Leezer

Today as I sat in my office reading George Will in order to delay accomplishing anything of value, I ate a Combo Number 1 from Thai Castle which theoretically is supposed to contain phad thai but usually is screwed up in some manner so I get extra curry or too much sticky rice.  The lime wedge included in my meal was far too tiny to be taken seriously, even as a Corona-accompaniment.  In any event, I gripped the little nugget between my thumb and forefinger and pressed as hard as I could, aiming for the congealed glob of carbohydtrates.  Pulp and juice squirted over the front of my blouse and down my forearms, then the little bastard shot out of my hand and behind the prefabricated office shelving upon which I’ve appropriately arranged my Dwight Schrute bobblehead and photos of my children. 

“Ah screw it,” I thought, not rising to locate the renegate citrus wedge.  “I’ll smell it when it starts to rot, then it’ll be easier to find.”   I went back to my meal and unfastened the top button of my J.Crew Heritage Chinos.  If only I could belch unnoticed.

And speaking of eating too much, today is the first full day of the calendar year in which the sun is in the sign of Taurus the bull.  Taurus is the sign of good food, good drink, and material possessions.  Never give a Taurus a card that says, “I owe you ten kisses,” or “Good for a free afternoon away from the kids.”  A Taurus doesn’t want this crap. He wants a bottle of Dom Perignon or a Rolex or a cabin next to a river.  A Taurus is all about the bling, baby.

Not so with Scorpios, who generally eschew luxury to make some kind of statement.   I am a Scorpio, the sign of death, rebirth, regeneration, and reinvention.  The symbol for the sign is the Phoenix, the mythical bird that is consumed by flames then is reborn from his own ashes.   The closest I ever came to this experience was when I was eleven and my family went to see our neighbors, the Battles, on Christmas Eve.   In the downstairs guest bath was a lit Avon candle (Mrs. Battles was an Avon lady) inside of a ceramic representation of Holly Hobby.  (Holly Hobby looked a little rough - more like Janis Joplin).  I leaned over to sniff the patchouli scented wax and one of my braids caught fire.   I interrupted my Mom as she set the Triscuits and the cheese ball on the dining room table and asked her I smelled like Joan of Arc. 

My daughter is a Scorpio, also.  This doesn’t surprise me in the least because I believe in poetic justice, therefore I forsaw having a daughter exactly like me.   Granted, you’d have to be a believer in astrology to accept as truth the proposition that those born under the same sign possess similar personality traits, however, she does happen to be like me whether or not the stars have anything to do with it.   My mother thinks it’s amusing when I cojole my daughter at the dinner table as she drags her hair through her soup.  

But then there are  the Capricorns (goats).  I don’t know which I’d prefer - being born under the sign of the goat or (in the Chinese Zodiac) the cock:  “Hi! I’m a cock!  What’s your sign?”  My mother is a Capricorn.  If she’s representative of her sign, then Capricorns have no tolerance for throwing away broccoli stems and they can read the Exorcist cover-to-cover without losing a wink of sleep.  This is, obviously, entirely unfair to my mother, whose lovely attributes defy description in a silly blog such as this.

This said, I don’t believe in astrology.  I do, however, believe that one’s blood type should dictate the types of foods one should have in his or her diet.   O-Positive.  Steak, steak, and more steak.