...with, of course, the Sun sextile natal Mars: end of the year, end of the decade and even though I've been telling myself for a month that I'd wait till January 3, 2010, when I'll be in a new billing statement on my credit card, I was online two hours before the eclipse adding more air miles to my total and buying Io Edition, an astrology program I've been lusting after for years, ever since Apple switched to OS X and my pirated version of Io for System 9 no longer worked.
It does one thing I used to love that no other program for the Mac does, which is print out a dated list of transits for whatever period you give it; I always used to do it January 1 to December 31 of the coming year, which is exactly what I did as soon as Edition was downloaded and installed. This way I can look at one piece of paper and see just when Saturn is going to square natal Saturn and conjunct natal Neptune, and also when the dreaded Pluto opposed to Saturn square Neptune will occur. Knowledge is power, ha ha, and all that.
So at 11:37 on New Year's Eve I'm not going to write about how appropriate it was that when Mars retrograde opposed natal Moon earlier in the week I was painting the two by fours the Keystone Cops used to frame the archway for the French doors they installed at the first opposition, or that with Mercury square the Sun early tomorrow I spent all day today that I wasn't playing with Io sending electronic New Year Cards to all the people I didn't send Christmas cards to - everyone I know, that is.
There was a partial lunar eclipse close to the degree of today's on December 30, 2001. That was a couple of days after I'd been told by my supervisor to take time off work because of poor performance after 9/11. Since then I've fought with two insurance companies for a settlement, bought a house in New Mexico with a friend, bought him out four years later, had several plays published and one produced, started playing tennis and line dancing and am on my third cat. In a nutshell, that is.
Okay. It must be midnight. The fireworks are going off outside. Happy New Decade.
31 December, 2009
27 December, 2009
Sun Opposed to Saturn Square Neptune
This is standard Christmas day for me (natal Saturn at 4 Cancer and Neptune at 4 Libra) but you can get used to anything ha ha, and it's been a long time since this influence made itself felt to me on December 25th.
Why was this Christmas different from all other Christmases? Because the Venerable Mr. Patches bit me again - this time on Christmas Eve, on the back of my left hand, just as my right hand was becoming useable again, and again on my upper arm, sinking his teeth in deep for that one and leaving me with a three inch by two inch bruise. The back of my hand swelled so much all my veins disappeared, but I was four days into a course of penicillin and today, 12/27, the swelling's gone down and I can open a can and take the top off a bottle of milk and all kinds of other miraculous things.
What was bothering me on Christmas Day was thinking that I was turning Mr. Patches into a biter - not that I was literally, but that Sweet Pea was by wanting to play with him. As Sweet Pea's idea of playing is to launch himself a foot or so into the air and land with all four paws on whatever he's playing with, it's very easy for the played-with-one to misinterpret the gesture and think it's all out war. As Sweet Pea is always the aggressor, every little skirmish not surprisingly leaves Mr. Patches that much more agitated and upset, and it was right after one of their scuffles that I got bit. Troubling, to put it mildly.
Spending Christmas Day with a woman who runs a dog rescue didn't help, as the issue to her was cut and dried. Dog bites foster parent, dog gets euthanized, therefore if cat bites.... you can see where that one went very quickly. Very troubling, to think that having Sweet Pea as a roommate was turning a gentle old cat into a vicious biter who would have to go back to the shelter where he was rescued from death row, when all I wanted to do was give Sweet Pea someone to play with. Happy Christmas indeed.
Why was this Christmas different from all other Christmases? Because the Venerable Mr. Patches bit me again - this time on Christmas Eve, on the back of my left hand, just as my right hand was becoming useable again, and again on my upper arm, sinking his teeth in deep for that one and leaving me with a three inch by two inch bruise. The back of my hand swelled so much all my veins disappeared, but I was four days into a course of penicillin and today, 12/27, the swelling's gone down and I can open a can and take the top off a bottle of milk and all kinds of other miraculous things.
