The universe is trying to fuck with my head.

About a week and a half ago, my son and I ordered Chinese food from a local establishment and it was divinely tasty (Pyng Ho, for you curious Decaturites). Afterward, we broke out the fortune cookies to see what Destiny had to say. Nathaniel cracked his first, and I don’t remember what his fortune was. Then I cracked mine open, to find…nothing. No fortune at all.

We joked around about my lack of destiny, my looming doom, that sort of thing.

Well, last night was the weekly family night, in which he and I and my soon-to-be-ex get together so Nathaniel can still have some of the family dynamic he craves (a nice side effect is, it also allows me and the soon2bx to be around each other in a friendly way, regularly, which I think helps alleviate a good deal of the acid that can build up between people getting divorced). We alternate hosting, and it was her turn and she’d decided we were going to go to Doc Chey’s for whatever remained of their Chinese New Year festivities. Doc Chey’s however was closed for that sacred of sacreds, the Superbowl. A quick discussion of possible alternates led to an eager vote for Pyng Ho from Nathaniel, who was salivating over the memory of their sesame chicken.

So, to Pyng Ho we go.

A mussels appetizer that was just tasty goodness. Shrimp fried rice, sesame chicken, and teriyaki chicken, all split three ways. Mango lemonade for me, a honey-peach smoothie for Nathaniel, hot green tea (that never actually arrived for some reason, and I have to say our server, who wasn’t busy, was brusque almost to the point of rudeness) for the soon2bx. A wonderful meal.

Then, the fortune cookies. Nathaniel went first, read his. Soon2bx was next, read hers. My turn. We made some cracks about my lingering lack of fortune from the last time, then I broke it open.

Inside, there were two fortunes.