Have you ever wondered how rich people spend the Fourth of July? It’s not that different, really. Just bigger and more expensive with 100% pure Angus beef instead of ground chuck. Oh, and it comes with pretty cool inflatable toys to keep the kids busy while the parents get happy at the bar. Maybe that “happiness” explains the inordinate lack of child supervision. I wait tables, get drinks, clear plates. I don’t baby-sit. If your five-year-old wants to enter a sugar-induced coma by gorging on Klondike bars, that is your affair. And I am sure that you signed something to that effect when you joined the country club. If not, I am sure that our lawyers can fit that clause in somewhere.
Still, I am glad that you had such a good time. The blue-grass band played the correct American classics, the barbeque exceeded expectation, and the snow-cone machine was a family-friendly hit. This is your privilege of moneyed happiness. All you want and more.
That is my job: to create the impossible. Whether you want a dish the chefs have never heard of, or need a Beefeater Gin and Tonic in a large glass, extra lime, extra Tonic, and NO straw, then that is what you get. The smile is extra.
It struck me as odd tonight when a couple at the table “welcomed me” to the country club. Though I acted as their hostess, for all practical purposes I suppose they were right: It is their club. One might as well say that I am their guest. And they pay for that privilege too. Money may not necessarily buy happiness, but it buys a Hell of a lot of other stuff.
Amen, baby! I speak as one who’s just volunteered for downward mobility–to wit, sixish years as a societal parasite (specifically, a paid bookworm), followed by a job search of lengthy duration and little hope, concluded with a despairing marriage to someone who’s independently wealthy enough to pay all my bills at the Seminary Co-Op Bookstore.