Where Did They All "Vanish" To? A Mystery.

Have you noticed, as I have over the last few years, the abundance of articles with the phrase "vanished" in the title, along with "disappearing", "dying", and "perishing" (simply I suppose because writers are just getting tired of the word "vanishing")? Here's a small sample:

"Honeybees Vanish, Leaving Keepers in Peril"
"Chinook Salmon Vanish Without a Trace"
"Saving the World's Vanishing Shark Species"
"Vanishing Chilean Sea Bass"
"On Emptying Seas, A Vanishing Way of Life"
"Vanishing in the Wild, Mountain Gorillas"
"Louisiana's Vanishing Wetlands"
"Coral Reefs Vanishing Faster Than Rain Forests" (they're winning!)
"Vanishing of Frogs, Toads Tied to Global Warming"

and of course,

"The Vanishing Middle Class" (whose relation to Global Warming is the fact that those who control and blindly support big industry are out-sourcing and down-sizing at such a rate that your kids will be the only thing not vanishing, because they'll be living with you, never having found a job.)

More recently I've read about:

"Northeastern Bats Are Perishing and No One Knows Why"

and an update on the frog situation:

"Link to Global Warming in Frogs' Disappearance is Challenged"

The frog article makes the case that perhaps global warming plays a part but in fact it's a fungus that's killing off the frogs. Yes, Virginia, in many cases of these "vanishings" it is true, a mysterious fungus, or a mysterious cancer or a mysterious virus is what is killing off these species (check out the recently documented decimation of Tasmanian Devils).

But that's like saying it's not global warming that is flooding the low-lying parts of the world, it's water! Or it's not global warming that's shrinking glaciers, but excessive heat! It's part of the game that has even purportedly "intelligent" people dodging the issue entirely. "Having lost the argument about whether in fact life forms are disappearing, let's debate about what's making them disappear and make absolutely sure that we don't get blamed for this!" (they cry). "Whatever it is, it's not us!" (they cry) "...and who gives a hoot really whatever it is, as long as we don't have to change our lifestyles or admit we were wrong!!"

I know a few people who have, on principle (the same principle that guides those who believe it is impossible for man to have walked on the moon as well as the principle of "someone else will pick it up"), refused to see the Gore documentary "An Inconvenient Truth". These people believe it to be full of political propaganda and hysteria, and perhaps also, the truth, which, once commonly accepted, won't help any of those who still want to buy a Hummer. And insisting that they will never view the film, they have missed out on the indescribable fascination of watching as, systematically, almost all the catastrophes that Gore predicted 5 years ago when he first started to give his presentation, have come to pass. (If only he could predict the moves of the stock market as accurately!)

I don't know a better argument against the idiocy of denying that global warming is going to cause us some big hurt (and by us, I mean the world, and even rich people who are in another part of the world but whom we still bump into at Starbucks), than the fact that scientists on the side of the deniers never even heard of Global Warming until Gore and the world's environmentalists started yelling about it, and when their predictions started coming true, well, the naysayers (generally the political right) had to get some guys from the same think tank they hired to keep the tobacco companies in the black ("smoking is GOOD for you!") to start saying that Global Warming is natural, periodic, inevitable and has nothing to do with Greenhouse gases, and man-made pollution.

But if that's the case, and now, even these GW deniers say that GW is going to cause problems in the future, then why didn't these scientists (or "scientists") start warning us about it long before Gore? You've noticed that now even some conservatives (e.g., Michael Gerson of WaPo, and The Heritage Foundation) are conceding to the fact of GW. What they won't admit is that it's man-made.

But why, if it's a natural occurrence, did not one scientist on the conservative side predict the destruction of coral reefs, increasingly severe hurricanes, and decimating heat waves that were foretold ten years ago by Global Warming scientists and which we have been seeing the last few years? Wouldn't that have been helpful? I mean, the scientists who deny it now, could have as easily denied it then when the facts emerged and the reasons for the facts were just being promulgated.

Why didn't they (these climate change deniers) notice or predict, as Gore et.al. has and did, that there would be disastrous economic consequences of GW, along with preventable loss of life (remember the 2003 heat wave that killed 14,000 in France alone?), and suggest that perhaps we ought to worry about neighborhoods in low lying areas, along with our record albums stored in the basement?

Doesn't that seem odd?

Why were environmentalists who believe GW is man-made able to predict and warn about the problems that we face today, 40 years ago, but those scientists who are trying to sell us on the "natural cycle theory" totally silent, and caught off guard? Maybe they’re not good scientists.

But the reason, unfortunately, is more than simple incompetence. It’s because these anti-GW "experts" are pushing a theory purely to protect conservatives' investments in big industry. You don't hear them reminding us that they predicted melting glaciers and poles and killing heat waves, and that these phenomena were all completely expected in the grand scheme of things. Because those who deny global warming now, or even those who admit its reality now, never saw it coming.

It was the environmentalists who noticed that glaciers were receding, heat waves were becoming more frequent and increasingly lethal, droughts, devastating fires and floods were increasing in severity, and suggesting that, even if you lived on the prairie you might still consider investing in a row boat to tool around main street. The average environmentalist has been predicting issues related to GW for about 40 years. And in the last few years, the only brakes on this environmental juggernaut have been applied by those crazy tree-huggers and their insistence on truth.

Those nuts!

So what can you do with naive ignoramuses who continue to ignore and downplay this issue? Same thing you have always done - argue as much as you can stand, and then when they start getting all emotional and start attacking your virtue, your patriotism and your hairstyle, walk away.

Unfortunately sometimes you're sitting across a dinner table from them and although you may have the impulse to pass the mashed potatoes - to their heads! - you must not, because that's rude and not worth the loss of perhaps a very good side dish.

And you know what eventually happens? As much as these deniers argue and huff and puff and make fun, they quietly come around. They come over to our side of the argument so surreptitiously that we who have been warning and doom-saying never get to gloat (darn!). But that's OK, because even better than gloating is to have people convinced that this is a real issue and has to be addressed.

And people who were once in denial, once they "get it" become really passionate! People who convert (to anything) are typically even more devout than those who were raised with a certain set of beliefs. You know how people who quit smoking are absolute vigilantes when it comes to smokers? And become much more hardline than people who never smoked? Well that's how converts to environmentalism are. Guilt, more even than greed, is good!

So I welcome naysayers. I have to. I know they will eventually see the light (one more violent hurricane or drought or devastating flood in the red states ought to do it). Now we just have to work on the ones who don't believe in evolution. Forget about the ones who don't believe we walked on the moon. Let them hold onto something!

