Tag Archives: Malati Marlene Shinazy

Cooking With Nemesis ©

A Story by Malati Marlene Shinazy­­­­

Growing up, it seemed most adults were accomplished cooks.  Great meals and great cooks were abundant in my family.

My mother was sufficiently committed to cooking that my father built her a kitchen cupboard to house a fifty-gallon rice storage drum.

My Grand Father (see, Grand Father’s Little Girl), whose career path included being Chief Chef on merchant ships, consistently served me works of art for breakfast:  Cantaloupe skillfully separated from the rind, magically converted into a serving dish.

The most talented chef, however, was my maternal uncle Tony, who worked at a prestigious restaurant on San Francisco’s Fisherman’s Wharf.  Watching him prepare holiday dinners was like watching a master conductor at the New York Philharmonic.

In college, the unspoken agreement was: my roommates cooked; I was responsible for the cleanup.

Alas, the goddess Nemesis entered my life when I married.  My husband, a kitchen alchemist, created nutritious and visual lovely family meals seemingly out of nothing…  To contrast, my pancakes looked horrifically asymmetrical, no resemblance to the cookbook images.  These amorphously shaped blobs of dough were followed by similarly shaped cookies, biscuits, crab cakes, etc.

The first and only time I attempted to make mashed potatoes for Thanksgiving dinner, I misread the cookbook and boiled too many potatoes.  Uncle Tony rescued me.  Even then, it took two gallons of milk to turn my clumps of potato cement into something resembling mashed potatoes … expecting them to be creamy would have required divine intervention.

Nemesis had indeed incurred her revenge.  I became a defeated cook and retreated from the theatre of the kitchen.

Fortunately, my young children enjoyed helping me prepare the four dinner items I knew how to assemble: tacos, mac & cheese, steamed broccoli, spinach salad.  As they matured, they each in turn became masters and I, the sous chef.  Balance was restored to the world.

As my last child left for college, I developed compensatory tactics for nourishing myself:  Non-fat plain yogurt and fresh fruit for breakfast, an ethnic restaurant for lunch, salads and the occasional sautéed tofu sandwich for dinner.

I learned how to scramble an egg because frying anything over-easy was beyond my skill set.

I think I’m sufficiently healed from the post-traumatic stress of my early cooking attempts, so I’ve decided to overcome this personal deficit and take tentative steps toward using, rather than just storing, the pots, pans, bowls, measuring spoons and whisks I own.

But first, a final offering to Nemesis… Recently, for a potluck party, I purchased a one-of-a-kind artist-signed cheese plate, Brie Mons Sire, a baguette and organic black raspberry preserves for guests to assemble.

Perhaps Nemesis has tired of her assault, will accept my humble gift, and allow me to join the world of the cooking.

photo by ndrwfgg

Left on the Savannah ©

 A story by Malati Marlene Shinazy

Several years ago BOBB’s publisher and truly loving sister, shinazy (whose last name I stole at birth), stated the obvious:

“We would have left you on the savannah.”

She was referring to the fact that I was the one child my parents bore who:

  • Was nearsighted, so had to wear glasses starting at age six
  • Inherited my grandmother’s tendency to trip and fall over twigs, pebbles, and other slight raises in the terrain
  • Was smart but often distracted by paying attention to all of the stimuli around me
  • Had super flexible joints, so was constantly dislocating them
  • Cried whenever an adult gave me constructive criticism (any instruction, actually)

Yes, had I not been eaten by whatever carnivores lived 30,000 years ago, my family probably would have looked at this poor sample of a human — and, left me on the savannah…

“This one won’t live. If she does, she doesn’t have a chance to make it to reproductive age.”

  • She’ll fall over the cliff when she learns to walk
  • She’ll fall into the campfire when she learns to run
  • She’ll get lost because she doesn’t pay attention to where she is
  • She’ll be constantly injured and have to be carried around
  • She’ll endanger us all because she can’t take instructions

Yes, I am the myopic, frail, orthopedically challenged exception to the Hardy-Weinberg principal of genetic equilibrium:

Basic Definition: If mutations and migration don’t occur, of four children from the same parents, one will be genetically more similar to the mother, one genetically more similar to the father, two will be some mixture of both.

Thankfully, I wasn’t born 30,000 years ago.  I was born… well, later.

