My boyfriend and I both got the exact same fortune in our fortune cookies while out to dinner last week. It read: Now is the time to try something new. I’m not superstitious, but do you think this means something?
— Wisdom in sugar
Coincidence in corn syrup:
Ah, ye serendipitous fools.
Aside from holding my breath while passing a cemetery, I’m not superstitious.
And lifting my feet when driving over railroad tracks. Oh, and making penny wishes in moldy mall fountains. And, of course, keeping my mom’s back intact by not stepping on cracks. Also, wearing my dirty college gameday outfit to ensure team success.
Don’t break the mirror, don’t spill the salt, avoid the underbelly of the ladder, keep umbrella etiquette, black cat!
Through my seasoned years, with a pocketful of wishes, I’ve fondled many a dirty bird’s sternum bone (wishbone, laymen).
Which brings me to some sort of point: For the third (third!) time in my life’s days, my husband and I snapped a wishbone in clean half. Among each war, as we gripped the handles in our sweaty Richard Simmons shorts and “Royal Tenenbaums” sweatbands, the top popped clean off — leaving an equal wish for deux.
Whatever the meaning of said (coincidence, superstition, gravity) has — I don’t care. It makes my gentleman lover and I stare at each other wide-eyed and mystified.
(Kentucky Deluxe takes the edge off ruffled nerves.)
So I beseech you to take said lesson learned. You’re kindred souls. The coincidence gave you a jolt in your collective granny panties. You shared a magic moment. You’re special.
(But most likely, you just pulled the same vague stock prophecy printout from Fortunes R’ Us.)
Now go try something new. In bed.
This girl I started dating is allergic to cats and she never comes over because of it. I have a cat and I’ve had them my entire life. I really like this girl and want things to work out but if we ever end up getting married, do I have to say goodbye to kitties forever?
All right meow:
Around the feline companions, as someone who tries to desperately avoid bronchospasm by sucking down an Albuterol aerosol puff, I feel her pain.
Alas, having a fervent hobby of adoring the furry kind (not that furry kind), I feel your pain.
As much as human companions are rife with messy lays, those little fuzzballs are our loyal cohorts. (Except when they mow through a 5-pound smoked lamb roast straight off your counter. Fuckers.)
Don’t lose any pet for anyone. I’ll bitchslap you right across the ovaries.
Your broad has options. Tell her to pop a Zyrtec (and a Midol) and spoon that fuzz.