What was bothering me on Christmas Day was thinking that I was turning Mr. Patches into a biter - not that I was literally, but that Sweet Pea was by wanting to play with him. As Sweet Pea's idea of playing is to launch himself a foot or so into the air and land with all four paws on whatever he's playing with, it's very easy for the played-with-one to misinterpret the gesture and think it's all out war. As Sweet Pea is always the aggressor, every little skirmish not surprisingly leaves Mr. Patches that much more agitated and upset, and it was right after one of their scuffles that I got bit. Troubling, to put it mildly.
Spending Christmas Day with a woman who runs a dog rescue didn't help, as the issue to her was cut and dried. Dog bites foster parent, dog gets euthanized, therefore if cat bites.... you can see where that one went very quickly. Very troubling, to think that having Sweet Pea as a roommate was turning a gentle old cat into a vicious biter who would have to go back to the shelter where he was rescued from death row, when all I wanted to do was give Sweet Pea someone to play with. Happy Christmas indeed.
22 December, 2009
Cat Bites Woman, Woman Blackens Eye
Quite what the astrology behind this doozie is I don't know, unless it's Mars (male cat) stationed retrograde against natal Moon (Me? But that would be the Sun. ) All I know is it happened on Friday night when I was chasing Big Old Mr. Patches around the apartment trying to give him the last of his week's worth of medication, most of which had ended up on the floor or on me rather than inside him anyway.
He has to sense that I'm unsure of myself, which is putting it mildly, when I'm trying to stick the syringe into the corner of his mouth--he's twice the size of Sweet Pea--and as I was bent double scurrying around the apartment after him holding him half by his collar and half by the scruff of his neck he turned his head and bit me, hard, on the right index finger, causing me to yelp, let go of him immediately and stumble into a doorknob on the newly installed French doors.
My finger hurt so much I wasn't even aware of the black eye till the next morning, when I looked in the mirror while attempting to clean my teeth with my left hand. (Well, with a toothbrush held in my left hand.) The bitten finger was red and swollen, as was my palm between the finger and thumb, and wouldn't straighten like the other nine, but I gallantly (stupidly?) took myself off to rehearsal for the big holiday pageant at the senior center, came straight home and went back to bed, trying to find a comfortable position for my right hand.
If I had what's called a primary care doctor I'd have called first thing on Saturday morning, but me and other forty million uninsured people in this country tend to wait a couple of days on the off-chance whatever it is will go away. By Sunday it was clear even to me that I was now the one needing medication and did what I always do in extremis--called the mother of the child I came here to babysit for 46 years ago, who's an M.D.
When I got her answering machine I resorted to the web and discovered Duane-Reade have walk-in clinics now with doctors on staff. I called back to tell Dr. G not to bother to call me back just as she was looking up my phone number, told her I'd report when back home and took myself off to Duane-Reade on 86th Street, clutching my $10 off coupon that I found online and feeling only slightly pitiful.
The sign there said the clinic was no longer open on Sundays and the nearest doctor-equipped D-R was at 50th and Broadway, and glossing over the details, which were remarkably pleasant, all things considered, by 3:30 pm I was home with my prescription for heavy-duty penicillin which Dr. G confirmed was exactly what she would have prescribed.
On Monday morning, two pills down but still feeling terrible, I took myself off again for rehearsal for the pageant, hoping someone would tell me to go home once I told my tale of woe, but when I finished, the 80-plus-years-old choreographer promptly told me her nephew had died over the weekend. Competition was not mentioned, but no way did my black eye and a swollen finger trump that. The show must go on, and did, at one o'clock, to great applause and appreciation from the audience, and once again I returned home and went to bed.
Today, Tuesday, the penicillin is definitely taking hold. I'm able to type with capital letters, my index finger is the same color as all the others and I can almost straighten it, sausage-like though it still is. Mr. Patches continues to be the big old sweet thing he is when he's not having a syringe poked into his mouth and curls up in bed with me every night, while Sweet Pea does his usual Indian Fakir impression and sleeps on the cold linoleum kitchen floor with his head resting comfortably on the wooden pedestal base of the table.
