“I am serious. Do I not look serious? Nothing is more serious to me than your body, specifically your tits and legs and mouth. And vagina, but the vagina goes without saying.”
I gritted my teeth so I wouldn’t smile, or worse, laugh. I wasn’t sure how he managed it, but even when I was in a foul mood and feeling overwhelmed—like today—he always found a way to make me laugh. “Greg—”
“And your brain. Sorry, I can’t believe I didn’t mention your brain.”
I allowed myself to give in to his sweet silliness. “I love that you mentioned my brain, because I love your brain.”
With a hint of vulnerability, he asked, “But you don’t love my vagina?”
I did laugh then, thankful I hadn’t been sipping my coffee. Had I been drinking, it was the kind of laugh that would’ve sent a spray of liquid out of my mouth and nose.
The sound of his slight chuckle met my ears and was welcome; but it was also a reminder, he was trying to distract me.
I shook my head at his antics and tried to refocus. “Okay, enough about your lady closet. Mr. Jackson needs your approval to transfer the money into the new accounts. He emailed the forms three weeks ago, so why haven’t you signed them yet?”
He sat back in his chair and crossed his arms, sighing for a third time. When he finally answered, his voice and expression were free of all earlier playfulness. “I’m not happy with his fund choices.”
I blinked at the vision of my husband, the stubborn set of his jaw. Confused, I sputtered for a full minute before spitting out an incredulous, “You approved it last month.”
“But then I researched the global fund further. Over eleven percent of the principal is invested in a Monsanto subsidiary.”
My headache throbbed; I nearly growled, “Then pick a different global fund.”
“That’s not the point. I don’t like that he suggested that fund to begin with. I want to go with a different financial advisor.”
My brain was going to explode all over my bedroom, which would be inconvenient since I’d just vacuumed.
I meticulously modulated my voice so I wouldn’t shout my response. “Are you kidding? I’ve been through every investment house in Chicago and there is no one left, as according to you, everyone is either incompetent or corrupt. This has been going on for eighteen months, and meanwhile our retirement has been sitting in a low return savings account.”
“Better it return nothing than we invest it in malicious corporations.” He shrugged. “You know my thoughts on Monsanto.”
I . . .
I just . . .
I just couldn’t . . .
I took a deep breath, pushing the rage down. Greg had no way of knowing, but today was one of the worst possible days for him to deliver this news.
In addition to the unexplained headaches, I was extremely low on sleep because our daughter, Grace, had been having nightmares all week. The garbage disposal stopped working two days ago, as had the dishwasher. Both kids had science projects due and every store in Chicago was out of poster board. Plus our son, Jack, had forgotten to give his teacher the money and slip for his field trip later in the week—he’d lost both—and I hadn’t yet found five minutes to contact the woman about sorting it out.
Added to all this, I’d started contract work for my old engineering firm two months ago and was already behind in my latest project. Everything I touched was breaking, or broken, or a failure.
Therefore, I endeavored to be reasonable . . . or at least sound reasonable. “Pick a different fund.”
His eyelids lowered and he shook his head slowly. “No. I’m not investing my money with a corrupt wanker.”
“He’s not a corrupt wanker. Mr. Jackson is a grandfather who volunteers his free time with the Boys and Girls Club and organizes the South Street Soup Kitchen. Alex checked him out—like checked him out—and he’s completely clean.” Alex was my good friend Sandra’s husband, and also a world-class computer hacker. When I said Alex had checked out Mr. Jackson, I truly meant it. The man was a saint.
“Then why would he suggest a fund with an eleven percent stake in Monsanto?”
“Probably because he’s trying to do his job, which is invest our money where it’ll have the best return. We can pick a different fund.”
He said nothing, just continued to shake his head slowly. Meanwhile, I was holding on to my composure by sheer force of will. But when we ended the call I was likely going to dismember Greg’s favorite boxer briefs and hide his cell phone charger. He always did this. He always found a reason not to sign.
Desperate and beyond aggravated, I scoffed, “If I show you my breasts will you sign the papers?”
Greg’s eyes narrowed until he was squinting. He turned his head to the side, glaring at me as though he were both trying to discern whether or not I was being serious and whether seeing my boobs was worth compromising his morals.
“Add an emailed photo of your ass and you have a deal.”