Mercury in Retrograde

I should’ve bought the lottery tickets the day everything went right (see last post: Today was Suspiciously Smooth), not the day after—when I woke up feeling just confident enough to believe momentum was a real thing. Momentum, it turns out, is fickle as hell.

The first sign appeared as we pulled into the driveway after our usual morning walk. The dogs spotted a cat in the garden and lost their minds. I hit the brakes, slid, and bumped into the concrete wall. The damage will likely cost about a thousand dollars, which feels like a lot to pay for a Tuesday morning attitude. Still rattled and cursing the psycho mutts, I filled the birdfeeders and stepped directly into a pile of dog poop.

When I’m unsettled, I usually cook. It gives me the illusion of control, which is sometimes all a person needs. That day, even the illusion was short-lived. I preheated the oven and put in a few cups of almonds to toast. I pulled apples from the freezer for pie filling, measured flour for pastry, and discovered I didn’t have enough butter. This felt personal. While I stood there considering whether butter was optional (of course not), the smoke detector went off. The almonds were blackened. Smoke filled the kitchen. I burned my hand pulling the tray out because the oven mitt, which looks thick and competent, is a fucking liar. The dogs panicked at the noise, as if this were the moment everything finally became unacceptable.

After the air cleared and the dogs settled, I plonked down at my laptop to catch up on email and the news. An interview request for an article I’m working on had been declined, which means I’m now going to miss a deadline. This has never happened to me before (honest!), which immediately made it feel less like logistics and more like a referendum on my character.

Then the New York Times asked for my password, even though I had been on the site the day before. Fine. I opened the folder where I keep passwords and —WTF. Gone. Deleted? Misfiled? Sent to another dimension? After an embarrassingly long search, I gave up and created a new fucking password. I should have known Trump would be the headline. Down the dark, dank tunnel I went. Eventually, I crawled out, took a double dose of magic mushrooms chased with THC tincture, and decided to collapse on the couch with the hounds and watch a movie.

Except Mercury in retrograde means the TV no longer recognizes the internet. “No connection,” it said, repeatedly, while I did the same thing over and over expecting a different result—which, as we know, means you’re bonkers.

Can I just go to bed at 8 p.m.? Maybe by morning, the planets will have found their proper alignment and moved on. Or at least found someone else to fuck with

.