Fortune Cookie Futures
A few days after Terry and I moved in together, we hit on a scam that would ensure that we saved money and continued to enjoy regular meals, even although we were no longer living with parents. The plan was stunning in its simplicity: we would have dinner at our respective parental homes on at least one day each week. We have worked this scam pretty successfully ever since, and so it is that on Saturday evenings we can always be found at my parents’ house, where we eat all their food, drink all their wine (OK, I drink all their wine…), have furious arguments about Clinton/Obama and try to leave Rubin behind by “accident” when we leave. (That part of the plan has never come off. We’re working on it.)
This Saturday night, however, my parents were in London, at a wedding, and so Terry and I were forced to feed ourselves. Naturally, we decided to eat out.
We headed to our local Chinese restaurant, where I instantly managed to pull off my usual trick of being by far the most ridiculously overdressed person in the room, simply by wearing a skirt. (WHY? Why do people nowadays think jeans-and-a-t-shirt is the appropriate outfit NO MATTER WHAT? Why does no one ever dress up any more? Why do I persist in the belief that I am actually living in a black and white movie, meaning that I always end up looking like an extra from Breakfast at Tiffany’s when everyone else is in – yes! – jeans-and-a-t-shirt? Except for that one time when I thought I’d try to avoid sticking out like a sore thumb for a change and went out in jeans and a t-shirt, only to find that everyone else was dressed like extras from Breakfast at Tiffany’s. Gah.)
Anyway, at the end of the meal the waitress brought us fortune cookies, and we went through exactly the same thing that always happens when Terry and I are given fortune cookies. Here is Terry’s fortune:
OMG! He will soon meet someone special! Who will obviously not be me, on account of his having already met me, and my being “spechul”, not “special”. Eeek! When will this meeting-of-the-special-person occur, I wonder? Should I stop him going to the gym? Should I perhaps try and stop him from going out at all, or is this meeting inevitable, and I am actually just The First Wife? OMG!
Here is my fortune:
So, basically my husband is about to meet Someone Special, and I, meanwhile, need advice from a cookie on how to “look and feel younger”. Great.
Seriously, this is the same kind of crap we always get from fortune cookies. One time I swear to God Terry’s said something like, “You should totally rule the world, dude, because you are amazing!” and mine said “You suck, by the way”. Another time – and I am honestly not joking here – my fortune cookie said that I would face terrible hardship in life, but would survive it if I was lucky. Because that’s totally the note you want to end your fun meal out on, isn’t it? GOD. Who thinks this stuff up? (And that night, Terry’s cookie said something about puppies and kittens and him one day ruling the world.)
Anyway, thankfully my parents will be boarding their flight home any minute now, so our Saturday nights will be back to normal next weekend. And I, meanwhile, will be ever-vigilant and always on the lookout for Someone Special. That bitch.