I Can't Get This Fucking CD Open...

In keeping with my theme of not being able to understand anything anymore (your shower, my thong), I explore the American specialty of sealing things so that you cannot open them without breaking into tears.

It’s a typical day at dcvdickens’ house. I rise and head for the kitchen where I put up water to boil for the coffee and figure out how I want to break the fast (sleeping being the only way I can manage that particular diet strategy of not constantly eating).

A box of cereal (purchased on sale – perhaps a “remainder”) so that instead of the usual $4.95, I got it for $2.99 – a steal when it comes to a box of flakes, let me tell you. Why the price of cereal follows so closely the price of a gallon of gas I don’t know, but it certainly seems to. But I digress. Because that’s sort of what I do. Sometimes my mind wanders and I forget the whole thread of what I’m trying to discuss as I find a pile of cracker crumbs on the cutting board and go to brush them off and notice that I don’t have any paper towels and start looking for the grocery list to add it and then realize I also need Cumin, which is a great, versatile spice that you can put not only in Indian food but many other… anyhoo.



The cereal box looms large, protective. It seems to sense I’m going to try to open it up and separate its contents from its container and it’s going to do whatever it can not to let that happen.

Somehow, since approximately 1998, cereal makers have decided it’s not enough just to want to have a bowl of cereal – you have to really, REALLY want it – and they now use a sort of Super Glue on that top seal that impedes easy entry, so much so that you have to be wiling to wrestle that plastic interior bag to the ground and pummel it to get to the goods. This is what happens.



So you end up opening the bag from the side upwards, rather than from the top down, leaving a giant cereal bag rip on the side. This wouldn’t be so bad in itself IF the cereal makers glued the bag to the inside of the box keeping the bag in there while you poured. This no longer is the case. They need all that glue for the top of the bag, so when you pour your cereal, the whole friggin’ thing slides out into your bowl.





Now you have enough cereal for 9 people. If there aren’t 9 people waiting for cereal, you must shovel the extra 8 servings of those flakes back in the ripped bag and stuff the ill-fitting bag back into the box (use your foot if you have to).

Milk.



The American fashion of hermetically sealing everything but your Stock portfolio continues when you try to get that milk carton open.



My “Milk Carton Open” knife. Can be found in most hardware stores.



Now that it’s open, it will easily pour, and I mean everywhere because the spout is totally deformed and weird, so make sure you have some of those paper towels handy!

How about some bacon and eggs?



Forget the bacon. I thought by “going Canadian” I’d have packaging that made sense. Nope. Their culture may have provided us some great comic talents, but we’ve exported our Super Glue.

After breakfast, I decide to blow my nose. This is not inevitable, but for purposes of this blog, must fall here.



The arrow indicates to pull up, easily tearing open the little pack just along those handy perforations. The perforations turn out to be decorative and the arrow is not a separate piece of material that might help with leverage but also purely decorative.



Therefore, ripping it open like you would rip apart a head of lettuce is the only alternative.



Especially if you have allergies and need a tissue before fluids overcome your ability to sniff them back up into your nasal cavities.

Later that same day, I attend a friend’s child’s school play performance. Outside, immediately before the show, we get the camera gear ready. This requires a DV tape.



The kids are massing we hear, it’s about to begin. “Can you get it open?” my friend asks, panic rising.

Not really. Where the fuck is the strip? Is there a strip? Are these corners vulnerable??
We hear the kids starting in the auditorium. This is not as urgent as some things, like say, toilet paper, but it’s up there and my friend is depending on me. Hurry!



As my friend started to get hysterical, I resorted to my teeth. Sparing you the picture, mostly because we didn’t take one as it wasn’t even funny anymore.

Back home, how about some music? This was a good movie, and I got the CD for free and why not load it into iTunes?



Why not? Because I can’t get the thing open. There’s no easy way to open a sealed CD. CD manufacturers have perfected the art of sealing their product, which is the real reason the music industry is in trouble and the reason people have resorted to downloading; because they can’t get their fucking CDs open.



Can't use my special "Milk Carton Knife" because they don't allow us any sharp weapons at work.



And of course, inevitably, later that day:



*Sigh*

Reading is highly underrated and my brother got me a subscription to “Wired”, sort of the last magazine I’d ever want a subscription to (unless they had a special feature on “Getting Your Electronic Products Open Without Losing A Fingernail”), but of course it’s the thought that counts.





That looks promising.



But this is really how I feel.



But you know, reading takes a distant second to having sex!!!



Oy. Remember what I said about toilet paper being an emergency? THIS is an emergency.

Please tune in next week, when I’ll explore the connections in back of my TV set and demonstrate how easy it is to figure out which speaker has blown.

Merry Christmas to all from the world of "House and Garden"!

My Boyfriend is Waiting But My Hands Are Still Wet: a Tragedy in the Theater Bathroom

T'was a date that I wanted to happen and did

With a man whose attentions for which I did bid

Using sweetness and batting of eyelids so coated

In make-up that friends of mine nodded and noted,

I couldn't lift up my own eyelids to see,

The person across in the mirror: it was me.



The lipstick I wore was so pretty and pink,

It said on the advert there'd ne'er be a kink

In approaching a man for his favor to seize,

For as soon as they saw it they'd ask me to "Please,

Kiss me, I beg you!" it said "Guaranteed!"

(And cost me just twenty-two bucks, a small bleed).



So ready I was for the man of my dreams,

That I shaved my legs twice with a number of creams,

And my underarms too, so that they were as bare

T'was if I'd made use of that product called "Nair",

Which stunk to high heaven if one can remember

And always left fuzz on your grill and your fender.



So next up was choosing the outfit to wear,

Something sheerly seductive to lure to the lair,

This man who I'd wanted for more than a week,

Since the first time we'd met and I'd had just a peek

At his talent at kissing which made my face blush.

In fact, in 8 days, I'd developed a crush.



So into the closet I plunged with a passion,

To find the right outfit, no slave me, to fashion!

For when it is up to a girl to seduce,

The clothing one picks must not bag or be loose.

The tighter it fits is the key to the night:

If you cannot breathe, then you've got it just right.



And find it I did! This white blouse made of cotton,

For peasants intended, but that was forgotten

Since women of urban adventure did pick

This pattern for access so blatant and quick,

That neither of you had to wait for too long

To begin the concerto where sex is the song.



I paired it along with a skirt that was slim

(even though my lush hips made the look somewhat grim),

But paired, the two bits set me up for the role;

The sum of these parts, just as great as the whole.