Is it possible that Mars has been stationed retrograde for a week square Mr. Patches' natal Saturn, with me annoying the hell out of him by attempting to give him medication? Now there's a mystery that will never be revealed, and what's $150 and a black eye every now and again anyway? Time for another pill.
He has to sense that I'm unsure of myself, which is putting it mildly, when I'm trying to stick the syringe into the corner of his mouth--he's twice the size of Sweet Pea--and as I was bent double scurrying around the apartment after him holding him half by his collar and half by the scruff of his neck he turned his head and bit me, hard, on the right index finger, causing me to yelp, let go of him immediately and stumble into a doorknob on the newly installed French doors.
My finger hurt so much I wasn't even aware of the black eye till the next morning, when I looked in the mirror while attempting to clean my teeth with my left hand. (Well, with a toothbrush held in my left hand.) The bitten finger was red and swollen, as was my palm between the finger and thumb, and wouldn't straighten like the other nine, but I gallantly (stupidly?) took myself off to rehearsal for the big holiday pageant at the senior center, came straight home and went back to bed, trying to find a comfortable position for my right hand.
If I had what's called a primary care doctor I'd have called first thing on Saturday morning, but me and other forty million uninsured people in this country tend to wait a couple of days on the off-chance whatever it is will go away. By Sunday it was clear even to me that I was now the one needing medication and did what I always do in extremis--called the mother of the child I came here to babysit for 46 years ago, who's an M.D.
When I got her answering machine I resorted to the web and discovered Duane-Reade have walk-in clinics now with doctors on staff. I called back to tell Dr. G not to bother to call me back just as she was looking up my phone number, told her I'd report when back home and took myself off to Duane-Reade on 86th Street, clutching my $10 off coupon that I found online and feeling only slightly pitiful.
The sign there said the clinic was no longer open on Sundays and the nearest doctor-equipped D-R was at 50th and Broadway, and glossing over the details, which were remarkably pleasant, all things considered, by 3:30 pm I was home with my prescription for heavy-duty penicillin which Dr. G confirmed was exactly what she would have prescribed.
On Monday morning, two pills down but still feeling terrible, I took myself off again for rehearsal for the pageant, hoping someone would tell me to go home once I told my tale of woe, but when I finished, the 80-plus-years-old choreographer promptly told me her nephew had died over the weekend. Competition was not mentioned, but no way did my black eye and a swollen finger trump that. The show must go on, and did, at one o'clock, to great applause and appreciation from the audience, and once again I returned home and went to bed.
Today, Tuesday, the penicillin is definitely taking hold. I'm able to type with capital letters, my index finger is the same color as all the others and I can almost straighten it, sausage-like though it still is. Mr. Patches continues to be the big old sweet thing he is when he's not having a syringe poked into his mouth and curls up in bed with me every night, while Sweet Pea does his usual Indian Fakir impression and sleeps on the cold linoleum kitchen floor with his head resting comfortably on the wooden pedestal base of the table.
Is it possible that Mars has been stationed retrograde for a week square Mr. Patches' natal Saturn, with me annoying the hell out of him by attempting to give him medication? Now there's a mystery that will never be revealed, and what's $150 and a black eye every now and again anyway? Time for another pill.
Venus trine Mercury
Once again proving that Venus in my chart has more to do with art and moolah than love, I got an email from an amateur theatre group in London asking for information about Soldiering On, the better of my two 9/11 plays. No guarantee that the play will actually be performed, but a request for a copy with a promise to pay all performance rights should the artistic director decide to go ahead. This would mean a grand total of $175 for me (in late 2011, but who's complaining?) if SO were performed for seven nights, which seems to be normal run time for the theatre. Loverly jubbly all around.
There was a response to the ad I have posted on Craigslist Albuquerque for the sale of a Silver City neighbor's 1957 Chevvy Apache truck. As it comes from someone whose email address is sparkyclassicmotors, it's more likely to be a solicitation for the truck to be listed on his site than an offer to buy, but it's something.