  • I fall over twigs, not cliffs
  • I fall on the sidewalk, not into the campfire
  • I have brilliant orthopedic surgeons
  • I have a navigation system in my car, so I can be constantly lost and still find my way
  • I have learned to take instruction and occasionally harsh criticism… I still cry easily, but also grow and improve

As I read what my dear sister, shinazy, writes about her marathon runs on each continent and her current training to climb Half Dome next month in Yosemite National Park… I can’t help but smile smugly and think:

Ha!  You and our other siblings may be super-smart athletes who can leap tall buildings in a single bound… but, ultimately, I won the big prize:

I was born a Baby Boomer, some time between 1946 and 1964.

And I was not left on the savannah!

 photo by shinazy (the very same shinazy mentioned in this story)

 

WISDOM Wednesday: The Hippie Elite©

A story by Malati Marlene Shinazy

 

I am among a select group of people who happened to graduate high school in and around San Francisco — and then attend one of theUniversity of California campuses in the northern part of the state — during a pivotal point in early Baby Boomer history. Those of us who attended UC Berkeley, UC Davis or UC Santa Cruz, had little idea we were at the epicenter of a time, space and energy vortex for an entire sub-generation. Unknowingly, we were theHippie Elite.

The oldest of boomers already graduated with their Bachelor-of-Something degrees and were deep into social/political movements or getting jobs or going to grad school.  Many of them were either fighting in the Vietnam War or fighting against the Vietnam War.

We were naïve but not neophytes to the massive social changes going on.  We made our statements from the position of uncomplicated and relatively protected lives. Half of our women friends burned their bras.  The other half didn’t wear them.  And, we all registered to vote, the moment we turned 18.

The City became an integral part of our higher education.  We’d hang out in The Haight just to have fun.  We were the ones who followed the first two Timothy Leary tenets, eschewing the third. We didn’t Drop Out.

Back at school, we attended lectures outside, stretched out on blankets, wrote research papers and made it to the Dean’s List.  We also celebrated the conception of Earth Day, became vegetarians and started recycling in earnest.  We chatted with Maharishi Mahesh Yogi (the founder of Transcendental Mediation), Hare Krishna devotees and members of the Black Panthers – all were on campus often.

We hitchhiked to Altamont, the West Coast version of Woodstock, and back to school again.  Many of us drove from campus to San Francisco on weekends to attend concerts at The Fillmore Auditorium, Winterland, or Avalon Ballroom.  We saw every band Bill Graham booked including:

  • The Grateful Dead
  • Jefferson Airplane
  • Santana
  • Janis Joplin
  • Jimi Hendrix
  • The Doors

During school breaks, some of us hitchhiked alone throughout Mexico and Central America without incident.  We felt safe; hitchhiking was just another accepted mode of transport.  Plus, we met other solo travelers, mostly Europeans, and learned first-hand about the cultures of the countries we visited. Riding hot, crowed busses with people and chickens for hours on end was just part of the journey.

Upon writing this story, I realize that being a member of the Hippie Elite is not about “our glory days.”  Living at that particular intersection of time and space was rich and full. It contributed to our adult worldviews and launched us into lives of continual discovery, expansion and personal responsibility. It contributed to the quality of how we express ourselves now as business people, doctors, attorneys, and parents. By a whim of birth date and location, we, the Hippie Elite were fortunate.

photo by teamstickergiant

WISDOM Wednesday: Mother’s Day Godmother©

A story by Malati Marlene Shinazy

Four months pregnant with my second child, I had a vivid dream  — The baby told me clearly that her name was Mary Daniele Erang, and, that she was inheriting all the wisdom of generations of women in our family.

Immediately, I asked my older friend Connie to be her godmother.  Connie was a deeply spiritual writer/poet, with no children of her own.  She gleefully agreed and then instructed me to name the child Jenna Rose.  For five-months I teased her that we planned to name the baby, “Mary Mother-of-God.”

No surprise… she was born looking exactly like Connie:

  •    Beach-ball shaped body
  •    Pursed lips and eyebrows
  •    Wispy reddish blond hair

When I called to tell Connie Mary Mother-of-God had just been born, she slammed down the phone with a quick, “Be right there.” Forty-five minutes later, she burst into the house, panting.

As the sun was lowering into the cold autumn sky, Connie and her goddaughter met face-to-face, and fell in love.

For the next two decades, Connie would immeasurably affect her goddaughter’s life.  Like a tribal ritual, Godmother and I talked, laughed, and argued over nearly every important decision of our daughter’s life.

