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When Stoners* Attack; or This Story Makes Me Look Like a Tewtel Betch.

June 12, 2008

Robot Boy and I keep our money separate, and always have.  We both prefer it that way, not least because it means that we never argue about the moolah.

Except when we do.  Which is rare, but we did recently, while at the grocery store.  Klassy. 

Now, RB has always made more money than I have.  I’ve been in graduate school for…eons, it seems, and my support (fellowships, etc.) has never come close to his salary.  He also grew up better-off than I. 

We were middle-class (never mind how generic that term is for the moment) and we never went hungry or anything, but my father was occasionally out of work, and money was always tight on my mom’s teacher’s pay.  We were coupon clippers and bargain hunters and penny pinchers.   I paid for my own college w/ scholarships and crappy summer jobs.  Dad would send a $100 birthday check, and Mom might by me groceries if she came to visit, but I’ve been pretty much financially independent since I left home at 18**.  I am both proud of and slightly bitter about that.

RB got a great scholarship (better than mine), but lost it by dicking around, so his ‘rents paid for some and he took out some loans.  They were financially much more stable and “comfortable” than my family, and have always been very generous with him (and me, I must say).  All this to say that my attitude to money is quite different, after years of scraping by.  I am a cheap-ass sumbitch, no doubt.  I am the first to say it.

That’s the background.  Now, the story.  We recently decided to stay in and get high, which we do maybe once every two months or so.  Less, recently.  This involves, as it always does, a dvd and a balanced diet of the Four Stoner Food Groups:  Ice Cream, Salty-Crunchy, Sweet-n-Carby, and Caffeine (’cause otherwise, I laugh for an hour and then fall dead asleep).  So we go to the store to lay in supplies, and as we’re standing in freezer aisle, it all goes wrong.

It was pretty picked over–no really excellent pints, and mango sorbet or fucking “Skinny Cow” wasn’t going to cut it.  We needed something full-fat, with chunky bits and creamy swirls and so forth.  When that wasn’t going to happen, we started checking out the “novelty” items.  (I hate that term; are Drumsticks or Push-up Pops new?  No.)  RB was already disgruntled by the lack of selection, and ended up begrudgingly picking up some neapolitan ice cream sandwiches.  I countered with an on-sale brand of mini-vanilla sandwiches.  “I don’t like those,”  he said.  “How do you know?  Besides, you’re not getting what you want anyway, why drop extra money?   You don’t even like strawberry ice cream…” 

And then we turned the corner into Crankytown.  “Why do you have to ruin this?  Can’t I just go to the store and pick out what I want?  Jeezus, it’s like you can’t enjoy yourself.”

Ruin this?  How ’bout because I don’t want to shell out for something you a) don’t really want and b) will mindlessly eat while baked out of your gourd?  Like you’d even notice–you’d eat a bowl of mayonnaise if I served it to you.  Just because you don’t have to worry about money doesn’t mean I don’t.  And spending money unnecessarily isn’t a recipe for enjoyment, either.”

And then, dear reader, it got ugly.  He started to respond (which you know, might help us work through the disagreement), but then pulled his patented dick move (everyone has one), where he goes totally passive-agressive, poor-me, I-will-perform-my-self-sacrifice-with-great-gusto, woman-thou-shalt-be-the-death-of-me.  Which makes me agressive-agressive.  I called him a spoiled brat and implied that he was overreacting (he was, but to be fair, so was I), and he glowered and hurled sotto voce insults about how hard his life is, and we got all stare-y and huffy and then I went to cool down amidst the granola.  We needed to mellow out. 

So he got something that wasn’t an ice-cream sandwich at all, and we went home and, um, mellowed out.  And this is why we don’t pool our cash.  And why the world needs more Coffee Heath Bar Crunch.

* This title is problematic, in that we are not stoners, and that we were not stoned at the time of the incident.  But I like the image of giggling, saggy-spined people trying to be aggressive.

** I’m not trying to bag on my ‘rents here.  They have absolutely come through for me on the (thankfully) few occasions in the past when I needed them, and I’m sure they would do it again.

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One comment

  1. postscript: ice cream solves all. no, correction: ice cream on the wacky tobacky solves all. amen.



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