Not me. Definitely not me. I hate millionaires. I spit on their leather Jimmy Choo shoes and barf in their Louis Vuitton handbags, because my shoes and bags are better. Even though they might be from Target. Even though they sometimes squeak when I walk. Even though things tend to get lost inside my purse’s ripped liner.
Whatever. I like rips. I like squeaks. I like digging around for lost lipstick for a full thirty minutes. But I do not like millionaires. And I certainly do not like mega-ones.
So it was that when I woke up on Saturday morning to find out that someone else—not me—was now an uber-bajillionaire, I didn’t care at all. If the phrase “I didn’t care at all” translates into “I’m so freakin’ jealous.” And then when I found out that three people were sharing the money, I nearly turned green with it. Envy, that is. Because that reality hit even harder. Three people were now overnight gazillionaires? And one of them lives in a state that touches mine? If only I were from Kansas (now there’s a line I never thought I’d type), it totally could’ve been me. If only I’d picked all different numbers, I totally could have won. But apparently I suck at picking numbers, ‘cause not even one of mine matched the winning ticket.
And that’s why kids should really pay more attention in math. If my story can help even one child study harder in school, then my pain and suffering will have been worth it. Work hard, kids. Apply yourselves. Because you never know when you might need the gift of math later in life. Like, when it comes time to gamble.
Okay, so maybe that isn’t the best life lesson ever.
So with my lottery fantasies dashed (I was gonna take a trip to Europe. Backpack across Australia. Have a full-body wax, just ‘cause I could. Hire a maid. A chef. A gardener) I fell headlong into reality and spent this weekend planting flowers. Without a gardener to help me. Life. It just isn’t fair.
But alas, my husband and I banded together, and now my back yard has transformed itself from a scene straight out of Sanford and Son to something I can now walk into without cringing. We planted trees. Flowers. Herbs that I bought at Home Depot because they were having a rockin’-sale. Cilantro was half-off! Tomatoes were half-off! Basil was half-off! Peppers were half-off! And Sam’s had a do-it-yourself garden thingy for—not half off—but for cheap!
So I bought all of it. And it’s still sitting there on my back porch. Staring at me. Waiting…hoping for someone to plant it and give it a home. But I haven’t yet, because really…I’m kinda afraid to. Because what do I know about gardening? What do I know about cilantro? What do I know about peppers?
Not much, that’s what.
A chef totally would have known.