Connie “allowed” us to name her, approved of my lengthy breast-feeding, and initially opposed sending her to a private girls’ school.  She agreed only after I exhibited research demonstrating the benefits to a girl’s self esteem and achievement.

Violin recitals were Godmother’s proudest early moments. From age 3 – 13, this wild young artist punctuated the baroque musical curriculum with her own passion and flair.

Indeed, she had inherited the gifts not only from her female lineage, as she prophesized in utero, but from Godmother as well:  She was awarded a rarely granted writing scholarship and had her choice of colleges, worldwide.

Connie insisted she consider Rhode Island School of Design (RISD), which is to fine arts what Julliard is to music.  To placate Godmother, our daughter reluctantly flew from CA to RI.

Connie later reported that her goddaughter engaged the admission counselors with several hours of questions and comments.  She was immediately accepted and eventually chose this demanding program.

She studied with honors in Italy, and produced work in most mediums.  The awe-inspiring reflections of her inner world and outer opinion became trophies of Connie’s deep knowledge of her goddaughter. Connie became the proudest and happiest Godmother of all time!

She studied with honors in Italy, and produced work in most mediums.  The awe-inspiring reflections of her inner world and outer opinion became trophies of Connie’s deep knowledge of her goddaughter. Connie became the proudest and happiest Godmother of all time!

Under the weight of her body, Connie’s health waned during those college years.  Nevertheless, she drove six hours to attend RISD’s hot spring graduation on the streets of downtown Providence.

Seeing her child walk the diploma aisle punctuated Connie’s life.  We both sobbed with joyous love and pride.  We held each other’s sweaty arms and later, walked ever-so-slowly to the reception.

During this stroll, I realized that our dream-speaking young woman-daughter fulfilled not only an element of her own destiny that day, but part of Connie-the-Godmother’s as well.

Happy Mother’s Day!

photo by malati marlene shinazy

WISDOM Wednesday: Second Date©

This story written by Malati Marlene Shinazy

It’s spring, almost summer… there’s lot of events to do outside: Live Concerts, Shakespeare in the Park, Arts & Craft Shows, and Car Shows.

It’s also the time you see cute couples everywhere.  Some they are not so cute.  But still, they are everywhere.   My cadre of single girlfriends and I all want to be a member of one of those couples – (only one of the cute couples).

That means: DATING.  Dating for a baby boomer woman is a process that often falls somewhere between having a second job and flinging oneself under a train that has just derailed with cars full of chlorine.  It takes some effort, sometimes a lot of effort.  And, sometimes it’s a total HazMat level disaster.

On occasion, dating it’s an efficient way to fill the pipeline with a list of helpers for next winter’s home repair projects.  Tip: Date a master electrician, not someone whose first career was shoe sales, completed his mid-life crisis, and is now an electrician’s helper.

In Paying Attention, I described the perfect, mouth-watering first date  – the one’s we don’t want to end.  Those are dates that are sure to yield a second walk-on-the beach date, or a third date, called the  “Want to come over for dinner tomorrow?” date … Since I don’t cook, that luscious lure would be uttered by my date.

Most often, there are googolplex numbers of first dates that yield  – well, nothing.  There is no second or third date.  Indeed, there’s no second thought of a second date, or of the person after the first date ends.  They may not be horrible experiences, just not second datable experiences.

At lunch, my girlfriends and I generated a long list of reasons we wouldn’t go on a second date with a man… The items on the list were as varied as the women at the table.

Here are a few items on our “There Won’t Be a Second Date” list:

  • I was bored (this one’s mine)
  • It made me crazy when he continuously used verbal fillers like: “like,” “yea, yea,” “um,” “uh”
  • I couldn’t stand how he spoke with his mouth full
  • He talked only about himself / his car/ his ex …
  • He dressed like a slob
  • He dressed like an dandy
  • He dressed like an aristocrat
  • 50 +/- other reasons

During this rapid fire of idiosyncratic elimination factors, I offered,

“I didn’t like the way he smelled.”

Eureka!  We finally found one upon which we all agreed …  There were variations of this rejection criterion, but we concurred on the basics.  Sometimes, the possibility of a second date was determined by simple mammalian olfactory perception.

