Caught up in the dramas of the imminent family wedding,
Bettie turns her hand to fortune-telling, but fails to predict an important
date in her personal calendar.
Aw, crap, diary! What a pain in the proverbial patookus.
Today is the anniversary of me and Big Frank tying the knot… and boy, is it one
hell of a tie that binds. And I forgot it. While I was knee-deep in drafting my
Bride’s Mother’s Sister’s speech, Hubby #3 sidled up and handed over a badly
wrapped gift that turned out to be a Buy-One-Get-One-Free Tattoo Gift Pack.
Now, I know that it’s usually traditional for the husband to forget such
auspicious dates and the wife to point this out until Doomsday, but
I’ve got a lot on my plate right now…
For a start, my latest project of papering over the virtual
cracks at 39-4-Ever.com, the world’s largest online casino for women with more
chins than Lotto wins, is to expand my talents into the spirit world. I’ve now
been pressganged into standing in for the laid-off Mystic Tracy, making me the
resident psychic’s sidekick. Still, with grannie being an infamous swamp
sorceress, it’s fair to say there’s always been a bit of hocuspocus in our gene
pool. She used to conjure up all kinds of rubbish and it’s the same thing here,
except I predict when they’ll meet their Mr Right. And when I’m wrong I just
blame Ma Bell for the bad connection. Y’see, it’s amazing how sensitive these
mystical cosmic messengers can be. Especially with a hangover. Actually, Hubby
#3 could get a monkey to do this job, and probably would if only he could find
one with a pinchable bottom.
Too bad Tracy’s Magic 8-Ball couldn’t have clued me in to
our first anniversary. Or that, to make it up to him, giving Big Frank his pick
of fine dining establishments on this backward rock meant we’d be off to his
favorite – Pavarotti’s Pasta &
Pizzeria – which is about as Italian as the Pope.
Greeted by the most miserable waitress in Christendom, we
were manoeuvred to a gingham and parmesan-covered
table and handed the laminated menu. The daily specials looked anything but, so I was already reaching for the drinks
list. Because, in my extensive experience, I’ve long since reached that point
where the wine is far more important than the food.
Predictably, Hubby #3 went for his usual; a
pizza-with-everything they call ‘The Three Tenors,’ which at first is a mystery
until the bill arrives and you see it costs thirty frickin’ pounds.
Already troughing
into his primo, he announced that the pancetta wasn’t fit for a pig. “No
problem,” I said, “I’m sure if you ask nicely they can fix you some that is.”
There was a pleasing pause as our entres arrived – his
28-inches of death by carbs and my vino. When he announced, between bites, “I
want to talk about your affairs,” I almost choked on my Chardonnay. Thankfully,
he just meant my recent expense account purchases, but I countered with the
line, “The only thing I cheat on is my taxes.” Which ended that little tête-à-tête.
“Are you done with that?” he next asked pointing at my uneaten breadsticks,
to which I replied that, considering it was our anniversary, couldn’t he for
once just surprise me with a compliment. He thought for a minute, looking me up
and down, then said, “You are the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen… wearing
that dress.”