(The only other response to the ad was two weeks ago when Venus opposed Uranus, and when the potential buyer proved to be willing to spend only half of the asking price, that was over before it began, in true Uranian fashion.)
Just to add a little bit of friendship and affection to the Venus/Mercury trine, said neighbor in Silver called to say thank you for the Stilton cheese I sent him a week ago priority mail and have been concerned about ever since. It arrived on Saturday in perfect condition, removing all worries on my part about going to jail for saying no when the post office counter person asked me if there was anything perishable in the package, and he had been happily eating it for the past two days instead of it sitting in the Silver City Post Office emitting powerful malodorous rays of rotting blue cheese.
This aspect doesn't perfect for another eight hours, so should Mick Jagger call to invite me to Mustique for the holidays, you will read about it first here.
There was a response to the ad I have posted on Craigslist Albuquerque for the sale of a Silver City neighbor's 1957 Chevvy Apache truck. As it comes from someone whose email address is sparkyclassicmotors, it's more likely to be a solicitation for the truck to be listed on his site than an offer to buy, but it's something.
(The only other response to the ad was two weeks ago when Venus opposed Uranus, and when the potential buyer proved to be willing to spend only half of the asking price, that was over before it began, in true Uranian fashion.)
Just to add a little bit of friendship and affection to the Venus/Mercury trine, said neighbor in Silver called to say thank you for the Stilton cheese I sent him a week ago priority mail and have been concerned about ever since. It arrived on Saturday in perfect condition, removing all worries on my part about going to jail for saying no when the post office counter person asked me if there was anything perishable in the package, and he had been happily eating it for the past two days instead of it sitting in the Silver City Post Office emitting powerful malodorous rays of rotting blue cheese.
This aspect doesn't perfect for another eight hours, so should Mick Jagger call to invite me to Mustique for the holidays, you will read about it first here.
17 December, 2009
Neptune Square Ascendant
Is this why I decided it would be a really good idea to foster a cat while I'm here in the city, so Sweet Pea would have someone to play with? If there's anything I don't like about being here it's because he seems to be so unhappy and bored. After being used to being let out at daylight to go and roam on his own six acres and wherever else he has the courage to go and coming in, if he feels like it, at dusk when it's time for some wet food, I imagine him feeling so confined and miserable while he's here I can hardly stand it, me being the soft-hearted dope I am.
I play marbles with him and run backwards and forwards dragging toys, but his response is very half-hearted. He sleeps most of the day, which is probably exactly what he does outside in New Mexico, but I don't see it then, and here, all I can think is how lethargic and dull he's getting.
It seemed like the perfect solution then, to foster a cat until it found a permanent home and give Sweet Pea someone to play with. What I didn't realize was that when you agree to foster, you basically get who-ever's up next on death row in a city shelter, which is how I ended up going up to 116th Street on the full Moon to get Mr. Patches. (His shelter name was Kitty, but as he weights nineteen and a half pounds that didn't seem appropriate and because of his coloring I immediately re-christened him Mr. Patches - The Venerable Mr. Patches, to be exact, on account of his advanced age (ten) and his general air of stateliness.)
He was supposed to be in perfect health which didn't make any sense at all as they gave me a vial of antibiotics for him when I picked him up. He had what looked like a cold sore on his nose and also had a terrible wheezing cough, and the short version is he went into animal hospital on December 8th and I got him out again, cold sore and cough-free, on Saturday the 12th.
Since then, he and Sweet Pea have been - and still are - working out some kind of uneasy truce. When Mr. Patches was sick he hid out in any cubbyhole he could find for himself, and there was not much Sweet Pea could do. Now Mr. Patches is feeling so much better he sleeps all day - as does Sweet Pea, alas - but then in the evening and at night begins to prowl around the apartment, followed now by Sweet Pea who would very much like to play. Unfortunately, and I know this because I saw it last year when I rented the addition in Silver to someone with a cat, SP's idea of playing is to launch himself 18 inches straight into the air and land, four legs extended, on whoever he thinks he's playing with. Mr. Patches is yet to be convinced that this is anything but war.