Spring is here.  Couples are everywhere.  Single women are dating in hopes they too might become one of the cute couples by summer.  And, this group of now-smarter baby boomer women have just replace the old adage, “Stop and smell the flowers “ with, “Stop and smell the man.

photo by kkirugi

WISDOM Wednesday: Two Grandmothers©

This story written by Malati Marlene Shinazy

If you are raised in a San Franciscan multi-ethnic / multi-cultural family, you automatically get an education in diverse worldviews that most people must study diligently and travel extensively to comprehend.  We had no idea that we were the recipients of a treasure trove of experience that shaped who we would become and continue to be relevant in each of our lives.

Earlier BOBB stories introduced my renaissance grandmother Pauline Josephine Robinet Chaine Kennedy Shinazy, the matriarch of our Gold-Rush pioneer San Francisco clan (see: “A Room of My Own,” “Pauline Shinazy, Artist,” and “Wonder Woman.”)  A consummate seeker of spiritual and political truths, she converted from being a French-Irish Catholic, to the follower of a Guru, to a Socialist, to a Jew.  For my tenth birthday, she gave me a copy of Khalil Gibran’s “The Prophet.”  She refused my request to spend junior-year-abroad in France because she didn’t approve of Charles de Gaulle’s politics.  Still, she took me to Temple to tell me she was traveling alone to Israel immediately before, and during, the Six-Day War.  She was a brilliant, wise, artistic, and spiritually worldly woman.

My maternal grandmother, Casimira Erang Chang Pacheco Smith Price White, Nana, was more modest in her worldly pursuits.  Raised on the province of Pangasinan, Philippines, she married an African-American Army Corpsman and immigrated to the U.S. as a young woman.  After several years in Arizona and San Francisco, she found herself living as a struggling single mother of three young children.  She kept her family afloat by learning how to out-negotiate poultry and vegetable vendors in Chinatown, through the goodwill and charity of her neighbors and the local Catholic Church.  Later, she would marry and adore the man I loved as Grand Father (see Grand Father’s Little Girl).

By the time she was a grandmother, Nana was the woman into whose bosom I could cuddle when I felt sad or just needed affection — way into my 20s.  She was also the only woman I consulted as I was considering giving birth to my first child at home, rather than in a hospital.  When I asked what it was like to have a baby, she admitted,

“Oh, I could feel the baby coming, so I tucked my skirt up between my legs and ran home to get on the bed.” 

There was no need to give me verbal permission.  The naturalness of birthing a child I had intuitively suspected was confirmed by her experience.

She also encouraged me not to let my babies cry, “There’s enough time for crying in life.”  And, to breast feed them for as long as I wanted, “It’s mother’s milk.  It’s good milk.”  I received countless disapproving looks during the times I was negotiating with each of my toddlers about ending the nursing ritual.  But Nana supported me with resolve, “They will stop when they’re ready.”  And, they did.

Two grandmothers.  Two distinctly different worlds.  Two uniquely rich contributions to the person I would I become as a spiritual being, a woman and a mother.

photo by Alex E. Proimos and fradaveccs

 

WISDOM Wednesday: Grand Father’s Little Girl

A Story by Malati Marlene Shinazy

My Grand Father was one of the most important people in my life.  He was the first man I loved and was my life teacher.  While other grandchildren called him Gramps or Granddaddy, I declared our loving attachment by providing him a designation of my choosing.  Only I would call him, “Grand Father.”

He had little formal education.  Instead, Grand Father had street smarts and tenacity.  He was a Merchant Marine during the war, then a Merchant Seaman.  He started from the lowest rungs of the hierarchy, bus boy, and rose to the level of Chief Stewart for international shipping companies.

When I was five years old, Grand Father taught me to read and write so we could correspond during the long months he was off to Hawaii, then Japan, then back again.  His letters were filled with encouragement and the unconditional love only a Grand Father could bestow his “Little Girl.”

Whenever I was fearful I couldn’t accomplish something, and some adult was suggesting I give up, Grand Father would gently scold me in a letter (gently, because he knew I cried easily),

             “ You don’t believe anything anyone else tells you. You are just as smart as everyone else, so you can do anything you put your mind to.”

Months at sea also meant months at home!  Grand Father and I had an exclusive four-note whistle salutation.  As I’d run through Nana’s kitchen asking where Grand Father was, I could hear his half of the greeting coming from outside.  Out I’d run to the top of the steps.  Stop.  Catch my Breath.  Then send my two notes.  We’d continue the volley of whistling until I located him.

