Pisces (February 21-March 20)
My acquaintance Bob takes a variety of meds for his bipolar disorder. They work pretty well to keep him out of the troughs, but he misses the peaks. Last time he saw his psychiatrist he told her he wished he could stop taking the complicated brew of drugs and just take a happy pill every day. The psychiatrist told him that if he ever found such a thing, she’d love to take it herself. Wouldn’t we all? I’m pleased to report that you are now very close to locating the next best thing to a happy pill, Pisces. It may require you to at least partially give up your addiction to one of your customary forms of suffering, though. Are you prepared to do that?

Ouch. It’s like Rob knows me, lives in my head, and knows I am completely addicted to catastrophic thinking. Can you imagine a twelve step program for this:
“Hi, my name is June and I am powerless to my addiction for thinking the other shoe is going to drop and life as I know it will end forever.”
When I think about my dark imaginings in the form of an addiction it puts another spin on my half empty glass. What’s my secondary gain?
When an addict partakes of the favorite substance or behavior there is always something in it for them. I know people addicted to victimhood and so when something “terrible” happens to them they get to be in the spotlight and people rush to their aid therefore they get all sorts of reinforcement like a junkie gets to feel good after shooting up heroine.
So what’s my high? Why does it feel good to imagine the very worst case scenario? Because when the world doesn’t crash all over my head and my dreams; even mediocre results are better than the worst imagined?
Wow. Sad.
If I had a friend come to me and tell me this is why she leaps to the worst conclusion in any given scenario I would sit her down and tell her to chill the eff out. And yesterday isn’t soon enough. I would also preach to her about the benevolence of the Universe and then tell her the story of the monks chanting and how the vibration of a place was changed. I would remind her of all the near misses in her life, including the asteroid that didn’t crash into Earth but merely buzzed us on its way into deep space yesterday.

I haven’t deconstructed my weekly horoscope in months and this one was too rich with possibility.  Have you ever read your horoscope and it was so accurate so right so <i>real</i> you become a big ole pile of goose pimples and expectation?  This happened to me yesterday afternoon when I clicked onto my weekly ‘scope at <i>Free Will Horoscopes</i>:
<i>There is a slight chance the following scenario will soon come to pass: A psychic will reveal that you have a mutant liver that can actually thrive on alcohol, and you will then get drunk on absinthe every day for two weeks, . . . </i>

I have a question about this: does it have to be absinthe because that stuff is nasty.  And isn’t it amazing??? (here come those goose bumps again) I’m going to the beach for a couple of weeks, which is otherwise known as Umbrella Drinkville.  So does this mutant liver thing count if it’s rum or beer or tequila? 

<i>. . .and by the end of this grace period, you will have been freed of 55 percent of the lingering guilt you’ve carried around for years, plus you will care 40 percent less about what people think of you. . .</i> 

Dude, if I stayed drunk for two weeks, I’m not gonna feel any guilt because the only thing I’ll be feeling is a roaring and epic hangover.  I might also feel the Mallory-Weiss tear in the back of my throat from all the Technicolor puking. 

<i>. . .Extra bonus: You’ll feel like a wise rookie who’s ready to learn all about intimacy as if you were just diving into it for the first time. . .</i>

Oh goodie, I’m gonna be Happy Drunk who wants to be your new BFF rather than Angry Woman On A Bender.  Although…I’m a little skeptical because the angry people I know NEVER experience guilt.  And if I’m not experiencing guilt then I might be angry…is anyone else reminded of <i>Gift of the Magi</i> or is it just me?

<i>. . .But get this, Pisces: There’s an even greater chance that these same developments will unfold very naturally — without the psychic, without the prediction about a mutant liver, and without the nonstop drunkenness.</i> 

That is seriously good news because nowhere did Rob mention anything about  how the heck I’m supposed to pay the two week long bar tab.  The idea of a mutant liver is pretty scary, too.  Does it look like Liza Minnelli’s? She about a hundred years old and still working on her original liver…  I’m not especially fond of being drunk either.  Tipsy is ok but out and out drunk is a drag because I’m a Stupid And Often Loud Drunk. 

The psychic would be cool, she could pick my winning lottery numbers and <i>that</i> would be reason to get drunk.

Don’t tell anyone but I think whining and yelling at the Universe really works. This is the first case in point. But like anything, because we our state of being is dualistic, there is good news and there is bad news. My cup is half full but precariously close to the table’s edge so I’ll start with the bad news first:
The bad news: My beautiful bike was taken from our garage. I had just loosened my pedals and had successfully clicked/clipped (whatever) without falling, panicking or scaring other riders.

The good news: The Girl surprised me by purchasing the exact bike while I was in San Antonio. After being explicitly told to not do that very thing. Last Wednesday, I picked up and discovered I hated the different pedals I had to get (the original pedals are sold out). Too much pedal for this clumsy as hell chicka.

The good news: the police called Wednesday. I didn’t hear the phone because was I upstairs and laying down trying to fend off an anxiety attack about the pedals. The police called me and Detective C’s voice was jubilant as he exclaimed my bike was found I could pick it up next Monday! The odds of my bike turning up and a pawn shop owner calling the serial number in are pretty slim.

The bad news: It was a voice mail message and then a game of telephone tag began. I didn’t get to actually talk to him until late Thursday. Thursday was the day our insurance check arrived from the extremely efficient insurance company. Technically, at that moment the insurance company owned the bike with the better pedals.

The good news: The bike shop is letting me return the new bike with the EVUL pedals. The insurance company stopped payment on the check. Monday I have an appointment with the nice detective at the Bike Reclamation Office (seriously, a single office just for this).