The vet tells me that the two of them will work it out eventually, so at night I doze fretfully listening to yelps and yips and meows and murmurs, sweep up all the tufts of hair in the morning and hope for peace in our time, or at least before Neptune stops squaring my Ascendant next year.
I play marbles with him and run backwards and forwards dragging toys, but his response is very half-hearted. He sleeps most of the day, which is probably exactly what he does outside in New Mexico, but I don't see it then, and here, all I can think is how lethargic and dull he's getting.
It seemed like the perfect solution then, to foster a cat until it found a permanent home and give Sweet Pea someone to play with. What I didn't realize was that when you agree to foster, you basically get who-ever's up next on death row in a city shelter, which is how I ended up going up to 116th Street on the full Moon to get Mr. Patches. (His shelter name was Kitty, but as he weights nineteen and a half pounds that didn't seem appropriate and because of his coloring I immediately re-christened him Mr. Patches - The Venerable Mr. Patches, to be exact, on account of his advanced age (ten) and his general air of stateliness.)
He was supposed to be in perfect health which didn't make any sense at all as they gave me a vial of antibiotics for him when I picked him up. He had what looked like a cold sore on his nose and also had a terrible wheezing cough, and the short version is he went into animal hospital on December 8th and I got him out again, cold sore and cough-free, on Saturday the 12th.
Since then, he and Sweet Pea have been - and still are - working out some kind of uneasy truce. When Mr. Patches was sick he hid out in any cubbyhole he could find for himself, and there was not much Sweet Pea could do. Now Mr. Patches is feeling so much better he sleeps all day - as does Sweet Pea, alas - but then in the evening and at night begins to prowl around the apartment, followed now by Sweet Pea who would very much like to play. Unfortunately, and I know this because I saw it last year when I rented the addition in Silver to someone with a cat, SP's idea of playing is to launch himself 18 inches straight into the air and land, four legs extended, on whoever he thinks he's playing with. Mr. Patches is yet to be convinced that this is anything but war.
The vet tells me that the two of them will work it out eventually, so at night I doze fretfully listening to yelps and yips and meows and murmurs, sweep up all the tufts of hair in the morning and hope for peace in our time, or at least before Neptune stops squaring my Ascendant next year.
Mars Opposed to Moon II
Well, the Fawlty Towers O'Reilly builders, as my sister called them, did come back the next day and they did bring a new mirror. They also brought a piece of molding for the French doors, which they nailed (!) on with most of it on the door itself and very little of it sticking out beyond the door to mask the one inch gap, so there's still light coming through a three-quarters of an inch space between the doors: they hung the mirror without breaking it again, didn't put on the support screws they told me they would, and without being asked, reinforced the platform the mattress sits on so that the cabinet I have sideways underneath it no longer opens, but I was so eager to get them out the door I didn't even notice this until I'd paid a bill twice more than I thought it would be and said lovely, thanks, couldn't be happier, please go away and never come back.
Since then I've begun to turn out every closet and cupboard and closet in this apartment, dragged into the apartment two of the bookcases Mr. Gem brought down to my floor, dragged down to the trash for throw-out night two of the bookcases I couldn't use and begun to throw out everything in this apartment I haven't used for a year - most of it.
But the day Mars opposed natal Moon exactly (and 24 hours before the Sun squared Jupiter) was the day I finally plucked up energy/courage/was motivated enough whatever you want to call it and was able to take myself off to the senior center five blocks from my apartment for line dancing, something I've been saying I "want" to do since I got back almost three months ago.
And of course I walked right into the middle of a rehearsal for the Holiday Show, was promptly corralled as a member of the chorus, and Frank, head of the drama group I went to last winter when I was here, pounced on me to tell me it had to be Kismet because another of his drama groups downtown was doing a reading of one of my short plays, That Is What I Did, that afternoon. (This was scheduled to happen while I was here last year, but with apologies to Dave Barry who always likes to say that he is not making things up, one of the actors at that time in the three-character play got pneumonia, one of them died and the other one went to the funeral.)
