what's your husband worth? (a true story)

"My husband is worth... 22 million," this lady whispers to me, after asking, "Where do people with money like to go out to eat in Aspen?"

She is what we call the nouveau rich, married into it, late in life, third husband is the charm.
My dad always told me "It's just as easy to fall in love with a rich guy," I tell this lady, who is so visibly pleased to be joining the upper crust. "But I never found that to be true," I say recalling all of my dirt-bag-mountain-climber-river-rafting partners.

She is getting her first massage, ever
because now she has money.
Woo-hoo.
"What do I do?" she asks me as she looks at the table.
I tell her to take off all her clothes, lay down and shut up (not quite like that).
She compiles.

Once down, she settles in quite quick and starts telling me all about her life.
Grrreat!
She was once a dental hygienist, she's got some kids, she lives in a Huuuge house on the California coast, she really thinks she ought to try doing yoga, maybe even hire a personal trainer, and, "this massage feels so good," she says, "I think I'll get my own massage therapist!" She even confesses, as if I care, that she used to ride "clipless" pedals when she dated an actual real bonafide ski bum from Breckenridge in the 1980s and she smoked pot all the time.
"I was so crazy then," she recalled.

"So crazy," I think wondering if she's gotten a boob job and Botox yet or if the marriage and money is still as fresh and new as she makes it seem.

"Now, I don't have to worry about money," she says again, "should I get the cellulite scrub?" she asks.

"It couldn't hurt," I reply checking out her thighs.

She is really loving the massage, commenting over and over and over again how it is so marvelous and wonderful and the like.
She asks, "How often do people with money get massages?"
I tell her she should get one everyday.
Job security for me, and she must be a good tipper, I think.
At the end, she says, "That was unbelievable," as I walk out the door.
Before she leaves the spa, she whispers, "I left something on the bed for you, sweetie."

"Cool," I thought, "a tip from someone who knows what its like NOT to be rich."

And then there I see it, a crumpled $10 bill lying on the bed. "Ewww, I felt so used."
How quickly the nouveau rich forget what it is like to be on the other side of the divide.

My dad was wrong, it's not just as easy to fall in love with a rich guy. Rich guys attract chicks like this, not people like me.
Money is wasted on the rich. The upper crusty fuckers who can't even peel more than ten bucks out of thier tight wadded fingers for the best and only full body bliss they ever had.
I'll take my bearded, PBR drinkin', debt-ridden dude any day over a stuffed gut $22-million-dollar-man. And I'll give that ten bucks to the next waitress that serves me a plate, even if it only costs $1.99.
Share the wealth while you can, the recession of the century is coming soon to a country near you, ready to strip us all down, til we're all buck naked and broke.
I know how to dance like that,
do you?