And the very last touch was just that: of perfume,

Like a Siren, this man was to face me: his doom.



The doorbell did ring right on time; I did note

That perhaps he was as happy as me to be smote

By a partner whose skills were so obvious to see,

That perhaps he'd spent 8 days too, thinking of me,

Because that's the best way to approach the first date:

With a hunger and wonder and lust that can't wait.



So open I did (just the door - don't be crude),

Since the guy was outside, and not one to be rude,

I invited him in (the apartment - you pervs),

Having had two white wines just to settle my nerves.

He had eyes just for me (I thanked God, since I noted

The dining room table with dust it was coated…).



And thus it began just as well as I'd hoped

For it seemed into trouble we'd gladly been roped.

It almost seemed pointless to go out to the show,

Since watching most everything else we would know,

That the hero and girlfriend would bond at the end.

Let's just stay home! For themselves they could fend!



But no, the whole point is sweet torture of course;

All the petting and leaning and sexual Code Morse,

(Or at least that's what women are wont to pursue;

For the best way to keep the attraction brand new

Is to drag it as long as one possibly can.

And that is the difference twixt woman and man.)



So off we did go, to the subway we entered,

But toward one another, our eyeballs were centered.

And even though people did bump us and shove,

If you'd looked at we two, you'd have thought "They are in love!"

And finally to the theatre we came,

With hands copping feels (that's the name of the game).



So for hours (just two), we sat close in the dark,

Sharing popcorn and bloodlust and fire and spark,

Touching elbows and fingers and shoulders and thighs,

But respectably so, noting neighboring eyes,

As Solo and Kylo did banter and weave,

And explosions and battles did rumble and heave.



(Just as much as our hearts in our mutual chests;

If they'd read our two minds, we'd be under arrest.)

And so finally, FINALLY, credits do roll,

'Cause the heat and our passion have taken their toll;

He can barely stand up, and me too, I'm not well

(If we're Catholic at this point, we're going to hell...).



So wanting to wash up (from popcorn, my dears!),

I head to the bathroom, to check out the mirrors,

And fix my ridiculous hair since I know

That my partner has mussed it (we were in the last row),

And to pee and prepare for the evening to come,

Anticipation for which caused my body to hum.



And so I did all of those things that I said,

Left my stall to wash hands and to check out my head,

When the worst thing a person can see in that room,

Did appear in my sight, dragging me into gloom.

Instead of the towels of paper you see,

Were those fucking hand blowers that really irk me!



They show up in bathrooms; the last thing you'd wish

For they are as useful as bikes to a fish.

You can stand there with only two drops on your hand

And the blower will blow it all over the land,

But it won't dry you off, because that's not its job

For it only makes noise, like a torch-bearing mob.



And so, there I was, holding hand into space,

Cooking flesh for no reason, as always the case,

And waiting and waiting for drops to disperse,

Which is part of the battle and part of the curse.

Just amazed at the ultimate nothing it dries,

And resenting the option to wipe on my thighs.



So now it's been minutes and longer I fear,

I've lost track of time, in my battle in here,

With the man of my dreams tapping toes right outside,

Yet I can't come out til my hands I have dried.

I'm mad at these things! Wreck my life, will they now?

For decades they've dithered, and I've made it my vow…



… to not let this thing get the better of me,

Yes, I'll stand here as long as the bathroom is free,

Wasting energy, time and the patience of folks

Gathered round with their own hands, awaiting for pokes,

In the air blast which nothing it does, take my word!

So long have I stood there, I feel like a nerd.



And slowly the bathroom does empty of others

No sisters are left (and there never were brothers),

Still shaking and waving my hands at this thing,

‘Til tears in the corners of my eyes do sting.

For I realize that 45 minutes have passed,

And who wouldn’t wonder why his girl is last.



And think as I do of this handsome young man

With blue jeans and white shirt and lovely firm hand,

A-waiting out there as concessions do close,

And he’s getting bored now, and beginning to doze.

But still in the palm of my hands I do find

That the moisture is clinging; to me it does bind.



And finally lights flicker off in the halls,

And all the employees depart with fond calls,

To each other, “is everyone out of this place?”

“Ah, no,” they respond, “there’s a nut in no haste,

To retreat from the bathroom where her hands are wet

From the useless devices in there, I’ll just bet.”



And just as the last light is ready to dim,

I give up the battle so hungry for him

And that body be-clothed in that fitted white shirt,

That I wipe off my hands at the end of my skirt.

And so I emerge worse for wear and still damp

To an empty theatre, a-glow with one lamp.



For my date has decided that this was enough,

After waiting one hour, he's left in a huff,

Thinking I was the one who had cast him aside,

When in fact in my mind I’d imagined the ride

That I’d hoped we would share to the end of the wire.

And so this is the reason I hate the Hand-dryer.

My short story "House and Garden" is available!

Here's the cover of my short story (novelette), "House and Garden", a para-normal story of a woman who hates gardening and the garden that hates her back. It's available as a Kindle Single, on Amazon.com: http://www.amazon.com/House-Garden-Deb-Victoroff-ebook/dp/B00UDJE9MI/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1461524891&sr=8-1&keywords=victoroff

I hope everyone who loves to read will take a chance on this! It won't take you long to read, and perhaps it will transport you in the way a good story can. That's my hope at least!

Why Stop at 16 Babies When You Could Have 160? I Don't Get It.

In the light of Nadya Suleman's (The Octomom) delivery of 8 babies, while 6 others waited at home, and the interesting support of her by many with conservative leanings, I offer this satire. (Note that as of 2014, Nadya is on public assistance, her house is in foreclosure, her husband has divorced her and her parents are bankrupt. No one seems to give a shit what happened to the actual children...)

FOX news was first on the scene early this morning to report that a woman in northern Minnesota has given birth to 167 babies, or more accurately, is still actually "in childbirth" with 54 little infants left to recover from her distended uterus.

Apparently (it has not been confirmed) the mother had been ingesting Clomid and injecting progesterone for several months in an attempt to steal the recent record of 96 live births set by Kelly Davis at the Wisconsin State Fair last spring. Ms. Davis herself was the only entry in the widely promoted competition, being the only contestant who fulfilled the minimum qualifications of at least 12 simultaneously delivered children prior to the event. (Apparently this will not be the case next year as several women are in training now for the event and the reported $500 first prize; second prize being a brand new humidifier). Ms. Davis sheepishly told the judges that she originally had wanted to compete in the Apple Pie baking competition but her oven broke down last year and she hadn't had the money to have it repaired so she figured she might as well enter the Live Birth competition.

