“What are you doing?” I asked my husband.
He was wrapped neatly in his dressing gown and slippers, and closely examining something in the morning lounge-room light. He was of course unable to hear my question as he is afflicted with the masculine inability to do two things at once.
His ability to do one thing at once can depend on an alarming number of variables. You should see him psych himself up to call in a dinner order. My God, you’d think he had to cook the curries and drive them over in 45 minutes.
My husband has become obsessed with the lottery. He’s always waffling on about quick picks and supps and what not. I, of course, am gifted with the feminine ability to appear to be listening when I’m not, so I can’t say that I know much about it. I figure if he ever wakes to find he has the numbers he’ll collapse in a puddle of fear and flannelette and I’ll have plenty of time to catch up and get involved.
I tuned in a couple of days ago when he was reading from the paper the story of a local family who’d won 2 million dollars. I found myself fantasising about what I would do in their position. I’d buy a big but sensible house in a nice but down to earth neighbourhood. I’d send my kids to a private, but not too hoity school and I’d keep working but at something meaningful, helping others. I started feeling really miffed that those jerks had my 2 million dollars.
“Don’t stress,” my husband reassured me with a zen he possesses only when discussing his numbers, “the other one’s jackpotted. It’s 8 million now!”