Once found, I’d instantly help with whatever task was at hand.  When he’d be doing laundry, Grand Father would hand me an item of clothing from the washtub and I’d feed it through electric rollers which squeezed out excess water … before we hung it on the clothesline.

My habit was to push the hanky, sock, towel, etc., through the wringer too fast — which meant my fingers would be pulled in with the clothes and pinched between the rollers.  Fortunately, the dangerous hand-eating thing would suddenly pop open with a loud onerous sound, and stop.  Grand Father would patiently pat my smashed and reddened fingers, reminding me that I had to feed the beast slowly, carefully, and with attention not to get too close to the rollers.

I’m actually surprised I didn’t end up with gnarled, broken fingers, as inevitably five or six times in every wash cycle, I’d push something through without paying attention to impending danger… until:  “Owwwww!”  Pop!  Loud onerous sound!  And, stop!  Grand Father would give me the patient warning again – and hand me another sock.

Words and actions of unconditional love and encouragement … Grand Father would laugh if he knew how I continue to act as though I can achieve “anything I put my mind to,” despite my fingers getting pinched on occasion.

photo by Bob n Reneeand Molki

WISDOM Wednesday: California Springs

This story written by Malati Marlene Shinazy
     It’s still snowing somewhere in the United States.  It’s still dark in Finland.  In Northern California, however it is Spring.
     Natives of Northern California understand that we have two major seasons:  The Rainy Season and the Dry Season.
     The Rainy Season is divided into
·         Winter (super cold, windy, and torrential rain), and
·         Spring (less cold, sometimes windy, sometimes balmy, and sometimes rainy)
It begins to feel like The Dry Season sometime between April and May, depending on how long the rain sticks around.
     This year, we skipped the Winter half of the Rainy Season and went right into a California Spring…  For me, this is the most glorious time of year.  It’s the time when life is reborn, and all senses are refreshed.
     When I lived in the Sierra Foothills, pastures were filled with offspring calves, born in November, bouncing around and through the winter-worn fences before the ranchers could repair them.  “Cow on the road,” was the most common police call.  On our way to work, we knew to slow around turns because those calves were very likely on their way to – well, nowhere, really; they were just enjoying themselves.
     The cows that didn’t calf in November were gathered together in multiple acre maternity pastures, so wranglers could check on them every few hours.  I once watched for an hour-and-a-half while a cow birthed her calf, then licked it repeatedly until it was able to stand on spindly legs.  What a joy.
     Calves are born in the Spring … But frogs are reborn!  Almost overnight, a cacophony of frog-song emerges from every pond, lake, stream and riverbed.  They too travel through, or rather under, fences, and can often be found on doorsteps or in back yards.  Some species grow so big, so fast, that the Sierra Nevada town of Angels Camp has annual frog jumping contests.  Mark Twain’s short story, “The Celebrated Jumping Frog of Calaveras County” was inspired by these events. 
     My daily spring descent from rangeland, calves and frogs into California’s Central Valley always left me in awe.  As I’d come off the hills, in front of me was a sea of blooming almond trees.  For about 1-1/2 weeks, I was treated to the sweet aroma of almond blossoms, orchards spread ahead as far as I could see in any direction.
     As the hills turn almost chartreuse green and the valleys pink and white, closer to the coast, mustard volunteers sprout up in every untended field.  These meadows of bright golden flowers are nearly blinding.  But they provide one of my most pleasurable memories of California Spring: 
Walking to the center of a field with my young son.  When we found just the right spot, we’d bask in the still cool sunlight, chewing on slightly spicy mustard stocks until we were revitalized.
     Year after year, California Spring renews my spirit.
photo by mfortini & shinazy