The as yet unidentified mother of the 167… oh wait, we're getting news that it's not 167… looks like there was a chamber in the cavernous uterus which has just recently been discovered and there are apparently between 20 and 25 additional babies in there, playing jump rope with the mother's lower intestine (along with a treasure chest filled with gold dubloons). This will make the delivery tricky as there were only 116 doctors on call for this event and experts say in a delivery of this size, it would take between 120 and 125 ob/gyns to assure the safety of the mother and her newborns.

Fox News reports however that Mrs. Helene Johnson from the Millstein Middle School has offered her third grade class, who were coincidentally visiting the hospital on a field trip, to help catch the babies as they pop out and carry them to the giant Bouncy House where they are being stored until someone can figure out what to do with them.

It's reported that the new mother's other 45 children are healthy and happy at home with her husband who has converted their garage into something resembling an egg-laying factory, with six stacked rows of box-like structures, each child having their own 3x5 enclosure and watered and fed with a series of hamster water bottles.

The mother, who is in excellent health and enjoying the attention of the press even while she squeezes out her 15th set of triplets, is granting interviews on a selected basis, with Harvey Levin in line just behind Wendy Williams and Barbara Walters, each of whom have come bearing gifts; in Wendy's case, 175 stuffed yellow bears presently stored in an Allied van parked in the hospital loading dock. (The 72 scrub nurses standing by apparently asked Williams if she’d lend a hand changing 41 of the babies who need clean diapers, but Williams demurred, citing journalistic objectivity.)

There were earlier reports this morning of a small group of protesters standing outside the hospital calling the competition despicable, arguing that no one family could possibly handle more than 85 infants at one time, but these naysayers were quickly shouted down by hundreds of fans of the young mother, smiling and waving even more stuffed yellow bears.

When asked what she planned to do once she healed from the grueling ordeal of delivering now what seems at last count, to be 182 premature infants, the young mother smiled and said, "There are a lot of people out there who want children to love and I plan on finding them, either through Craig's list or Ebay."

I Don't Understand Women Who Do This and Men Who Let Them...

He's not bad looking, he's a nice guy, and he seems to adore you. And yet, you can't help but treat him like an irritating cowlick -- always in your hair and unable to do anything right. You find yourself making fun of his friends, his clothes, his hobbies and his habits and you hate yourself for it. What's going on? You're dating a "Doormat Man".

Most everyone finds themselves in one of these relationships at some point in a dating history. It starts like this: an arid, dune-filled dating landscape stretches before you when a guy whose best virtue is that he's available turns up. As he's courting you by reciting the story line from last night's "Seinfeld", you're playing badminton with the idea of going out with him. "Maybe," you think. "Naw. Well, maybe. Naw!" Prospects look otherwise grim and hey, at least he's not married you think. So you give him your number, half hoping he won't use it, but knowing that within 72 hours, you'll get that call.

Getting the first call from a new man is one of the most exhilarating experiences in a woman's life -- most of the time. But when this guy's voice comes over the line, all that goes through your head is: "what was I thinking? Should I pretend that whoever he thinks he's calling moved out, why, just yesterday?" But you're a "nice" person. You can't do that. So you settle in for ten minutes of hemming and hawing on his part (you're filing your nails) before he can get to the BIG question. If you're in a charitable mood you might offer, "Yes, actually, I like Jonathan Demme movies too." While he takes that opening and runs with it though, your idle mind turns to thoughts of good old Aunt Tillie who, as family lore has it, was saved from spinsterhood when she unexpectedly fell in love with dull, reliable Ralph (now "Uncle" Ralph), a somewhat lumpy suitor who pursued her relentlessly for years until he finally won her heart. And then it occurs to you that Aunt Tillie was 2 years younger than you are now, when it finally happened.

"O.K.," you interrupt, "Sure. I think I'd enjoy that," you say to whatever he's come up with. And even as you hang up the phone, you wonder at the mysteries of womankind who accept dates from men they really don't want to go out with.

Women are by nature, charitable, sympathetic, nurturing creatures whose first instincts are to soothe and comfort. So it must be said that when we accept that first date from someone who we know is never going to win our heart (nay, not even score too well against it), we always have THE BEST INTENTIONS. Perhaps our first impression was wrong, we think, giving the fellow the benefit of a host of doubts. Maybe I'll learn to love him, we speculate. Maybe he's got a sense of humor á là Billy Crystal in "When Harry Met Sally". Maybe he'll gain more confidence when he sees me in broad daylight.

And sometimes, we're evil and think: Maybe he's got a brother...

"Gee, you look great," he offers hopefully when you open the door, and the strangest kind of irritation wells up in you. It's not that you don't appreciate the compliment (any compliment), it's just that you really want to tell him, "Please don't try so hard!" But he doesn't know how not to try so hard. And you, with nothing better on your dance card, fighting your crawling skin, see him for the second time, and then a third, and soon, you find yourself transformed from mild-mannered nice girl into SUPER WITCH.

He's created a monster and you are she. You find yourself committing every crime in the Code of Dating Ethics and inventing a few new ones. You don't ever really listen to him (and yet you've always been such a "good listener"). You don't bother to conceal flirting with virtually anyone else who might be handy. You drop the phone three times per call because you're juggling two other tasks while he hangs on the other end. You've been "too tired" to have him up to your apartment for the last two months.

Strange, petty things about him drive you nuts. "Do you always have to blink that way?" you ask him, not really as a question. But instead of calling you on it: "And how would you like me to blink, your highness?", he apologizes. "Gosh, sorry!" he offers. "I'll try not to blink like that anymore." And now, for some reason, you're really mad.

When you socialize with a couple like this, you spend all your time cringing. Out for dinner with the gang, they sit across from each other, he, staring at her adoringly, reminds you of a lovesick seal. Meanwhile, she's flirting madly with the men on either side of her, and the 16 year old bus boy. Her date asks a question in an attempt to join the conversation and she rolls her eyes. He laughs at one of her jokes and she rolls her eyes. You haven't seen so much eye-rolling since Linda Tripp said she was "just trying to be a friend". You can't help but wonder why he puts up with it. It's almost as if she (or we, if we're in such a relationship), is purposely being outrageous, trying somehow to provoke him into... something! Defending himself, yelling at her, walking out and slamming the door.

