Astrology is bad for me. Not only is it a crock of shit, but once I've read it, it gets into my head and I can't shake the inevitability of the predictions it has made.

Foolish, foolish me. Feeling a bit stressed out and overwhelmed, knowing that there are some mammoth changes in the exceedingly near future (about to leave my job) and coming events that will disrupt the sanctuary of the blessed peace and quiet that is my home (READ: my family is here next weekend for 4 days) I thought I'd check in for a bit of cheer in the horoscopic realm.

Now, horoscopic is not a word but I like it and am going to use it anyway.

But, no salve was to be found with Ms. Cleo. According to the purveyors of planetary pulp fiction, my summer, now until September, will be plagued with the turbulence of a small 12-seat plane crossing over the mountains from Santa Fe to Denver. A very bumpy, stomach-dropping ride.

Damn. I just HAD to read that didn't I? I couldn't just take matters into my own hands and create my own reality for the summer which had change, but manageable change with a wonderful, magical, joyful outcome that made me sing praises to my guardian spirits for taking such good care of this unworthy, ever-whining wuss.

Yet, because of two real, flesh & blood angels (and you know who you are) I am oh-so-slowly beginning to have hope and vision for the future. I see myself walking off the corporate ship like Tiger Lily. Head held high as I walk the plank that will plunge me into a sea of financial uncertainty. But, hey--- Tiger Lily never hit the water did she?!!! Peter Pan swooped in and caught her and carried her away.

That's it. That's my vision.

Or else, in the event Peter Pan is indisposed and cannot rescue the Indian princess, moments before she hits the dark water she sprouts wings of her very own.

Um, actually. I prefer version two.

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