Wacky High Jinks and Shenanigans Ensue

The last Mercury retrograde of 2017 begins today, and it’s a doozy. Taking place in wild and crazy Sagittarius, this one is not just about technology and communication going awry. It is about loose lips and sunk ships, because Sagittarius has a tendency to shoot her mouth off and pitch fits in addition to triple axel jumps. As a lady with five planets in Sagittarius, I know of what I speak, but also know we rarely bullshit anyone and are the most entertaining court jesters at every rally. Add in tomorrow’s full moon and Venus, the planet of love and grace, entering Sagittarius, and this weekend is arriving with a bang (and I do mean bang).

During this period, we can learn to express our rage effectively, how to hold counsel, and how to have a blast while everything goes up in flames. Drink a lot of water, go on head-clearing walks, breathe before uttering a word, dance your ya-yas out, and schedule a Ruby Intuition reading when the astral kitchen gets too hot. Because, rest assured, especially if you have Sagittarius, Capricorn, Gemini, or Virgo prominently in your natal chart, that kitchen is going to be on fire this month.

Bottom line: You can back up your electronics, but you can’t back up your heart. It’s best to stand on your head, let those apron strings fly, and accept this ride is going to be all nutty buddies and wacky pageantry. The good news? We’re all in this mermaid parade together. Sending love and somersaults.

Say Hello to My Little Friend

As I write this, permakitten Grace is eating my eggs with hot sauce, and I’m laughing too hard to stop her.

I’m aware that I’m a cat lady. I’m also aware that as the power dynamics of sex, courtship and romance are finally being called into question, and as basic tenets of human decency are no longer ensured, a cat lady is far from the worst thing a woman can be. I love and respect my cat and do my very best by her, and she feels and does the same for me.

And love is love.

Grace may not speak English–that is, save a “noooo” she’s learned to eke out over the years–but we share a clear-eyed, clear-hearted sympatico. Peace is the name of our game, and now that I’m in my 40s, domestic peace is more important to me than human companionship–more important than getting laid, even. No species is inherently peaceful, but after her stressful childhood on the streets of Brooklyn, Grace Michael Jackson just wants to be serene and sweet. I can relate.

She’s too skittish to be a Buddha, of course; among the things that will send her running are shoes, seltzer, vacuums, paper bags, male voices, and drunk people. But I’ve never lived with anyone who could calm me the way she does, and I’ve lived with all kinds of beings. Grace has taught me to find quiet within myself. More than that, she has located the tenderness beneath my tough broad exterior. In return I have taught her how to play: to enjoy music and dance, to have a sense of humor. I don’t mind telling you: Grace is quite funny. It’s not just that she knows how to bestow the feline equivalent of a raised eyebrow or a curmudgeonly frown. It’s that the timing of said gestures is always impeccable.

Whenever possible, I travel with Grace. Nothing feels like home without her, and she’s bereft when I leave her behind. When she’s uncomfortable, I’m uncomfortable, and I’ve noticed this fact goes both ways. When I’m sad, she’s sad, though when I malinger in my housework or writing duties, she doesn’t have time for my bullshit. When she fails as a vermin hunter or eats food I’ve earmarked as my own, I’m not so happy with her, either.

We still like to be as physically close, though. As I type this, she’s purring beneath my legs and we’re snuggling beneath my duvet.

Neither of us hold grudges if we can tell the other is legitimately sorry, and we always are. Also we like to eat many of the same things, eschewing sweets and adoring greens, animal protein, particularly fish, and very spicy things. It’s gotten so that, when I do my weekly shop at Fairway, the fishmonger and butcher know to give me a little extra for Grace. One of those dudes–the one whom I’d kiss if he weren’t wearing a wedding ring–always tells me to say hi to her.

I guess I talk about her a lot. But don’t you talk about the people you love as well?

The other day a friend of a friend commented on my relationship with Grace. “Do you mind that your closest friend will die so much sooner than you?” she asked. Her judgment loomed as supertext, not subtext, but I didn’t mind. I judged her right back for not having the courage to leave her very bad marriage.

“I’m just so grateful to fully enjoy her company while she is alive,” I said, blinking twice slowly. It’s a kiss-off I’ve learned from my cat.

Loser Without His Mezuzah

I’m back in Brooklyn. The drive from Boston took all day because A. My car battery died at the start of the trip. B. While waiting for AAA I fell into a corgi puppy time-space continuum.  C. Some dumb gentile caused a 3-car pile-up and 17-mile traffic jam on the Merritt Parkway because he failed to properly secure a Christmas tree on his car roof. (I swear he tied it on with a hair ribbon.) I am now swilling all the wine and Thanksgiving leftovers, and clutching a certain permakitten for dear life. Sidebar: This Yuletide season I am not feeling Jew-ish. I am feeling JewEST. Newly emboldened white supremacists will do that to a semi-Semitic girl. Let there be a mezuzah on every American door post!

"All, everything I understand, I understand only because I love."
― Leo Tolstoy