I don’t like to think about money. Who does? CPAs? The Kardashians? Not me. Having money at all scares me, like it’s too good to be true, like it’s all going to go away. I like to be just vaguely aware of it, know that I have enough of it, I don’t want to know about interest rates or how to diversify my portfolio, I want to click add to cart or submit payment and move on. I want to be a car in a Pixar movie where you don’t need it. A mermaid, a fish. When I’m gainfully employed I’m VERY VERY PRIVILEGED that my income meets the scope of my needs. Cut to us with two kids and a writers strike and I’m a WW2 housewife balking at the price of milk and berries and eggs, freezing what we don’t eat, wondering why we ever let Joe get addicted to blueberry RX bars, which are 2.25 a piece wholesale. Sometimes he doesn’t finish a whole one and I say joe, this is an 810 dollar a year habit and he says what is a habit and I say blueberry bars don’t grow on trees, and he says right, no, leaves do, and I say you’re very smart Joe, ITS HIGH TIME YOU GET A JOB AND START PAYING FOR THESE APPLESAUCE POUCHES. I want him to Know, but I also don’t want him to worry. I want him to get a job but never want for anything, I want him to live in a house made of blueberry bars. When I was 3, there was a writers strike? And my parents didn’t work for some time? But we were all together, He recalls one day. It happened, but I don’t really remember it.