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2006-01-21 @ 9:26 p.m.
if only a little white angora could make it better

Here is your horoscope for Saturday, January 21:
Your sixth sense is telling you that something or someone special is about to enter your life. No wonder you're on edge! Try doing yoga, meditating and going for long walks to ratchet down your stress level.

Well, which one is it? Something? Or someone? I really need to know if I need to shave my legs or not. Because honestly, I think the horoscope fairies tosses out these romantically hopeful horoscopes about every 3-4 weeks so that us romantically impaired people won’t feel so inept and hopeless.

I’ve worked three support groups in the last 4 days and constantly tell people not to isolate themselves and to open themselves up to other people and here I sit, alone on Saturday night, digesting a Stouffer’s TV dinner and feeling nauseous after falling asleep while watching the “Ed Wood” video. How I could I ever freakin’ fall asleep during a Johnny Depp movie? Especially one where he covets white angora and wears high heels. What’s wrong with me? I guess that’s what he did when he was stressed. Strap on an angora shrug, after nuzzling it for a few sensuous moments, and then go out and make the worst movies in Hollywood history. Go Ed!

I’ve been having all these weird death vibes the last couple of days. On Tuesday when I was driving home, I was driving along the cemetery and despite the fact that I’ve spent many an hour in cemeteries taking photos, walking and doing tombstone rubbings, I have never, ever seen a grave being dug. I was so morbidly fascinated that I totally missed my street and almost ended up in the next village. It just looked so base. The thought of being buried for eternity is difficult for me to think about. Not that I have a choice, but I remember once working with this woman in California who had lost her son in a car accident. One day I looked over at her and she was crying. I asked her what was wrong and she nodded towards the window and said, “Its raining on my son.” And I guess she was right. She was worried that his casket would rot and then he would rot. I didn’t want to say anything, like yeah, he’s probably already well on his way, but she was sobbing so hard, that she finally left for an extended break.

And then again on Tuesday, as I was driving to work, I saw a funeral in progress at another cemetery, under a tent. And again, in all my travels, I have never seen a funeral other than when I was a movie extra in “Strangers on a Train” -- a Hitchcock remake and got to stand around a fake coffin pretending to feel sad for Mark Harmon. But I was like eek, this is getting weird. Is it because I’ve watched like 12 episodes of “Six Feet Under” in a row, in the last 3 weeks, that I’m now suddenly becoming obsessed with funeralia. Because then in another mile, suddenly a long, black hearse pulled out in front of me from the other side of the road and I was like WTF? Am I like turning into Patricia Arquette in “Medium”? Am I soon going to be seeing Elvis and Roy Orbison buying beer and beef jerky at a 7-11? Or singing "Over the Rainbow" with Judy Garland in my living room?

Note to self: Think happy thoughts. Think happy thoughts. Think happy thoughts.

I really think I need a little pampering right now. I still have that $100 gift certificate to the swanky spa, but I just haven’t done anything about it. Because, THAT, of course, would require that I shave my legs, most likely, because I wouldn’t want to go into the McSwanky place looking like Sasquatch. Plus I’m always a little self conscious about going into palaces of yuppiehood because I’m always afraid that there will be some sort of Poor Person alarm system that will be activated when I walk under it with only $6 and a food stamp card in my wallet. And than all the old rich dowagers and young yuppie soccer moms, who are getting their inner thighs waxed by filipino virgins (if there is such a thing) will immediately have to avert their eyes or possibly go into a detox room to get decontaminated of any possible Walmart molecules I might have carried in on my clothing or hair. It would be disastrous. A Code Orange event for sure. Yuppie discomfort in the presence of someone who doesn’t own an SUV or do pilates. Whoop, Whoop, Whoop, Whoop.

I’m not really sure where this person or thing, in my horoscope is supposed to come from. There was that guy at the beauty shop Friday. I took my client to Super Cuts. We have our routine. Every other visit, I have to take her to Super Cuts to cut her hair, which is only about 1/5” of an inch long. But hey, I get to sit look at all those girl magazines like “Glamour” and “Skinny Girls Are Kool” for about 7 minutes. And as usual, I’m always on the lookout for articles that will improve my impoverished love life. So I settled down with this article written by a guy in Washington, DC about 10 Things You Should Know about Sex Etiquette. And since it had the word SEX in it, and not DIET, I decided to read it. And oh, how fascinating it was. Are men from Mars? Actually I think this guy (Jake) was from urAnus, because the whole article was so outrageously piggish....treating women like whores basically, that I was actually just sitting there chuckling to myself.

But as I was reading I could feel the presence of someone sitting one seat over. And you know how you can tell when someone is leaning in to read something you’re reading? Well, it soon became obvious because the man, craning to share in my Sex Etiquette tips soon knocked over a large stack of magazines between us, and they all went cascading all over my lap, down into my purse and then onto the floor.


For once, I wasn’t the dork-o-ramus, in some publically humiliating scene. He started apologizing profusely and picking up some of the magazines and I said it was okay, coolly knocking some stray magazines off my lap, because by then my client was walking towards me smiling her “Lookie I got me my every two week haircut” smile, so I let him clean them up. I don’t think he had any interest in me. I think he just wanted to see what his “Rights” were once he entered the bedroom.

If those are "da rules" in that article, no wonder I'm so queasy about dating.

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Lyrics by Lennon/McCartney. All angst copyright by awittykitty