20nothing.com

You could not pay me to be a housewife. Mainly, because no one would ever hire me to do such a skilled job. But, somewhat secondary, I would never put myself in a position where my day involved only washing gross dishes.

With nothing to do but wash gross dishes, I sat at my computer and watched YouTube videos. With no money, I drank scotch on the rocks and conserved my cigarette butts.
“Diet Coke costs two dollars. Why don’t you just buy some?” my boy friend, who has a housewife and therefore hasn’t been to a grocery store in…ever, asked me.
“Sweetheart,” I took a sip. “When I say I have no money, I mean that I have No Money. You know, like the number before one.”
“There isn’t a number before one.” He is an accountant.
“Exactly.”
People who claim to have no money, but who actually have hundreds of dollars annoy me [almost] more than people who wear pleather pants. They are the people who interpret having “no money” as “only one bottle of Moet tonight, unfortunately.” If I had the finances for lighter fluid, I would fire bomb them.

LA Girl Friend arrived home and I had failed to wash the gross dishes.
“I am a bad wife,” I said through a conserved cigarette. I washed out a saucepan and cooked her Ramen Noodles for dinner to try and redeem myself.

I would walk five miles for money. I would probably drive five hundred more if I had a car. Suffering from caffeine withdrawal and the scary reality that my cigarette supply was running low, I walked just two miles to a bank to try and convince them to give me money.
“You know you can’t actually do that?” my financially savvy boy friend foiled my plan.
“Why not? John Dillinger did.”
“Ummm…”
“Ok. So now is not the time to take me literally. I have zero dollars but I am not literally going to hold up a bank.”
Armed with a horny Chihuahua and Australian money I had been saving in case of an emergency, I walked to the bank to redeem it for Diet Coke and cigarettes. The money, not the puppy.
“Is that your dog? You can’t bring dogs in here,” the bank clerk announced when I walked through the doors with Mr Kitty and his constantly erect penis.
“Please pretend it is just a hairy baby. I will only be a second.”
Because everyone who works at a bank is, essentially, a functioning retard (Aside: Look to Wall Street for confirmation) who failed to get a job at some place with opportunity like McDonalds, Mr Kitty was accepted as an infant and I became the first person in months to leave a financial establishment twenty dollars richer.

When ones dreams are bigger than their bank balance, looking for employment becomes the poor mans business lunch. Days are spent job hunting (an entirely free enterprise, thankfully), drinking cheap bourbon out of plastic cups (no? just me?) and crying into an ashtray because Spencer Pratts life has been validated like a valet parking stub while your life is [see above].
“Marry someone rich,” my nanna used to ingrain in me. She married a farmer and regretted it from twenty minutes before the wedding. “You end up hating them anyway. You may as well get some nice shoes out of it.”
I have often wished that I didn’t have big dreams, and could deal with life in – sorry, next to – an oven. But unfortunately, I was cursed with goals. And being a housewife isn’t one of them.

Walking back from the bank, I passed a truck that advertised a business importing African Tea Pots. Presumably, it was the business owner who almost hit me and Mr Kitty as we were crossing the street on a caffeine high.
“That was someone’s dream?” I asked the puppy. “Furthermore, it supports them enough to drive a car?”
Mr Kitty was exhausted from the walk and I had to endlessly apologize for not being a trader of Third World kitchen appliances so that I could drive him around instead.
But, rather than feeling like a failure because my dream only drives my budding alcoholism, I clutched my twenty dollars with a new sense of assurance. Because, if someone can legitimately call themselves an African Tea Pot Importer, there has to be a possibility that I will one day call myself Employed. Someone will hire me. And, somewhat secondary, my dream will come true to.

I arrived home and made myself caffeinated tea. And drank it out of a clean glass.