So, with Mars opposed to natal Moon, I took myself off after rehearsal (involving many assorted women in a low-income housing project - natal Moon in Aquarius) to another senior center downtown and watched a truly credible performance of my seven-page play, which got a great reception and much laughter, just as I would have hoped.
So now, with Mars going retrograde on the 20th of December, I intend to take special notice of the days when Mars opposes the Moon again - December 30th for this year - and see if there is any correlation between what happens on that date and what happened on the tenth.
Since then I've begun to turn out every closet and cupboard and closet in this apartment, dragged into the apartment two of the bookcases Mr. Gem brought down to my floor, dragged down to the trash for throw-out night two of the bookcases I couldn't use and begun to throw out everything in this apartment I haven't used for a year - most of it.
But the day Mars opposed natal Moon exactly (and 24 hours before the Sun squared Jupiter) was the day I finally plucked up energy/courage/was motivated enough whatever you want to call it and was able to take myself off to the senior center five blocks from my apartment for line dancing, something I've been saying I "want" to do since I got back almost three months ago.
And of course I walked right into the middle of a rehearsal for the Holiday Show, was promptly corralled as a member of the chorus, and Frank, head of the drama group I went to last winter when I was here, pounced on me to tell me it had to be Kismet because another of his drama groups downtown was doing a reading of one of my short plays, That Is What I Did, that afternoon. (This was scheduled to happen while I was here last year, but with apologies to Dave Barry who always likes to say that he is not making things up, one of the actors at that time in the three-character play got pneumonia, one of them died and the other one went to the funeral.)
So, with Mars opposed to natal Moon, I took myself off after rehearsal (involving many assorted women in a low-income housing project - natal Moon in Aquarius) to another senior center downtown and watched a truly credible performance of my seven-page play, which got a great reception and much laughter, just as I would have hoped.
So now, with Mars going retrograde on the 20th of December, I intend to take special notice of the days when Mars opposes the Moon again - December 30th for this year - and see if there is any correlation between what happens on that date and what happened on the tenth.
15 December, 2009
Mars trine the Sun
Whenever this happens for me when Mars is in Leo it morphs almost immediately into Mars opposed to the Moon, and it's not easy to sort when one ends and the other kicks in. The Mars trining the Sun came at the end of the full moon on Uranus with me picking up Mr. Patches at the shelter and friend X going off to stay with her sister, and as the opposition to the Moon began, I had the Keystone Cops disguised as handymen here putting up French doors for me.
When I moved into this apartment 35 (!) years ago there were a set of French doors dividing the front room from the room next to it, but when I took all the other doors off to make the railroad flat airier, the French doors came off as well. Last year the illegal sublet above me was asked to move by the landlord as he wanted the apartment for his son, and I asked illegal sublet if I could have the French doors from that apartment. He took them off for me, brought them downstairs, and ever since they've been attractively propped up against a wall in the living room. When my friend upstairs moved down to St. Croix permanently last month, a friend of hers referred a supposed gem of a handyman to cart away all the stuff from the apartment that wasn't being shipped, sold or given away. He did indeed cart away the refrigerator, two huge couches that no one else wanted to get down three flights of stairs and assorted other flotsam and jetsam. She had bookcases attached to the wall which I decided I wanted, and somehow Mr. Gem let it be known that he could detach them from the wall for me, put them up down here and also do any other odd jobs I needed doing that I'm not capable of doing myself, and would charge only $25 an hour for his services.
A deal was struck, and as Mars began to oppose the Moon along he came, complete with helper, to put on the doors and hang a big mirror that had needed hanging for about three years, since I managed to get it off the wall myself when I painted the bedroom. I made a cave retreat for Sweet Pea by hanging a blanket over the upturned bed platform, new poor old sick cat stayed where he was, wheezing and sneezing behind a filing cabinet, and I retreated to the computer to catch up on The Silver City Sun-News and the Daily Mail.