WISDOM Wednesday: Roommates

This story written by Malati Marlene Shinazy
As a second born child, with three kids of my own, I like the energy of a house full of people (see previous story, “A Room of Her Own”).
My first roommates were my sisters.  In our room we each had a portable / movable closet, bed, desk and chair.  And, we had our own sofa.  We transformed the configuration of our huge bedroom to meet our regularly changing privacy needs. Sometimes it felt like we lived in three micro-studio apartments.  But, when we were done with homework, we’d invite our brother in and it was party time!
In college, as soon as I could move out of the dorm, I rented a house with four other unconventional like-minded students. We ranged in age from an 18 year old sophomore (me) to a second year microbiology Ph.D. student. We had private bedrooms where we spent most of our study time… And on weekends, it was party time!
Once my children left the nest, I had the opportunity to spend several years living alone. I have successfully learned to enjoy my own company, as all self-help books tell us we must do.  And, I unequivocally Do Not Like Living Alone
My house has a living room separating the master bedroom and its bath from the guest rooms and their bath. I decided to rent a guest room to re-experience another human being coming and going, and have extra cash flow… Sounded good on paper.
I quickly found a young man stationed at the local military camp looking for off-site housing. Immediately, my friends beset me with concerns:
1.    He might be a slob!
2.    He might stiff you on the rent!
3.    He might annoy you and you’ll never be able to get him out!
4.    He might be a mass-murderer!
With a little due diligence, I determined he was not a mass-murderer. Everything else, I’d deal with after he moved in.
The first few weeks with a roommate were not instantly comfortable…
Turns out it’s against my nature to just rent out a room.  I felt bad each time he’d return in the evening and “go to his room.” So, I urged him, “Please, make this your home away from home.”
     > Before long, if one of us made a pot of coffee before dashing to work, we’d leave a note: “Free Coffee.” 
     > When he left all the garage lights on for 48 hours, I requested he mow the lawn – A penalty his wife agreed was appropriate 😉
     > And, the skittish, suspicious-of-everyone cat purred incessantly on the rare occasion my roommate and I watched a movie together.
I never did experience any of the worries my friends enumerated and was genuinely sad when he announced his new promotion included moving away.

I thoroughly enjoyed living with my roommate. Although days or weeks would pass without seeing each other, whenever I came home, it felt like home, not just “house.”

Time to find a new roommate… mass-murderers who are annoying slobs need not apply.
photo by SFC Jose “Joe” Garcia
California Army National Guard

WISDOM Wednesday: Helpful Horoscopes

A Story by Malati Marlene Shinazy
Nancy and Ronald Regan knew there were specific astrological elements they needed to consider before they could make appointments, sign laws, run for president, etc. Before they scheduled the Geneva Summit to talk to the Russians, they made sure it was going to happen at an astrologically auspicious time.
Have you ever had a horoscope that wasn’t exactly, spot-on accurate?
Me either. They always seem to fit enough that I can claim, “Yes, indeed; it was just like that, yesterday.”
But I’m not sure I have Reaganesque confidence that my life is fatalistic — left in the hands of forces ruled by exalted planets, the degree of favorable or difficult aspects, strong angular houses, or succedent or cadent houses, or the relationship between my ascendant and the mid-heaven at the moment of my birth.
Still, on occasion, before my birthday I check my horoscope to make sure I’m ready for whatever it is that’s going to happen the next year.
Ready or Not, Here It Comes.
But, because I’m a Sagittarius, with a Sagittarius rising and moon in Scorpio, every year is projected to be a fabulous year. That, I’m ready for, happy for, believe in….
“Yes, indeed, it’s going to be another great year; my chart says so.”
But I’ve got a nagging question. Why was my astrological chart so reticent during the horrible years, the years when:
1.    My boyfriend left me, or
2.    I got laid off from my job, or
3.    I rear-end an old lady driving a Cadillac, or
4.    The hose from my washing machine burst, thereby flooding the laundry room, guest bathroom and living room – only then to have a gushing interior river follow the laws of gravity down through the heating ducts, across the insulation and into the furnace, causing an electrical short that nearly burned the house down?
My goodness, having some kind of astrological portent would have been helpful on any one of those year.
Had I any indication at all I could have:
1.    Minimized my heartbreak by ditching the boyfriend before he dumped me
2.    Minimized my precipitous plummet into near-poverty by getting a second and third job before losing the first one… Or perhaps replacing the ditched boyfriend with a “Sugar Daddy”
3.    Minimized my obscene out-of-pocket expense in that rear-ender by reducing my auto insurance deductible… or at least learned the fine art of hit-and-run
4.    Sold the house before the hose burst!
I’d be right by the Regan’s astrological side if a horoscope had given me a real “Heads Up, Get Ready, Girl” – so I could side-step or at least buffer some of those challenging years. 
I’d really be a believer if my horoscope instructed me to move my S&P 500 stocks into gold 18 months before I needed to!
I’m ready to believe.  I want to believe.  I want to follow Nancy Regan’s carefully planned timetable for ensuring world peace.  But someone needs to figure out how to adjust the sextile, quadrant, and decan to tell me something other than,
“Hey, you’re a Sag. You always have a great year. Happy Birthday.”
photo by Vectorportal