Divorce makes people poor. I hate being poor. I hate it, hate it, and suck at it. As a matter of fact, when there is ever a discussion of money, my money, family money, extended family money, family of origin money, I usually bawl. I have no idea why, but I often dissolve into tears and this started when I was a little girl. I have always hated to talk about money!
Maybe it is a Southern woman thing. We don’t talk about money.
Just like we don’t talk about oral sex.
Well, we do. But we call that,
“Gettin Jewelry”.
We talk about work (we will work hard now), and men, and our men, and other women’s men, and other women’s problems (bless her heart), and how our camellias are growing, and the new recipe that Jeannie served at Bunko the other night, and our children, and the PTA, and some of those awful pushy bitches that work with the PTA, and what week we are going to the beach this summer, and coordinating weekends at the lake, you get the drift. What you don’t see in that list is money. Unless we are saying something like,
“And did you see that she married that rich doctor and now she has more money than GOD!”
or
“She lost all her money when she got divorced because of that unfortunate thing with the yard boy. She may have to throw down a mattress in the back room at Zinnies to get to the beach this summer, bless her heart!”
Now I’m poor and I hate it! I need to win the lottery. But I don’t play because truly I am sort of a pessimist. Or I need a rich relative that I don’t know well and so won’t grieve, to kick off. But I don’t have any.
All of mine look like this.
And I’m too fat to throw down a mattress and expect any takers.
Stupid Zoloft made me crave carbs!
Bless my own heart!!
Cuckoo Momma, You crack me up! (But sadly, I know exactly of what you speak, bless your heart.)
xo
D. A.