The bad news: It’s a bit of a cluster f**k and the logistics have been touchy because the last thing I want to commit is insurance fraud. To protect against mishap: the new bike with the bad pedals is in our locked storage and I’m not riding it because I don’t want mar the finish or even breathe on it. If there’s a tornado or some other natural disaster, I hope everyone in the house can fend for themselves because I’ll be busy saving the bike that doesn’t really belong to me.

So scream at God today, whine and moan about your problems. He’s listening. Maybe with his fingers firmly mashed in his ears while he sings “la-la-la-la-la-“ to himself but he’s listening. I have the proof.

It’s my blog’s birthday and like the self-serving attention whore I can be I’m recycling my first blog entry.

Friday, The Beav could barely disguise his unmitigated joy when I announced to him the sad news I had to put down the Honda. God does answer prayers because I know that kid prayed to Jesus the mechanic would tell me the Honda was terminal so he wouldn’t have to drive it. (I wonder how Jesus is doing with that PS 3 cuz I know how June is doing with it) When I got the news my first reaction was a panicky feeling in the pit of my stomach: Wally was coming home for a few months so how in the Hell were we going to coordinate two work schedules without killing each other. But I’m getting pretty good and taking deep breathes and pushing away the panic and invite hope in an effort to overwhelm the fear. This worked for about a nano second before my monkey brain took over and within about thirty minutes of spinning on the situation I had a picture of myself walking eight miles home in a foot of snow because Wally wasn’t answering his phone to avoid picking me up. I worried about the car all weekend, and vacillated between buying a hoopty, a new car for myself or just making do with sharing a car. All of the possible solutions irritated me because euthanizing the Honda wasn’t my idea and I hate unhappy surprises and I really hate not being in complete control of a situation. I was already concerned about the shape Wally was going to be in when he came home this week and dealing with stupid car issues was just One. More. Thing.

Once upon seven years ago, I would have looked at this situation as proof God really hated me and wanted me to suffer because that‘s how He rolls. Nowadays after I’ve become bored with worrying about situations I can usually hand it over to the Universe to do with it what it may. But I’m terribly impatient and if my Requests Of The Management aren’t answered with the answer I want to hear in a few hours I start to lose hope. And worry all over again. It’s like I’m sitting at a table with God and I slide a festively wrapped package towards him. I’ve wrapped up my worries with lavish wrapping paper and a large festive bow because I have spent so much time worrying about what’s inside, the box should look extra special. I slide the box slowly towards him, proud I’m giving a gift as big as the one in the box. But just as God starts to pull at the ribbon I hold my hand out and stop him from unwrapping it and snatch it away from him. I do this every time I ask the Universe to help me with something. I pull my lovely package or worry over the car back to my side of the table where I can unwrap it and rearrange it. I haven’t learned to leave the burden on the table. Like I’m as big as God and really what does he know I can manage this so much better? Ego much? Last week I was re-reading Plan B by Anne LaMott and one of the essays is about her son Sam‘s desire to meet his father. After they find him, she prays he will reach out to Sam and when it takes a long time she becomes angry with God. One thing leads to another and LaMott realized the lag time between asking and receiving was necessary. She says something so simple and so remarkable about this waiting, God needed time to work on it. Yesterday evening as I was leaving the parking garage at work I passed by my dream car which led me to think about the car issue and I was about to pull the package away from God again when I stopped myself with the words: “He is working on it.” And then all alone in the car, I prayed out loud (something I thought only crazy people did) “I don’t know what to do about this stupid car situation and I’m not expecting a car to fall out of the sky and hit me in the head but if I’m supposed to have a second car, point it out to me in a very concrete fashion, like with a sign on it: “Here’s the car June” but nothing opaque or woo-woo, so I don’t miss it. And could you make it before I’m walking home from the hospital after a long shift or Wally can’t take a job because it’s not on a bus line? Thank you”

This afternoon I was talking to Wally while he was waiting for his airplane very far from home and we were discussing the poor old Honda and I realized I hadn’t worried about it all day. As we talked about it, I realized I wasn’t starting to worry about it and I was aware of how good it felt to really let go of something. For the first time in a very long time I had really walked away from a burden without turning around and picking it back up again.

Tonight I received an email message: “I need to talk to you. Please call.” I responded to the message and I was offered a car that I can pick up in January it is neither a Hoopty or a Beater but a perfectly respectable and well cared for car. But because I am my own worst enemy, I almost didn’t accept the gift. I even wrestled with why the gift was given to me. Was it offered out of pity because I was whining about having a car payment? . . . What if I had guilted someone into giving me something. . . Could my pride allow me to accept the gift?

The Girl’s simple words were: “Just take it.” But I had to wrestle around with the idea of this gift a little longer until I realized not accepting a gift freely given is like denying someone’s compliment. You know how it is, someone tells you your shoes are cute and you say: “Oh these old things, I’m kind of sick of them.” It makes the other person feel sort of bad.

I realized I’m not good at receiving gifts. Part of leading a life of gratitude is accepting the gifts we are given and not turning them away. I’m all about offering thanks for the stuff that looks like a goodie and a treat but these last few weeks, I have been given disguised as bad things. My gut feeling tells me Wally’s return home is for a reason so big I can’t imagine it. Weird Hormone Boy I mean Beav’s attitude made me realize I was once the same kid and it‘s ok to be self centered at fifteen because he will grow out of it with a little guidance and some boundaries. This whole car situation helped me realize for the millionth time I have only first world problems. My poor sweet ailing dog has made me realize how close we are as a family despite the divorce. Finally, as a result of the insanity at work I have been given a clear picture of what I’m supposed to do with my career. Maybe I’ll get to a point of saying “thank you” rather than “help!” when I hit a bump in my road.

I also have seamless evidence God has a sense of humor because the car I will be driving this spring:

Mini van.

Verrryy funny God. But thanks.