It’s a reality show every day in my house. I share the voyeuristic fascination of lives lived in swank and style, but there is no fear that I will ever have their problems.

To: wholefamily@time.out
Imagine me, if I ever moved on up to the East Side and needed to interview a maid:

“Do you know how to clean one of them toilets that has the drinking fountain in the middle. I don’t know what nincompoop thought that up, but looks like we’re stuck with it. It was probably was the French! In case you’re wondering, there is no truth to the saying that ever-body wipes the same.”

“Are you willin’ to spend all day long maintainin’ the high-upkeep fixtures in this place? That white couch is right pretty to look at, but I need something I can sit on.

That table is real old. Do you think we can look into that newfangled stuff called plastic laminate? Then I could actually sit my drink down.”

“All that hardwood on the floor, covered up with them antique rugs. Where am I supposed to walk? Don’t they know about the R-value in wall-to-wall carpeting? Might as well keep it—we can tear it up in case we need a rip-roarin’ fire next winter.”

“Heaven only knows what we need with seven bedrooms and nine bathrooms. I’ve been lost six times. And four televisions? Everybody’s watching sup’un different in ever’ room in the house. Seems like most problems would be solved if we learned to share.”

“And the last thing, can you turn off a light when you leave a room? Nobody else can. And that’s not the biggest waste around here. We’re gonna have to make buckets, because it’s gonna take buckets to maintain this lifestyle.”

It’s bigger than me, T.

Reality Bite: I am doing my part to beat down the absurdities of elitism in my little corner of the backwoods.