The fantastic house I'm currently still house-sitting is a lot more conducive to entertaining than my own apartment is---mostly because there is a dining room! and a dishwasher! and, you know, heat!---so last night two of my friends came over in their pajamas for a ceremonial evening of Thinly-Veiled Bitching About People We Don't Like, spinach pizza, and Prosecco. Which I rather think is one of the world's most excellent combinations, don't you? There was also goat cheese and two-bite vanilla cupcakes and mango sorbet and much, much, much dancing to the Thriller video. Because we refused to call our evening something horribly twee like a Girlie Night, we decided it would instead be a "Crazy Fun! Party", which is something that needs to be said in a faux German accent. With jazz hands. And I am awesome at doing faux German accents, since half of my extended family have real ones.
But this was no ordinary Crazy Fun! Party. Yes, there was merriment and gossip and tipsy synchronized dancing, but the main event was to get a little peek into our futures, to PLAN OUR LIVES as it were. And how were we to do this? With serious discussions and soul-searching and perhaps a few tarot cards? Oh no. We were to do this with a rousing game of MASH.
Surely you remember MASH? You must. Across the top of a piece of paper, you write the letters "M-A-S-H"---which stand for mansion, apartment, shack, and house---and then you ask one person for five boys' names (four can be crushes, one has to be that pocket-protactor-wielding young man with the weak chin and the constantly runny nose, oh don't pretend like you didn't have one in your class), as well as five jobs, five cars, and five locations, two each of which must be less than desirable. Then the resident soothsayer starts drawing a spiral and the person whose life she's deciding says "stop" when she wants her to stop, and then she counts up how many spaces are in between the lines of the spiral---which, surprise! is how many children you're going to have---and then she goes around the piece of paper, counting to the number you've involuntarily decided upon, crossing off your hopes and dreams (and if you're lucky, the pocket protactor guy) and determining, by process of elimination, what the outcome of your future will be.
And let me just say that I might as well kill myself right now. Because while Elle will live in Positano, Italy with Matthew McConnaughey and their seven children, working as a champion horse breeder and driving an Aston Martin in British racing green, and Ellen will be an English professor in Sheepscot, Maine, driving a black Range Rover with her husband Timothy Hutton in the passenger seat, I am destined for an entirely different fate.
Despite the fact that I will be working as a receptionist at a car dealership, my only mode of transportation will be a rusty orange bicycle. Which I will drive through Toadsuck, Arkansas, home to the shack I share with my husband who---even though I QUITE CLEARLY had Jared Leto on the list---will be my current boss. Who's very nice and everything, but far too avuncular to be someone with whom I'd have eight kids. Or for whom I would ever move to Toadsuck, Arkansas.
In the spirit of benelovence, Elle announced this morning that I could have a do-over. But apparently I just can't catch a break, because now I am to be a cashier at Party City in Uzbekistan. Sure, I'll drive a silver Mercedes SL500 to work, and I'll have Gavin Rossdale and our four children to come home to, but seriously? I just don't know if that makes up for it.