On the surface of our thoughts when we're the ones doing the eye-rolling, we're thinking, "What does it take to get this guy to tell me to jump off a cliff?" But deeper inside us, in that reasonable self hunkered down in social hibernation, another voice asks, "Why am I being so mean?" Every evening we say goodnight to this guy with a sigh of relief and an hour later, the bad feelings start rolling in -- guilt for treating him so badly, and anger, at him, for letting us. The truth is that we're angry at him for letting us be the worst we can be, instead of the best.

A good relationship provides more than companionship. The best of them make us feel good about ourselves, glad to be with someone who is, in many respects, the half that makes us whole. Those cheery older couples who refer to one another as "my better half" are speaking of a symmetry in their lives that calms them when they're threatening to strangle the neighbor; that offers an objective opinion when the handmade birdhouse turns out looking more like a dish drainer; that reminds them that they're more wonderful than they know, or not as wonderful as they think, whichever they need to hear.

When a prospective partner can't provide that symmetry for us, our inner ogre comes out, beats up the Helen Hunt side of us, and turns into the playground bully. Oddly enough, bullying makes such men try even harder. They become kinder, even more gentle and more obsequious than ever. They turn into "Doormat Men". Exactly the wrong approach. When you look at them, all you see is a quivering dessert. You find yourself humming "J-E-L-L-O" during conversational breaks. What self-respecting person, you marvel, would allow his girlfriend to treat him so, well, disrespectfully?

Therein lies the answer. A man (and of course, this applies equally to a woman) who "takes" such treatment, probably does not have much respect for himself. He may feel he deserves to be treated like a sock hamper because he thinks he's somehow unworthy. He may have grown up in a household where he became the whipping boy for an unhappy, angry parent. Or he might have been the always unfavorably compared brother to a sibling who was the "star" of the family. Sometimes just having been largely ignored during childhood shapes a personality that expects to be ignored; an invisible person for whom any attention, whether positive or negative, is better than none.

So now we find ourselves in such a relationship, and wonder about our options. We can end it and throw ourselves back into the pool of wandering, dispossessed single women, staggering through cities, arms upraised like something out of "Night of the Living Dead", or we can stop and reevaluate. Life is short (as women who have wondered if they'll have one more date before they die are well aware of). If we meet someone who cares for us, this is a good thing. A real thing.

Think once again of "Aunt Tillie". She lived the dating life that, demographically doesn't look likely for this generation of women. And yet, she settled for good old Ralph. Take a second look at your boring beau. What would happen if you treated him honestly, told him what you were thinking, kindly? You know, a bird in the hand... might just be the falcon we're searching for.

If after reconsidering him and being honest with him, he still wants to bring you your slippers in his mouth, maybe you should bail out while his ego and your image of yourself as a "nice person" are still intact. But perhaps you can forge a new relationship. After all, something about him made you say yes to that first date (apart from the fact that he asked you!). And maybe someday, in a not too distant future, Aunt Tillie and Uncle Ralph will be dancing at your wedding!

Horoscopes For September 2015

HOROSOPES FOR ALL THE GODDESSES THAT WE ARE
By DEB VICTOROFF
#36 in a series (Oct. 2015):

1) ATHENA - the Smart One Who Never Got The Guys Until She Got Contacts (March 21-April 19)
It’s the end of the summer and you find yourself obsessing about the 14 pounds remaining from your goal to lose 15 when you started your diet in June. Your exercise sessions with your personal trainer did not go as expected (he expected you to show up: you did not), and so a new plan is in the works. You resolve to watch what you eat, and this does not mean, as it has in the past, watching how high you can mound your plastic plate at the few remaining barbecues left this season, nor adding up the slices of pizza and dividing the number of people to determine how many slices you can take and still be invited to the next kid’s birthday party. Losing weight takes only two things: determination and unfiltered cigarettes, so get yourself a pack and get to work.

2) JUNO - the One Who Says She's Happily Married (April 20-May 20)
September brings the lower humidity that Juno loves, as well as a hairstyle that doesn’t require she turn sideways when entering or leaving a room. Seriously; how much product can one put in one’s hair before becoming a fire hazard? This summer was particularly bad, when Juno was invited to a party and retreated to the bathroom to look in the mirror after one guest attempted to put his glass on her head and play her teeth, thinking she was a piano. A short haircut might be just the thing for next summer or perhaps a wig made of fiber optic cable.

3) APHRODITE - the Impossibly Thin-Thighed (May 21-June 21)
September is the time of the year that the kids return to school, unfortunately right on a path that runs through your backyard. It wouldn’t be so bad if they were quiet and respectful but kids these days are loud and armed and will kill you if you ask them to “keep it down”. In fact if you try to be subtle by putting a finger to your lips and saying “shush”, a 3rd grader will launch a rocket-propelled grenade into your garage. You might try to fence in your back yard or perhaps dig a deep hole and fill it with sharpened stakes but the last guy who did this had an unflattering movie made about him and had to move anyway. Patience is a virtue, as is having a big mean dog.

4) DIANA - the Bargain Hunter (June 22-July 22)
The 9th through the 24th will be mild with winds from the northeast causing unseasonably cool weather and the occasional freak rain of frogs. This will be of little note or concern to Diana unless of course she’s the meteorologist for the local news in which case, she’s got a lot of explaining to do. For the rest of the Dianas, the abundance of frogs will simply make their kids’ science projects a delightfully simple proposition, testing the theory of the number of frogs it takes to fill up a convertible if the top is left down, which was a trick question on the early version of the SATs if we can recall. Use this opportunity to learn more about the natural world and prepare for the “end of days”.

5) DEMETER - the Condom Bearer (July 23-August 22)
A distant relative asks you if he can borrow money. The wisdom of loaning money to this guy who throws money away the way Rush Limbaugh does words, in his attempt, like a boy with a crush, to get President Obama to look his way, is questionable, even if you are a Republican and have a lot to spare. There will always be some people who cannot handle money and should be kept to an allowance, or penned in a small room where they are fed and watered and watched by benevolent hosts. You may recall the last time you lent money to a family member, they said they were using it for school and ended up buying a 62” flat screen TV and they still won’t invite you over to watch “Mad Men”. Practice saying “No” or “Yes” with 15% interest.

6) VESTA - the Lover of Laundry (August 23-September 22)
This month brings a health crisis you were not expecting and which is both painful and painfully embarrassing. Since you live in the United States, you most likely don’t have a job, and also since you live in the U.S. you also don’t have health insurance. Head over to the local emergency room, or if that hospital has closed (due to bankruptcy as a result of free treatment of those without insurance), there’s always the free clinic, or if that has also closed (due to bankruptcy), then ask one of your friends if she has any left-over penicillin from that time in Cancun. Cooler heads prevail in the Health Insurance debate and you can rest assured you will be covered in time for your funeral.

