that's so retrograde

Fucking Mercury, man.

Astrologers will tell you that Mercury is in retrograde nine or so weeks a year, and during these nine weeks, things are pretty much a mess when it comes to communication, technology, and travel.

In my opinion, this drastically understates the matter: I find that when Mercury is in retrograde, everything in my life goes straight to everlasting shit.

Whether or not this is a self-fulfilling situation is a question I choose to ignore.

But for the past twelve days, the tiniest and most annoying of planets has wreaked some serious fucking havoc on my life, which is why I haven't posted in such a shamefully long time.

(It is also, I suspect, the explanation for the release of Failure to Launch. That shit just does not happen during astrologically benevolent times. Even by Hollywood's increasingly low standards. You just know that everyone involved with that film is in a full-body cringe right now. Even Terry Bradshaw.)

(No, scratch that: especially Terry Bradshaw.)

Now, I realize that I might not seem the type to take much stock in astrological prognostication. I mean, I'm the daughter of economists. When I told my dad what I was going to major in at college he sort of rolled his eyes and mumbled something about "quantitative hand-waving" and "intellectual mumbo-jumbo". And it's not like I was suggesting a degree in Applied Folk & Myth or anything: I majored in political science.

But I'm a contrarian at heart. And since I was too much of a goody-goody in high school to engage in any real rebellion, I instead needled my atheistic, academic family by developing a deep affection for mysticism, witchcraft, and the occult. I collected tarot cards and learned to read palms. I cast spells and read horoscopes and was, like, totally obsessed with The Craft.

(Not that anyone should have to justify an obsession with The Craft. That's just good sense.)

I started visiting psychics in high school, too, digging for information on past lives and future loves and whatnot. One time I allowed myself to be convinced that I was being trailed by a vaguely inappropriate ghost - so much so that I spent the majority of an AP English exam covering up my legs, shifting about nervously, and glaring at a particularly suspicious patch of floor.

In retrospect, it was probably just the medium's way of telling me that my skirts were too short.

Since then, I've given up on annoying my family and have devoted myself instead to annoying my friends. And anyone with the bad sense to read my blog. Even so, I haven't quite managed to leave my spiritual self behind. I still read my horoscope religiously and occasionally I'll go see a psychic. And I still have a truly unforgivable tendency to say - in all seriousness - things like "Oh my God, he's such a Pisces."

(My favorite astrologer, by the way, is a woman named Susan Miller. Delightfully, she feels really bad when she gives you less-than-pleasant news. Like: "I'm so sorry to have to tell you this, dear Aquarius, but the next two weeks are going to see a catastrophic climate shift and widespread destruction. As the water bearer you will be, I am afraid, one of the first to go.")

But you know what? It's actually sort of nice to be able to ascribe, on occasion, my generally asshatted ways to something other than inherent stupidity. An excess of reason is, after all, one form of insanity, so why not let myself believe from time to time that I'm at the mercy of some sort of all-powerful planetary force? It may be irrational, but at the end of the day it's pretty fucking therapeutic.

And if there's one thing that anyone trying to get by in this city needs, it's therapy.

If you don't trust me, well, consider this: even my extraordinarily logical father has come to recognize the possible benefits of occasional mystical vapidity.

Not too long ago he was dealing with a few non-trivial health problems and for a couple of months he was pretty nervous - I could tell because he kept making really uncomfortable jokes about how he wanted me to dispose of his ashes. ("Dump them out with the confetti at the end of the RNC, kiddo - maybe I can infect the Republicans with good sense.") But then, one day, all of a sudden, he sounded better, calmer. I asked him if he'd heard from the doctor, and he told me no, but he had heard from his friend Todd up in Vancouver. Apparently Todd's newly formed coven had cast a get-well spell for my father.

"I realize that we have some of the best doctors in the world here," he said, "but you know what? It can't quite compare to knowing that you have a gay Wiccan coven on your side. I think I'm going to be fine."

And he was.

And even though I've had a week of unremitting illness and confusion and disappointment and chaos, I can find some comfort by telling myself that once Mercury returns to normal, my life will follow.

Mercury may only be retrograde nine weeks a year, but bullshit can be bliss all year round.