Commentary: To predict or to not? Is that the question?

Like many folks, I read the daily horoscope — you know, on my way to the bridge column. If astrology predicted when we should jump in bed, cover up our head and not get up till the next morning, a lot of frustration might be spared.

My BFF Marian and I planned months ago for me to visit her. A year’s passed since she moved to Las Vegas to be near her son’s family, and we were long overdue for griping about our kids.

If I’d been skilled in the arts of astrology, could I have predicted what was coming?

Would I be able to check the previous alignments of the planets to explain why the heck that week was just plain ill-fated?

Or would I pull out my charts, take up my compass, and plot the most perfect week — for everything to go wrong?

My auto dealership has a hub where my car can be serviced while I am gone, and a shuttle to take me to the airport and pick me up when I return. What luxury! All I had to do was give the woman on the phone the list of services to be done while I was away, arrive 40 minutes before I needed to be at the airport, and everything would be taken care of in my absence.

The morning of the flight, I was fully prepared. OK, almost fully prepared. I entered the destination into my GPS and headed up Bristol. I made the U-turn at Birch, and “You have reached your destination” said the GPS.

What? Where? A Burger King? A car rental agency? I saw nothing that said the name of the dealership.

Around the block I went. Twice. This is not your ordinary city block. These streets have been designed to keep traffic out of a residential neighborhood and further disrupted by a freeway.

By the second time around, I was crying. Fortunately the dealership was not far from where the hub was supposed to be, so I drove there.

“Help me! Help me!” I sobbed, nothing like a strong Disney heroine.

Ten minutes later a sympathetic helper had led me to a tiny building on Bristol with a classy, low-impact sign on its front, nothing that would catch the eye of a first-timer. Any non-classy numbskull would put the sign on the side, where people can see it coming —not need to turn their heads due right while driving past it!

Eventually I stopped crying and my flight and I left.

I settled in to read the paperback I’d brought from my stack of nice new books. I soon realized I’d already read the book, after a friend’s glowing recommendation inspired me to buy it a second time.

I would buy a different book in San Francisco (anything to avoid LAX).

On time, I arrived in Las Vegas. The last time I’d flown into McClarran Airport was in the 1960s. Such a sweet airport — like Lockheed-Burbank used to be.

Holy, Nellie! It’s as big as LAX now!

I called Marian and told her the number of the baggage carousel, not realizing I should have told her which terminal. While I waited, I continued reading the second inadvertently already-read book of my trip.

It was an hour before Marian found me. (I’d turned my phone off to save juice to call for pick-up upon my return.)

Marian and I enjoyed an evening of chatting, feasting on crackers and cheese and veggies and an entire bottle of a very nice pinot noir, intending to spend the next three days in our jammies, catching up. Heaven, right? Well, the next day was like that.

At midnight, I began throwing up. In the morning I fell faceplant-style on Marian’s garage floor and threw up again on the way to urgent care.

I got a stop-vomiting shot for “the little flu that’s going around.”

The rest of our visit I lay on Mar’s couch, and she served me tea and chicken broth while we overdosed on MSNBC and CNN. Poor Mar, playing nursemaid for two days.

Home at last! Service on the car performed — but no new tires. No time saved on that.

My neighbor saved me the newspapers, and I first looked at them to see if the Pilot had published my story. (It had!) Next I read the back horoscopes for signs that this had been an unfavorable time for Leos to go visiting. (No such indication.)

The following day I tended to what accumulated while I was away. I entered the monthly payables in Quicken and pulled out the printer’s paper drawer to place the checks in it. Oops, too fast. The drawer fell out. And I couldn’t get it back in.

I got the flashlight to see what was in the way and opened the door to the toner cartridges. That didn’t help, plus I couldn’t close the door to the cartridges. Is this printer-karma for what I wrote about cartridges?

Now Marian has the “little flu.” If not for us finding the urgent care, I’d think the universe is being utterly unfair.

It’s a new week. I made an appointment to get new tires, and Brian should be here early this afternoon to put the printer back together.

But how do I know if it’s safe to get into the shower?

Author LIZ SWIERTZ NEWMAN lives in Corona del Mar.