seat all night long.

Leo (7/23 – 8/22):  It takes me about five minutes to be solidly on east coast time.  What looks like insomnia in PST passes as being an early riser in the east.  After 30 years of living here, I've never really switched to this time zone.  This week, Leo, see if you can really adjust to right where you are in this very moment, with the earth hurtling around the sun, and the moon ever-so-slowly creeping away from our planet at the rate of one nanometer per second, (as if we wouldn't notice!), and meanwhile, you're surrounded by everything you need.

Virgo (8/23 – 9/22):  For some reason, I've just learned of the Piggyback Bandit.  I think it was news last summer.  It might be the saddest thing to be arrested for ever:  jumping on the backs of high school athletes because you want a piggy-back ride.

Reason number three, why I hate plane travel:  As the plane lands, it's really clear that the runway is way too short, so there's a giant breaking action that's mildly terrifying, and everyone is looking at each other like, hmm, this is not normal.  And that's not even Reason #3.  We get off the plane, and apparently it's morning, and we're walking around the Atlanta airport, and M. says, "I think I'm cross-eyed."  And I look at her, and it's true.  Her eye's aren't really tracking together anymore. I get it.  I get how that happens on the plane.  Luckily, it was temporary.  Virgo, see if you can get both eyes to track together this week.

Libra (9/23 – 10/22):  I've been wondering what happened to the Neanderthals.  150,000 years, and then gone?  One theory is that they didn't domesticate dogs, and were out competed in the small game Olympics by the Homo sapiens.  Another theory, Libra, is that they didn't divide labor along gender lines, losing efficiency.  I don't like that answer.  And I don't like this either, but it's quite revealing, I'd say.  Libra, you might have that kind of week.

Scorpio (10/23 – 11/21):  I've recently learned that the opposite of going out for a pack of cigarettes is inviting someone to see your etchings.  Which reminds me of this letter I read in an advice column years ago.  The letter-writer had excused himself from a restaurant dining table to go to the bathroom, and climbed out the window because the host of the meal (another man who was paying for the dinner for several people) wouldn't share his clams Rockefeller.  The question?  "Should I let the host know how rude it was that he didn't share his clams with me?"  This is the letter, I believe, that caused us to add a new part to the advice column game where we first bet, before reading the letter, whether we're better than, equal to, or worse than the letter writer.  Better than is often a safe bet, and isn't as arrogant as it sounds.

Sagittarius (11/22 – 12/21):  Everything I do feels like slogging uphill lately.  Except for the gum wall, which is more like chewed bits of goo stuck to a wall.  Even getting the gum to stick can be unexpectedly hard, though.

We're at that point in the year when it's time to start cutting the lawn because it's about a foot tall.  I've made a few half-assed unsuccessful efforts to start the lawnmower, then I revert to ignore mode.  But the other day I went full-on at it.  Went to town, got a few cans of mystery potions:  starter fluid and something to pour into the gas tank.  Tried those things, lawnmower didn't start.  Siphoned the gas out of mower with a turkey baster, and put new gas in.  (Cover your ears if you're one of my Thanksgiving guests.)  Then I try all the permutations:  priming, not priming, spraying this and that, not spraying, wondering if it's flooded, waiting, cleaning the spark plugs, and all the while thinking, I really don't care very much about this.  Life is short.  Grass should get long.  But I try to be a good citizen of the neighborhood.  After about 3 hours of effort, I turn my attention to emptying the bed of the truck, which is full of compost, so I can load the lawnmower and take it somewhere.  Probably here.  But the truck won't start, and when I open the hood, I see a large delicate nest composed of pink and yellow insulation and mouse droppings.  I deliberate over whether to gently move the rodent nest to a better location, or destroy it.  It's someone's bed, after all.  I can't decide, so I leave it alone and jumpstart the truck, which works.

But by now it's too late in the day to do much, so I turn it off, knowing it isn't charged and I'll have to go through this routine again, including the non-decision about the mouse nest, in order to move the truck to spread the compost to load the lawnmower to have it fixed so I can cut the grass.  That's kind of how things are going.  Multiply that scenario (high effort, little outcome) to every part of my life, and you've got it.

Oh, and your horoscope?  Keep in mind at all times that life is short.  Let the grass grow.  Do what you can to stop the barbaric and cruel practice of decapitating the tiny helpless blades of grass.

Capricorn (12/22 – 1/19):  So the other day, my son said, "I really want to get a pet duck."  I'm  thinking, hmm, how would a good mother respond to that comment?  A good mother, but also a mother who doesn't want to end up babysitting an indoor duck?  My daughter instantly replied, "Oh, you don't want a duck.  They really like to look in the mirror a lot, and you'd have to put mirrors all over the floor."
Right?
How does this become a horoscope, you're wondering?  Me too!  So let's talk about how grubs go into a little cocoon and turn into slurry.  They completely liquify in there.  And they re-emerge as butterflies.  As if that's not miracle enough, they actually retain memories from when they were grubs.  Are you following this?  1.  Grub with memories.  2.  Liquification of the grub.  Complete meltdown into nothingness.  3.  Butterfly, with memories from when they were grubs.  Like smells they recall.  I take great comfort in this, myself, as I've been in the slurry state a good deal lately.  So far, I keep coming out as a worm again, but one of these times I'll get there, and you most certainly will too.  It's as easy as hopping into crow from downdog.

Aquarius (1/20 – 2/18):  There's this thing in our town, I don't know if it happens everywhere or not, but the instant someone dies, there's a notice about it on the post office door.  In some cases, it seems like, wait, aren't they still doing CPR on that guy?  That's how quickly the notices go up.  Sometimes I think that's a little creepy, but mostly it's sweet, and it makes me go to the post office a lot, in spite of the crazy people with the poster of Obama with a Hitler mustache who hang out there.  Put up notices this week, Aquarius. Metaphorical ones about life, not death.  Be quick!

Pisces (2/19 – 3/20):  I went to NY for my father's memorial service last week, which was lovely and sad and and complicated, but mostly it was really nice to be in a room full of people I love who I've known since birth, mine or theirs.  People who know me so well that I really don't need to talk, but want to anyway.  My dad grew up in a family that was kind of like the Great Gatsby, with gambling and drinking and fancy parties and money and luxury cars and servants and boarding school, and came away from all that as a decent guy, which might be a minor miracle.  Born into a family of rich republicans in North Jersey, and died a liberal democrat in upstate New York.  Change happens, good change.  Make it so this week, Pisces.