Someday, I will be so rich that money will mean nothing to me. I will throw hundred dollar bills at people for tips, "Here!" I'll scream indignantly, "Take it! And be gone with you!" And that day, that day when I am inclined to cast one hundred dollar bills aside like chicken bones, that day I will have Dave Sedaris do all of my cleaning for me, and no one else.
I know you think it's unlikely, David. You're out there in France, tending your spiders, writing your little stories, making your little crepes with your little boyfriend and you're thinking you've got it made, Dave Sedaris. No way in a million bazillion years could our lives be so entwined, yours and mine, Dave Sedaris. But you are wrong.
I will watch you clean my refrigerator, Dave Sedaris. I will make sure you scrub it with baking soda. Thoroughly. As your little behind sticks out of the refrigerator door, I will say,
"I see you're leaving spots. Make sure you dry those, David... Oh, and the number twelve bird feeder is getting a bit moldy. You will clean it with vinegar and rinse it thoroughly, won't you? And then there's the car, David. I'll be using it tonight. Someone splashed on it earlier. Can't have that."
Timidly, you might dare to ask,
"Could I write a little bit today, perhaps? I mean, when I'm finished with the car, of course."
And I shall laugh politely.
"Oh, David. You and your stories! Well, I suppose if you choose to sleep five hours tonight instead of six, that's really your prerogative, isn't it? It's not like you're my slave or something! Really, David. The things you say!" And I'll prance out of the room, martini in hand.
You're thinking you've got it made, David Sedaris. No way in a million bazillion years could our lives be so entwined, yours and mine, Dave Sedaris. Just you wait.