"How much did that cost?" asks seemingly every visitor. In response, I look down and shuffle my feet awkwardly as I resist the impulse to bitch-slap the rude out of them.
When I grew up in the Midwest, this was an impolite question, indicative of a complete absence of class. Either times have changed or my Seattle-based visitors are unbearably status-focused. You can guess which I believe.
No one ever asks how much a skillet or a lawnmower cost. It's always a traditionally statusy item. A car. A trip. A $500, unreturnable cookbook I ordered from Amazon in a delirious, pre-CPAP stupor at 4am. These people are worse than data-mining corporations.
"Would you like to just see my tax return?" I reply in my mind 10 hours later, when the initial numbness wears off and I think of the perfect response.
I'd say it, but I'm afraid they'd whip out reading glasses.