Fool Moon Rising

The Powerball is at $145 million.  Good luck to everyone out there, we have the same chances of winning.

When I first moved back to St. Louis, I had the option of living with my parents until I could scrape together some savings.  I’d moved back because the person I’d married thought it would be a fantastic idea to spend my entire checking account on alcohol, so obviously I had very little money available to me.  What I did have was spent on movers (tip based on personal experience: if you’re ever going to move cross country, movers cost just as much as and cause far less stress than renting a U-Haul, as said U-Haul will inevitably break down/spew smoke/get repeatedly searched by immigration agents in the mountains) and an apartment.  Like I said, I had the option of moving in with my parents, but it was only when I’d moved more than 900 miles away that we started getting along.  When I moved 2,000 miles away, it was like were almost friends.

I’ve never been sure how my friends managed to continue living with or move back in with their parents.  I was willing to get three jobs and exercise a monk-like frugality in order to live on my own.  Yes, I did occupy a scummy little railroad flat where I fell through the rotted balcony and I could hear a neighbor shitting across the airshaft every morning, but it was still mine.  No sharing the bathroom with my mother.  No being told to vacuum by my father.  No roommates stealing my generic brand cereal, which, by the way, was my primary source of nutrition in the days when I had no money for groceries.

(Okay, fine, I did go to the parents’ house to do laundry every Sunday, but it was after everyone was asleep and all I did was sit quietly and read.  I am an excellent choice of progeny.)

The jobs came soon enough, but there was a period of about a month where I was totally unemployed.  During that time, I thought of things I could do while I waited for an(y) offer.  One of the things I thought about doing was tarot readings.

Look, I was 24.  I’d just spent the last 2 ½ years of my life being emotionally stunted by some idiot to whom I’d decided to legally leash myself and I needed some time to be ridiculous and entertain weirdo ideas.  Besides, I’d bought the tarot deck when I was in high school and some of them have really cool artwork.


I was even thinking about business cards at one point, and being a compulsive student, had started a binder with tarot meanings and card formations.  I’m not sure whatever happened to that binder, but I know that one day I realized: How the fuck am I ever going to do legit tarot readings when I can’t remember what 90% of the cards even mean?

Then I thought: Christ, pot-smoking hippies can remember this stuff and I can’t?  How am I supposed to get any job with this kind of mental handicap?

The tarot reading idea was abandoned.  Well, at least for profit.  It remained an entertaining party trick and an excellent way to hit on boys.  Being as pragmatic as I am, it was also fun to have one bohemian – ahem – card up my sleeve whenever someone (me included) thought I might be some sort of Logic Robot.

I found my deck the other day.  Didn’t even know I still had it.  Realized it’s one of the few things I own that’s made it through 4 cross country moves, 5 apartments, 1 marriage, and the way I lose my mind when I’m just so sick of looking at everything, let alone imagine how I’m ever going to pack it into boxes.  And you know, I don’t drink nearly as much as I did back then.  I’d tone down the dork factor and forgo the binder, but I’m sure that if I really tried (or if 2nd job mutiny transpires, possibly more on that later), I could definitely divine bullshit to people who don’t know any better.

About erineph

I'm Erin. I have tattoos and more than one cat. I am an office drone, a music writer, and an erstwhile bartender. I am a cook in the bedroom and a whore in the kitchen. Things I enjoy include but are not limited to zombies, burritos, Cthulhu, Kurt Vonnegut, Keith Richards, accordions, perfumery, and wearing fat pants in the privacy of my own home.
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