Then began a great discussion between the Gems on how exactly to hang the doors, which quickly became and remained heated as they realized not only were the doors mis-matched but there's a slope of about ten degrees to the floor of the building. Quite why Gem hadn't noticed this when he came earlier in the week to suss out the job I'm not sure, but there is a lumber yard quite close by and soon what looked to me like two-by-fours were being nailed all over the inside of the frame of the doorway, accompanied by constant and loud instructions from Gem and non-constructive and louder criticism and carping from his helper. Fine carpentry we are not talking, neither are we talking any kind of model for employer/employee relations.
Even the two-by-fours didn't do the job because once the doors were hung there was still a one inch gap in between them and another one inch gap to the floor in the middle of the doorway, which Gem assured me could be fixed by a piece of molding that he would bring the next day. I was so horrified to hear that they would actually be coming back the next day I agreed that this would be a wonderful solution, and asked if they could please hang the mirror before they left so I could put the bed back in place.
Nothing if not willing, they began to put the mirror back into its frame and I returned to the computer, where I was catching up on Victoria Beckham's latest footwear when there was a loud crack from the front of the apartment, followed by dead silence and then muted hissings and whisperings. I knew what had happened before Gem appeared in the doorway, extremely apologetic and embarrassed. Promising to return the next morning with the molding for the doorway and a new mirror, the two of them left their tools behind and slunk out of the apartment, and as this is already far too long a post and has turned itself into Mars opposed to the Moon, it shall be continued under that heading.
When I moved into this apartment 35 (!) years ago there were a set of French doors dividing the front room from the room next to it, but when I took all the other doors off to make the railroad flat airier, the French doors came off as well. Last year the illegal sublet above me was asked to move by the landlord as he wanted the apartment for his son, and I asked illegal sublet if I could have the French doors from that apartment. He took them off for me, brought them downstairs, and ever since they've been attractively propped up against a wall in the living room. When my friend upstairs moved down to St. Croix permanently last month, a friend of hers referred a supposed gem of a handyman to cart away all the stuff from the apartment that wasn't being shipped, sold or given away. He did indeed cart away the refrigerator, two huge couches that no one else wanted to get down three flights of stairs and assorted other flotsam and jetsam. She had bookcases attached to the wall which I decided I wanted, and somehow Mr. Gem let it be known that he could detach them from the wall for me, put them up down here and also do any other odd jobs I needed doing that I'm not capable of doing myself, and would charge only $25 an hour for his services.
A deal was struck, and as Mars began to oppose the Moon along he came, complete with helper, to put on the doors and hang a big mirror that had needed hanging for about three years, since I managed to get it off the wall myself when I painted the bedroom. I made a cave retreat for Sweet Pea by hanging a blanket over the upturned bed platform, new poor old sick cat stayed where he was, wheezing and sneezing behind a filing cabinet, and I retreated to the computer to catch up on The Silver City Sun-News and the Daily Mail.
Then began a great discussion between the Gems on how exactly to hang the doors, which quickly became and remained heated as they realized not only were the doors mis-matched but there's a slope of about ten degrees to the floor of the building. Quite why Gem hadn't noticed this when he came earlier in the week to suss out the job I'm not sure, but there is a lumber yard quite close by and soon what looked to me like two-by-fours were being nailed all over the inside of the frame of the doorway, accompanied by constant and loud instructions from Gem and non-constructive and louder criticism and carping from his helper. Fine carpentry we are not talking, neither are we talking any kind of model for employer/employee relations.
Even the two-by-fours didn't do the job because once the doors were hung there was still a one inch gap in between them and another one inch gap to the floor in the middle of the doorway, which Gem assured me could be fixed by a piece of molding that he would bring the next day. I was so horrified to hear that they would actually be coming back the next day I agreed that this would be a wonderful solution, and asked if they could please hang the mirror before they left so I could put the bed back in place.
