Getting Fired, NYC Style
Of the many, many things I love about NYC is the fact that there is a bar I go to specifically when I want strange men to pay for my drinks while I mourn a fresh breakup with a woman. Tonight, I am sorry to say, I had occasion to visit said bar. On the docket: Mexican firing squads, a tequila cocktail that takes no prisoners and is named all too aptly. Note that I drank two and paid for none, my kind of new math. There’s something so wonderful about male chivalry when it comes without strings, and what could be less promising for a young man-about-town than a 40something broad mourning the woman who just sent her packing? (Send greasy carbs. And new love interests.)
Astro PSA: Mercury Retrograde Week 3
If you’ve been physically and mentally tired this week, you’re not alone. Trust that it’s not just because of daylights savings time. It’s because of the profound, subcutaneous change demanded by this Scorpio Season, when linear time has been collapsed into soul time, and regeneration has been the name of the game. All month we’ve been grounded here while Mercury, which enables forward motion, has been retrograde. We’ve experienced breakdowns, yes, but also breakthroughs, and our shifts have been seismic, even miraculous, as we’ve released old wounds, patterns, masks. But this has been a lot, especially after Tuesday’s full moon in stabilizing Taurus cleared out more flutter and clutter. So the rest of this November–holiday season be damned–defer to the sacred silence where each of us started. Don’t fight it. Don’t do anything. As much as possible, just….be. Only in this lush and pregnant hush can our cells reset themselves to their true form.
This Side of the Snow, This Side of the Haze
All stories end in death if you want to tell the truth.–David Simon
I’m afraid of endings, always have been. I am not alone in this fear, of course; many of us fear endings. Not just death but departures, demises, denouements–the invariable deflation of crossing a finish line. But my fear is acute, to the point that I privately view success as dangerous, possibly even fatal, because it will end life as I know it. (Glamourously underachieving is pretty core to my current existence.)
I’ve had so much time to acknowledge this fear since last month’s hunter’s full moon, which was the night my back went out. A catalog of the reasons why it did: loose joints; a rigorous, not entirely mindful exercise practice; shame about my middle-aged midriff; the 10-year anniversary of an acute neck and back injury.
All those contributing factors are real. But if there weren’t a deeper reason, I think I’d be better by now. After all, my list of treatments reads like a 1970s self-help saga: I’ve done acupuncture, astrological readings, Alexander Technique, reiki, physical therapy, and so many herbs and homeopathics. (I”m not really a painkiller girl except for the occasional whiskey.) I’ve meditated, prayed, danced under the light of the (next) full moon. And it’s all helped. Continue Reading →