Every morning I read the horoscopes of those I love, not because I believe in astrologists, but because the whole idea of a page in a newspaper devoted to such generic individual advice tickles me. I fantasize about what it would take to gather the credentials necessary to secure a spot like that in syndication across the country, and I cannot help but be impressed. The criteria must be nebulous, don’t you think? I mean does an editor track the reliability of an astrology expert’s predictions over a period of time and decide, “Wow, I’m an Aquarius and I really did have a shitty day on Friday. This applicant is spot on. Let’s give her six inches of space.” I have no idea, but every morning I check out Cancer for Daughter, Pisces for Son, and Taurus for Husband and me just to kick-start the party. Today’s advice for Cancer is the entry title above, and I’m not sure exactly what it means, but I love the way it sounds and will keep its cautionary tone in mind today as I go about my Taurus affairs.
There is also a comic in my paper called Rhymes With Orange that is offbeat and often quite amusing. I will need you to read this strip very quickly as I did not obtain proper reproduction permission. Notice how quickly I have shed the astrologist’s advice to Cancer by singlehandedly answering the question, “What sort of cretin ignores copyrights?” Hopefully, if cartoonist Hilary B. Price ever comes across this entry, she will reconsider litigation in light of the fact that I provided a link to her website. Thanks in advance, Hilary.
This is the time of year when the festive string of holidays and their giddy anticipation begins. First will come Halloween with its gluttonous gathering of Reese’s Peanut Butter cup minis and fun-size Three Musketeers bars. Then begins the purchase of treats that will actually be given out at the door. That celebration will be accompanied by the tense wondering about which part of our property will be hit with eggs. I just had all the capping around the front windows replaced as a result of last year’s egg pelting, and our new bright red door is starting to look like an easy target. We are the last house before the corner, a location that makes us a sitting duck for bored teens riding in cars with dairy products. Ah, autumn in the suburbs.
After All Hallow’s Eve will come Thanksgiving, the most bittersweet holiday for me, being the one we always celebrated at my late parents’ home. Well into their teens, Son and Daughter always delighted in the sight of the crayon cut-out turkeys they made in grade school taped to the door of my folks’ Bronx apartment. The thought of there being a special place my father stored the kids’ childhood artwork all year in preparation for that one day charmed us all. Our revised family tradition since my parents’ death has us gathering at the same restaurant every year, which I wrote about back in 2007’s Like the Pilgrims Before Us. It’s a day I love and look forward to, all of us together, ordering from a menu I didn’t prepare.
Then, in a wink of an eye, it will be Christmas Eve at my friend betty’s, her family being our extended one. The betty children were perhaps Son and Daughter’s earliest playmates, and I can remember the piñata whacks in their living room that foreshadowed Son’s high school baseball career, while young Daughter looked around the room thinking, “If I were older and the digital camera was invented, I would so be taking pictures of all this.” Which might explain why I bought a Christmas gift yesterday for betty’s sister, a lovely Cynthia Rowley scarf to keep her warm now that she lives in Minneapolis. It’s 80 degrees today in New York, and probably Minnesota too. But in three blinks we’ll be drinking eggnog. So much better than scraping it off the mailbox.
Daughter’s Featured Fotos take us for a Walk in the Park
the big day
making friends
pretty ladies
learning to fly