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Astro PSA: Mercury Retrograde in Scorpio

This retrograde is heavy, haunted pizza.

Mercury goes retrograde in Scorpio today, and the usual caveats apply. Back up your electronics, buy travel insurance, don’t sign on any dotted lines. But the truth, as I labor to remind myself, is this astrological aspect gets a bad rap. Really, it’s just an invitation to reflect on our lives and go deeper. Only when we fail to RSVP does it get forceful–AKA bust up the telecommunication and travel devices that keep us distracted.

This particular retrograde–which really doesn’t end until the end of old-soul November (11/20 officially)–is taking place in Scorpio, which confronts shadows and buried secrets, and begins on the eve of Samhain, which celebrates the end of harvest and temporarily banishes all binaries–including the one separating the dead from the living. During this month, expect ancestors from the other side, old pals, and lovers to show up, and a lot of unfinished business to be sealed and healed. Scorpio will go to any lengths to induce us to better express our true lives and light, and this retrograde will stop us in our tracks until we do.

In the interest of full transparency, I’ll admit I’ve already sustained a Mercury retrograde injury–a sprained back and broken toe from walking four miles in heels that I thought made me look fierce after someone was unkind about my appearance. Talk about getting stopped in my tracks, oy vey.

The heavens are asking me to heavy lifting around vanity and shame (two sides of the same coin). So as I ice my back and practice deeper self-love and compassion–this shit is fucking painful right now– I invite you to strap on your combat boots and coziest sweater and embrace whatever kerfuffle comes your way. This month is going to show us what we don’t need anymore. Better yet, it’s going to show us what to reclaim–starting with our highest selves.

Get in touch to schedule a reading during this powerful period of reflection. And feel free to send meals and magical carrier pigeons while I’m still laid up. We’re all on this retrograde raft together.

Of Homographic Utopias and Dowager Chic (The Sound Inside, Terminator: Dark Fate)

Critic drag with co-panelist Jack Rico.

Yesterday was kind of brilliant. The boys and I taped an episode of Talking Pictures, and for the first time since the show migrated from Spectrum to PBS achieved the right balance of jocularity and specificity. Which is to say: I got my points across with some style and minimal manterruption, and we all laughed a lot.

Link to come shortly.

Afterward I had enough cash in my pocket to eat out properly, so I joined up with my friend Little Lisa. In generosity of spirit and strength of mind she is no way little, but as we share a first name and I grew up in an Italian-American neighborhood where people of the same name are distinguished by the prefix “Big” or “Little,” Little Lisa she is. To be fair, LL is 7 inches shorter than me and a good 16 years younger.

Big of heart, though, believe me.

Once upon a time we worked together at NY1–she was often the only other broad in the studio when I was on set–but these days she’s a fancy lady producer at a major network and I’m, well–that’s a good question. What am I right now? Continue Reading →

The Coldest Home Is Memory

I woke on a whole river of sadness–an ocean, even. My apartment cold, my permakitten anxious, my heart heavy. Still not cast ashore.

In October we are capsized by abruptly cold weather no matter how much we long for it. The veil between this world and the next lifts just as abruptly.

I’d been dreaming of all the couches where I perched in my childhood–all the family homes where I briefly ingratiated myself, not because I craved the companionship of peers or the comfort of uncomplicated adults, but because I’d craved order and cleanliness. Coziness.

Even now, though my mother and I rarely speak, I hesitate to write about the disorder of my family home. It is sexist that the blame landed so resoundingly on her shoulders but the truth is it was mostly her fault. She and my father had one of those fucked-up divisions of labors that a creative person like her should never have attempted–he made money, she kept house. I knew she was bored, I knew she was unhappy, I knew she was profoundly ill-suited to this suburban pathology masquerading as mythology. I also knew she couldn’t think of anything else to do so she sat at the kitchen table day in and day out, drinking cold coffee, slowly reading the paper, looking out the window.

And, you know, not keeping house.

Keep in mind it wasn’t the 1940s but the 1970s. Women’s liberation was happening all around her. It just came too late for her purposes. Continue Reading →

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