7) PERSEPHONE - the One Who Never Wears White After Labor Day (September 23-October 23)
Happy Birthday Persephone! In this day and (your) age perhaps it’s time to give up on your archaic stand against wearing white after Labor Day, particularly since the public is just grateful when women wear clothes that cover their lower abdomens and men wear clothes that cover their lower extremities. You never thought you’d see the day when young men who wanted very much to be considered “tough” would actually pull their own pants down and wander the streets as if they’d been recently humiliated at the playground or were trying to get into a fraternity with an especially cruel initiation. What happens when these young men go dancing you wonder, let alone climb stairs or retrieve objects on top shelves? You become intensely grateful that you are as old as you are and that the men in your age-appropriate category still keep their underwear an uninvited guest until you request its presence.

8) LEDA - the Wearer of Tu Tus (October 24-November 21)
The 10th through the 17th offer a window of opportunity in which to make amends for an overreaction to a friend’s irresponsible act. Even though that friend continually leaves you standing on street corners waiting for them, their cell phone ignoring your rings until it starts raining and you don’t have an umbrella and the place you guys chose to meet doesn’t have an awning or anything so you’re not only wet, but freezing and still she doesn’t pick up and then you think maybe she got into some terrible accident or met foul play because that could really be the only reason not to pick up her phone when you made plans tonight, for God’s sake, and so now you are thinking maybe you should call her parents, but you don’t have their number, and you think the battery on your phone is going to die anyway, so after 45 minutes on the corner you head home, in a state of deep anxiety and don’t hear from that friend until she calls you a day later, and says, “Hey, how are you?” and you say, “Where were you last night” and she goes, “Oh, I must’ve forgot, I was cleaning my apartment.” If you want to make amends it’s up to you, but just to let you know, the 18th through the 28th are for building additional deep and seething resentment. Your call!

9) ECHO - the One With All the Good Gossip (November 22-December 21)
Keep your dreams alive by acting on them. Whether your dream is to meet that cute guy in your writing class or to sleep with that other guy you met earlier in the writing class; whether you want to finish your PhD or finish vacuuming up the kitty litter in the bathroom, you should be able to fulfill all your dreams with hard work and perseverance. Your mother always used to tell you this, but who listens to their mothers, and she had no idea when she said that, that you were thinking of getting your tongue pierced, and brother did she change her tune when you fulfilled THAT dream! But whether you dream of scaling Mt. Everest or climbing a step-ladder and finally figuring out what the hell’s in that box hidden in the back of the closet, don’t let anyone say “no” to you. Unless of course that particular box is in your boyfriend’s apartment, in which case we predict that fulfilling this particular dream will turn into a nightmare.

10) PANDORA - the One Who Always Overpacks (December 22-January 19)
Your job has got you stressed out and filled with anxiety. Although you asked for this position last year, they’ve only just now decided to give it you, after slashing the budget in half and laying off about 2/3rds of your co-workers, especially the ones who were really fun and who knew all the best YouTube videos which everyone used to send to each other and sometimes would gather around one guy’s desk to watch together after lunch. Have the higher ups recognized you as the responsible one, who was often the first to say, “Hey, maybe we should finish that report…”, or the unpopular one, who no one would ever listen to when you’d say stuff like that? You should realize that whatever your boss sees in you, your co-workers resent the fact that you got the promotion. No more “Wedding Dance” videos for you!

11) PSYCHE - the Headcase (January 20-February 18)
The 23rd is a great day for finding love; whether it means rekindling an old romance or initiating a new one, keep your eyes open for the signals that mean you are about to make a connection. Sometimes we’re blind to the signs that others are sending to us, whether those signs involve shy glances or loud explosions in which all the windows of the nearby buildings are blown out, one must always be aware of the ways in which potential mates try to claim our attention. Perhaps the guy who just dropped his whole plate of pasta on the way back from the buffet meant for you to look up, particularly since he dropped the pasta on your head. Now’s the time for you to wipe the red sauce out of your eyes and exchange a soulful glance with him, unless of course he meant to impress the girl with the enormous breasts sitting behind you, who seems to be laughing a little too hard for someone with such a flimsy bra.

12) PHOEBE - the Unlikely Sit-Com Star (February 19-March 20)
Phoebe is stunned when this month, a Republican Senator says something that makes sense, offering it up in a professional and courteous way, listing his reasons in a polished and cogent argument that reflects a good deal of research, solid facts, and an admirable grasp of the issue. His stand is something that is both intelligent and forward thinking, as well as clearly aware of years of American history on this topic… oh, wait a minute. Saturn and Neptune are totally fucking with us. This is about as likely as Phoebe having sex with George Clooney, and Phoebe is not even interested in George Clooney! Saturn and Neptune have got to come up with a new bit. Seriously you guys. No one was ever gonna fall for that.

Bonus Horoscope (for those who didn't like their own sign)
13) THALIA - the Upper West Side Theater (aka the Leonard Nimoy)
This month, the chickens come home to roost. This doesn’t necessarily mean you have to get a permit for a chicken coop but is just a figure of speech and refers to what happens when you fool around with your tennis instructor without finding out that his wife is the one who sets up the automatic ball feed thingy. You might want to wear a helmet to your Saturday session, and by the way, if in fact the chickens have come home to roost, and your instructor’s wife is in charge of the henhouse, what’s going to be coming at you from the ball feed won’t be tennis balls.

I like him. Him? Not so much. Pt. 2

We were awkward, but me more than he. He only seemed to be playing the part of the awkward guy for my benefit. In fact, I felt that he had reviewed me, found me acceptable and was settling in to see how I did for the rest of what he needed to evaluate. Would I be smart and sassy? Clever and quick with a comeback? Would I be too sweet? Or too forward? Would I touch him too soon, or seem repressed and reserved – too prim? What was he looking for? I could be nothing but myself because as intuitive as I am, I didn’t know. I started asking questions because his online profile was too vague to get a handle on him. What had happened with his wife? I knew he was divorced. He’d been married for 28 years. 28 years! What had I been doing all that time? Dating, going to grad school, working, dating, moving, dating, writing, dating. Lots of men, so few I cared about that I’d begun to think there was something wrong with my heart.

