The Mister cooked tonight. He brought home Foon Ying. Foon Ying means “Welcome” in Cantonese, but it also means I didn’t hafta cook, and that’s the important part.
Before we opened our fortune cookies, The Mister explained to the girls how this happens.
“Mama and Daddy have been doing this for…well, since we can remember.”
“Yeah. And I get the worst fortune cookies.”
“She who irons today has time to mend tomorrow.”
“Why you no eat meat in lo mein?”
“Flies never visit an egg that has no crack.”
“That’s enough dumplings for you.”
“Too much wood.”
I scream to disappointed Chinese grandmother, “Bitch, you don’t know my life!”
“You’re so handsome!”
“Your wife so lucky!”
“Kill one to warn a hundred.”
“You are destined for greatness!”
“Your dick is the biggest!”
Even if we trade, he will always get the good fortune, while I get the crap.
Tonight, his read, “You will conquer obstacles to achieve success.”
Moo’s read, “Great thoughts come from the heart.”
Sassy’s read, “You are welcome at every gathering.”
Tonight, my fortune cookie was empty.
This isn’t good for my anxiety. An amateur anxiety-sufferer would look this up on WebMD, you know. But I’m not going to look it up, because I already know I am dying. Who could be wiser than the disappointed Chinese grandmother I never had?
I can’t even complain about the stupidity of the message, because now it’s like disappointed Chinese grandmother has given up on me!
I stop yelling to her. Instead, I plead, “Please, if you’re going to give me the silent treatment, stick an Ativan in there, will ya?”