I made a small purchase yesterday, and the total came to $6.30. I pulled out my wallet so that I could pay in cash, which never happens to me. I rarely have cash and use my credit card for everything. This is Hubby’s way of tracking my purchases. He thinks I don’t know this. I do. We spent the first ten years of our marriage arguing about why I never document my purchases in the check register, and so now the credit card company does it for me. Everybody wins.
When I prepared to pay for my items, I pulled out a wad o’ cash.
I could have paid the $6.30, said thank you, and been on my way . . . but NO. I felt the need to explain.
“We just went to Hershey Park last weekend. That’s why I have all this cash,” I said.
The saleswoman smiled, probably a bit taken aback by my verbal spewage.
“I just didn’t want you to think I’m a drug dealer,” I continued.
“Or a stripper,” I chuckled as I folded my singles.
Please, make it stop.
“You know, we stay-at-home moms have to make some money somewhere!”
I should not be allowed to wander alone in the wild.