I like him. Him? Not so much. Pt. 1

I stumbled across him online. He came up on "match" after I responded to someone else. I couldn't believe how cute he was. We had a playful back and forth email correspondence, very brief, the way I like it. I really, really wanted to meet him, not write to him, and his notes: flirty, brief, forward but polite, indicated the same.

Our first date was one of those let's-have-a-drink-and-see. I wore what I'd worn on another date during which the guy told me how attracted he was to me, and how much he wanted to kiss me (I didn't want to kiss him or even shake his hand frankly), but because the outfit seemed to be a success, I would wear it on all my first dates.

I got to the bar first, walked halfway in, looked around and didn't see him, but when I turned to look back at the door, there he was, not a foot behind me. I was startled and stepped back. I may have inwardly gasped; I hope I wasn't uncool enough to actually gasp aloud. I was startled partly because of the suddeness of his appearance, but more, at how attractive he was. (I have to say, I don't know that he would be attractive to all, but to me, there was that chemistry that hits you hard and makes you immediately nervous and unsure of yourself... that primitive excitement that comes from being naturally thrilled by a man.) A head taller than me, with a perfect swirl of mostly salty colored hair. A look on his face of utter confidence; of knowing what you want.

I took a step back and looked down to recover a bit, and then back up. He was smiling and did not step back. "Hi." he said. It was the sexiest single syllable I've ever heard uttered. "You're Bette?" he asked. And for once in a long while I was so glad that, yes, I was. "You wanna sit up here, or in the back?" Frankly I wanted to stand and just stare, but I said, "Let's sit up here..." up at the front of the rustic, cozy bar (the "All State", a great place to meet someone for the first time by the way, now torn down and an empty lot, soon to be condos I assume).

We pulled two chairs up to the bar that ran against the wall, two of only 4 chairs up there, which is why it was so perfect... no one could sit too near us to listen to the inevitably awkward conversation of two complete strangers trying to make a romantic connection. I was nervous, but the good nervous: the excited nervous you get when something good is happening, or about to. I relished the feeling.

Unlike many people, I kind of love these meetings: I'm good at them, I like people, I am amused by the whole process, and I am always so hopeful that whatever guy I'm meeting might be a guy I could like, or at the very least, with whom I could spend an hour practicing flirting. 6 out of 10 are of these guys are "OK". 3 are “eh” or worse. Sometimes right off the bat you realize the guy is a numbskull, or 30 pounds heavier than his photo, or older than his photo or has grown a moustache in which you see an embedded crumb. Some of them try too hard, or are too nervous, or perhaps already an asshole, looking over your shoulder or figuring out if they should buy you a drink or not. Buy the drink, jerk! you think. It's the very first, easiest and most obvious way to show that you're not a loser! If it's after 5pm and they order ice tea or a Diet Coke, I know it's not going to work out. To get through this, we need some alcohol!

He immediately asked what I was drinking - as always, white wine for me. It gets into my blood system faster than beer and for some reason, I always associate it with socializing, relaxing, opening up. He walked over to the bar and in those moments I looked down at myself. Am I attractive? Should I fluff my hair? Why didn't I look in the mirror one more time before I got here? Is my eye make-up smudged? Could he possibly be half as attracted to me as I am to him? Oh please, I hope so. Half as much would be enough. I had just enough time to slip off my coat before he was back with two glasses. Did he look at my body as I was taking off my coat? Does it look ok? My body isn't one of those that knocks guys over... it's average. I wished it was great. I wished, for him, that he was as excited as I was. He smiled at me. God - that smile.

Looking For Peter Mehlman, serialized, Pt. 1

Like most struggling New York writers, I'm far more interested in reading about other struggling writers who have somehow "made it" (ranging from landing a villa in Tuscany to landing a studio apartment with heat) than actually writing anything.

I’d read a lot about writers who had gone to LA and were suddenly being paid to write, which seemed like such a great idea, and I began experimenting with the idea of being not a New York writer but an LA writer, that is; someone who writes sitcoms. This means you have to write sitcoms of course, but more importantly, it means you have to include a third party into your solitary life: the “agent”.

As a matter of fact I’d been lucky enough to get not one, but two agents and fairly quickly; it’s just that they were perhaps unlucky to get me. The first one died shortly after she signed me (she was, I’d been told, a living legend in the business and then evidently decided to become just a legend) and then tragically, the next agent who agreed to represent me lost her husband in the World Trade Tower disaster and left the business. I felt a little depressed about these encounters and tried not to feel personally responsible, but another part of me wanted to avoid dragging someone else into this most personal endeavor, and so I decided to forgo the agent thing, and just keep writing and hoping someone read my stuff and liked it.

I knew this was in fact possible, having heard of the success of a once-struggling Manhattan-based writer who started out writing humor essays (like myself), and who had written one especially hilarious article that convinced Hollywood he was funny enough to let in the "We'll Pay You For This" Club. This tale was one that fledgling writers had been passing around for years and so, one day, I decided to track the apocryphal article down. What made this urban legend particularly intriguing was that the writer who had made it "really big" (meaning that now people write about him) was Peter Mehlman, one of the original writers of "Seinfeld".

Having exhausted by phone all of the tips that a fellow humorist had offered ("I think it was sometime between 1982 and 1988, in the 'New York Times Magazine'. No, it was the 'New Yorker'. No, no wait, it was the Op Ed page of the 'Times', that's where it was. No, wait a minute, now that I think of it...."), and unable to compose a concise or coherent question to submit to Google (I tried: “Peter/Mehlman/article/got/job/Seinfeld” and “Peter/Mehlman/hired/Seinfeld/basis/one/essay/funny” and got subjects ranging from admiralties on British ships to the entire oeuvre of Julia Louis-Dreyfuss.), and wanting to see if I could track down the actual article using the skills I’d learned watching “Law and Order”, I hit the street to begin my investigation.

I decided to start at the landfill for all written words in Manhattan: The New York Public Library.

What happens to Elise Lambert alone, in her garden? Buy my short story on Amazon.com (http://www.amazon.com/House-Garden-Deb-Victoroff-ebook/dp/B00UDJE9MI/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1461526192&sr=8-1&keywords=victoroff)

I love this painting! It is very much in the spirit of my short horror story, "House and Garden".

I went to an art exhibit in Brooklyn and saw this painting, which I love. The artist's name is Caleb Brown. I love his talent and his sense of humor!

I'm Not Sure If My Computer Has A Virus, Or I Do...

