Sunday Scribblings asks what is my sign. I hope this is not a prelude to asking me for a date. With two sons and a husband, who has time for a date?
I'm a Cancer. This reveals that my birthday is coming up. It does not obligate me to tell you how old I am. If I tell you my Chinese astrological sign, you could guess my age, but after all, who really cares. We can all sing a rousing chorus to Happy Birthday to me, ok?
Being a Cancer makes me crabby and moody, a moon child. I'll buy that. The rest of the stuff means nothing to me. I really don't care to read my horoscope. I don't even find it entertaining.
My Chinese sign predicts that I'm a good match with my husband. That's good. I looked it up and I'm an Ox. I'm not built like an ox and really don't think my personality is like that of one. I'm not stolid or calm. High-strung probably would fit me better. I guess I might gore you if you make me see red. Here is the interpretation of the Ox from one web site:
People born in the Year of the Ox are patient, speak little, and inspire confidence in others. They tend, however, to be eccentric, and bigoted, and they anger easily. They have fierce tempers and although they speak little, when they do they are quite eloquent. Ox people are mentally and physically alert. Generally easy-going, they can be remarkably stubborn, and they hate to fail or be opposed. They are most compatible with Snake, Rooster, and Rat people.
I think I like the Chinese Zodiac better than the traditional western one. I also admit to liking the fortunes in fortune cookies. I've even been known to save one or two. My favorite fortune that I kept in my wallet for years stated: "Your lover will never want to leave you." The fortune lasted a lot longer than the relationship. The one that said that there are other fish in the sea was more apt.