Moneeey. It’s a Gas.

I married a man who injects reality into even the most whimsical of conversations.  It is not lack of imagination on his part. In fact, it is an excess of imagination that circles back around until it meets some mundane detail and gets stuck there.

This is why we have had arguments about lottery money that we haven’t yet won and likely will never win.  Well, I say “arguments”, but they are more like lively debates that usually end with me saying, “I hate you.”  For my part, I am irritated with him, not angry really.  But, I do kinda maybe hate him.  A lot.  That’s normal, right?

This a a conversation we had about winning ten million dollars.  Not the huge payout that is on the books now.  Just a paltry ten million. At the start, it resembles any other conversation people have when they are dreaming about having lots of money: we travel more, pay off debt, set up trust funds for family.

When we get all that done, I mention I would like a personal assistant. I am a millionaire’s wife.  Thurston Howell the Third’s wife Lovie DOES NOT schedule her own hair appointments.  Why should I?  By the way, be warned.  Money changes me into the worst person ever.  Not Trump bad but pretty awful.  Don’t get me wrong, I still desperately want the opportunity to see it happen to me in real time.

“We can’t afford a personal assistant,” he says.

“What?  Why not?”

“She has to have health insurance.  We would have to provide it.”

“No, she’s fine.  Young and healthy.  She ain’t diggin’ ditches – she’s making a few phone calls.”  (Notice how theoretical rich Debbie has begun to see Walmart’s point?  I haven’t shopped there in years, but I am softening on them.)

“Now, you’re not like that.”

“Well, can’t we pay her less and still give her insurance then?” (Here,  I could easily be a member of Walmart’s legal team, discussing options.)

Once again, he shoots me down. “No, ’cause you have to offer a competitive wage.  We want a good one, right?”

Now I begin grasping at straws, “I don’t know.  I can’t even have a dream?  I do not want to ever walk into Kroger again after I am rich.  Can we just win more money?”

“We didn’t.  We won the ten million.”  He is such an asshole.

“Well, then I do not care about this hypothetical woman. I’m pretty sure she’s stealing my shit.”

“No, she’s not.  You misplaced those earrings.  You’ll find them.”

“Are you fucking her?”  (I’m certain he is.  Why is he so worried about her health?  We hardly know this bitch?)

“No.”  (He totally is.)

It shames me deeply to say it, but by the end, I’m usually hiring an undocumented worker and threatening her with deportation.  It is not pretty.  In my defense, she shouldn’t be stealing from me and screwing my husband behind my back.  Why she gotta be like that, yo?

Today, I am still the same person you all know and love.  I want the best for everybody in healthcare and immigration.  I am supporting Bernie Sanders. But, somewhere deep down in the furthest region of my soul…I am still not a republican, are you kidding me? But, dammit, I just want someone to do my grocery shopping!  Is that so wrong???!!!

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