In the past, whenever good friends moved away, they always promised to "write", or at least write back, and of course, never did. Never, that is, until e-mail. Now my friends not only keep in touch - they aggressively fondle me with every tiny bit of info-email that floats by, no matter how trivial. These pals of mine who once wrote me gorgeous essays on the most serious and intimate topics, and who expounded poetically on issues of ethics and politics, now send me petitions, pyramid letters and bad puns. Pages of them, every day, sometimes twice a day. I'm getting more junk mail now from close friends than I ever did from strangers.

And in among these non-letter missives, there often appears the inevitable notification, a combination between gossip and an alien sighting: The Virus Alert.

The first time it happened, I was thrown into a thrilling panic: a Computer Virus! Did I have it? Was I going to be part of the collective electronic consciousness that would be infected? Would I see all my friends down at the Free Computer Virus Clinic, lining up for cyber-synthesized penicillin?

The first virus warning I ever got was for "Melissa" which I took as an anthropomorphic indication that she was the jilted cyber girlfriend of the "2001" computer Hal. The Melissa virus sounded intimidating not just because I got the feeling it was younger than me and had a better job, but because vague reporting of its destructive trail allowed my imagination to run wild: that after it ate your hard drive, it would go to your refrigerator and eat all your leftovers, all your flowering plants and any small pets that had the bad luck to wander into its path.

I waited breathlessly for it to show its (type) face. I expected it to arrive attached to salutations like:
<> or perhaps: <>, but it never appeared in my mailbox and I felt slighted.

Over time however, other viruses have come my way, most of them with benign-sounding, friendly names, as if they were being emitted from some pink, Barbie-doll iBook. There was "Kali" and I assume her auto: "The Love Bug"; an invitation: "Let's Watch TV!", plush toys called "Bugbear" and even: "New pictures of family!" and "A Card For You!" (at least someone still sends cards…).


Now I've become virus-paranoid. I don't open any email if the subject heading is unfamiliar, or even if it is familiar, but just too damn cheery. But that hasn't stopped one infection from slipping past my most vigilant efforts.

I call it the "You've Got Mail" infection because it doesn't require that you open mail from an anonymous source but actually embeds itself in letters from friends, just when they're getting to the good part: just when your pal is telling you that she ran into your ex with his new girlfriend and what he said, and then what she said, when all of a sudden, BAM! You're infected. "You've got mail, Hee Hee!" it might say, which you don't notice at first because of course you want to know what that blonde idiot in the too short skirt had to say. But that's when it gets you.

You'll notice that suddenly, your cuticles look ragged. Just below your armpits you'll suddenly find extra flesh flapping as freely as a museum banner. You'll notice that your thighs have morphed into flabby cushions and, if you're a woman, your legs, which you swear you shaved this morning, will have stubble again. Men will notice that what they affectionately referred to as "the spare tire" around their waist, is now the wheel from a Monster Truck rally.

And that's just the physical stuff.

Your mind will wander. You'll begin to wonder what your place in the universe is and why everybody got out of the stock market without telling you. You won't be able to get your mind off the guy at the bank who put you on hold and never picked up again.

But the most terrifying thing about this virus is: it's impossible to tell whether you're actually infected, or whether you've just started to look like this since you got your own blog and that, unlike everyone else's blog, yours had something to say.

What to do if you suspect you suspect you're a victim? Well, you can bet there's an anxiety-producing website on line that'll offer the cure. Only take you about 9 hours to find, and then about an hour to figure out how to use it. But what do you care? You're already sitting down.

Nothing to do with my story, but a cool photo of what nature can come up with. Love a good cloud formation!

The plants looked up to Audrey (from "Little Shop of Horrors") as their leader.

...and low.

They seemed to be watching from everywhere...
from perches high:

Elise had the feeling she was being watched.

Your Daily Horoscope (May 1, 2015)

JUNO - the One Who Says She's Happily Married

April showers bring May flowers but right now all you can think about is how can someone collect 18 umbrellas, none of which work. The last time you went out with one and tried to open it, the top disengaged from the handle, shot across the intersection and almost impaled some guy who was trying to put money in the parking meter. The time before that, your umbrella opened into a flat surface like a huppa and a passing rabbi started to perform wedding vows with you and a nearby linden tree. Next time try a beach umbrella. You might still get wet, but there's always the chance you'll meet a lifeguard.

Your Daily Horoscope (April 1, 2015)

APHRODITE - the Impossibly Thin-Thighed

A new moon makes you hornier than ever and this is causing a problem with your ability to concentrate and to finish simple tasks. Everything you look at makes you think of sex: the kitchen is a particular minefield. From an innocent piece of celery to a ripe tomato; from a flirtatious piece of ginger to a suggestively moist jar of Hellmans (low fat) mayonnaise: it all turns you on. The fact that these things have always turned you on however, is cause for alarm. Make an appointment with a shrink, or at least a nutritionist, and for the time being don't let yourself be alone in the same room with the salad spinner.

Your Daily Horoscope (March 1, 2015)

DEMETER - the Condom Bearer

The 21st through the 29th brings the influence of Mars, the warrior planet who perversely encourages you to pick fights with people close to you; specifically with your siblings and, oddly, the mechanic who's fixing your brakes. Your brother, it's true, is a bit of a jerk, but it's best not to take it out on Lenny, the brakeman since you're planning a long drive in the country this weekend. Of course, if you're taking your brother along, things might work in your favor. Mars sometimes knows what he's doing!

Your Daily Horoscope (Feb 1, 2015)

DIANA - the Bargain Hunter

Jupiter suggests that you spend some time alone with your thoughts. You and they have not seen much of one another since you went on that cruise last year and had a week long fling with the cabin boy (who actually turned out to be a stowaway from Honduras, but that's another story). Perhaps if you sat down with your thoughts and maybe bought them a drink, you could avoid the debacle at your Dad's upcoming wedding to his new, young wife, at which you will get drunk and make a toast to "Predatory bimbos, old farts and the Viagra that brings them together".

Your Daily Horoscope (Jan 2015)

VESTA - the Lover of Laundry

This is an auspicious cycle for you when it comes to postage stamps, bacon, and hair care products. You hit the post office version of the jackpot on the 3rd when you buy a book of stamps and two books fall out of the slot! Could life get any better? It can, on the 15th when you order a side of bacon at the local diner and a little broken shard of a fourth slice lands on your plate along with the usual three. Your luck is clearly changing! Finally on the 26th you walk into the Shop Rite and they're offering two-for-one on your favorite shampoo! You're riding high now, but prepare for a slight setback when the rate on your adjustable rate mortgage explodes and you have to move out of your house. Look on the bright side: you have plenty of stamps for those change-of-address cards.