Nothing if not willing, they began to put the mirror back into its frame and I returned to the computer, where I was catching up on Victoria Beckham's latest footwear when there was a loud crack from the front of the apartment, followed by dead silence and then muted hissings and whisperings. I knew what had happened before Gem appeared in the doorway, extremely apologetic and embarrassed. Promising to return the next morning with the molding for the doorway and a new mirror, the two of them left their tools behind and slunk out of the apartment, and as this is already far too long a post and has turned itself into Mars opposed to the Moon, it shall be continued under that heading.
03 December, 2009
Full Moon on Uranus Square Mars
Events setting this up began on Sunday night right after I'd eaten my bowl of transformational spaghetti when a friend called to see if she could spend the night. She'd had her apartment fumigated the day before and was having a severe allergic reaction to the pesticide. She was calling from the street, having just come from the emergency room, and when she arrived at my apartment her body was covered in angry red welts with her face completely swollen. I made her up a bed on the couch and all was well.
On Monday she went back to her apartment, I did a couple of errands and came home to a frantic message on the machine saying her dog was very sick and needed to get to a vet. How it came up I'm not quite sure, but I agreed the charges could go on my credit card as she doesn't have one, and when she went to the emergency animal medical center the dog was admitted to intensive care and $2,000 was charged to my account. Friend X spent the night again (and I'm being fully reimbursed).
Tuesday, with the full moon due to perfect just after midnight, X went off to the clinic to check on her dog and I went to the midday session at the studio. I came back to the apartment - X and I were going to go to the Playwrights/Directors workshop together at five - but there was no one here. I called the clinic to see if she was still there and was told the dog had been euthanized and X had left. She got here just as I was leaving for the studio and was in far better shape than I was when my cat ran away last year. We had plans to go to a play reading that evening and I was sure she would cancel. She didn't come to the studio with me for the workshop but we met afterwards at the play reading, where she put on an amazing front and didn't tell the playwright, a friend of hers, what had happened. As she said to me, it was the playwright's evening and she didn't want to spoil it.
We walked home from the bus under a blazing full moon and this time the message on the machine was about a cat - I had volunteered to foster one thinking it would be a companion for my poor Sweet Pea, languishing away from boredom in an apartment when he's used to being outdoors all day in New Mexico. The rescue agency had found me one and I could pick him up the next day, which I did at 7 p.m., exactly an hour after the Sun squared natal Mars. What baffles me is the animal involvement, but as always I'm sure more will be revealed.
On Monday she went back to her apartment, I did a couple of errands and came home to a frantic message on the machine saying her dog was very sick and needed to get to a vet. How it came up I'm not quite sure, but I agreed the charges could go on my credit card as she doesn't have one, and when she went to the emergency animal medical center the dog was admitted to intensive care and $2,000 was charged to my account. Friend X spent the night again (and I'm being fully reimbursed).
Tuesday, with the full moon due to perfect just after midnight, X went off to the clinic to check on her dog and I went to the midday session at the studio. I came back to the apartment - X and I were going to go to the Playwrights/Directors workshop together at five - but there was no one here. I called the clinic to see if she was still there and was told the dog had been euthanized and X had left. She got here just as I was leaving for the studio and was in far better shape than I was when my cat ran away last year. We had plans to go to a play reading that evening and I was sure she would cancel. She didn't come to the studio with me for the workshop but we met afterwards at the play reading, where she put on an amazing front and didn't tell the playwright, a friend of hers, what had happened. As she said to me, it was the playwright's evening and she didn't want to spoil it.
We walked home from the bus under a blazing full moon and this time the message on the machine was about a cat - I had volunteered to foster one thinking it would be a companion for my poor Sweet Pea, languishing away from boredom in an apartment when he's used to being outdoors all day in New Mexico. The rescue agency had found me one and I could pick him up the next day, which I did at 7 p.m., exactly an hour after the Sun squared natal Mars. What baffles me is the animal involvement, but as always I'm sure more will be revealed.
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