Late on Friday afternoon I stopped in at the patio of One Restaurant, an expensive, beautiful-people kind of place in the Yorkville district of Toronto.<\/p>\n
These are the text messages I sent to my wife Rachelle:<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
Me: Just stopped in at One for a drink, should be home by 6.<\/p>\n
Me: Yes.<\/p>\n
Me: I do think we\u2019re made of money.<\/p>\n
Me: Look, my fantasy sports teams have been doing very well the last couple of years.<\/p>\n
Me: And I won a Deal Or No Deal scratch n\u2019 win ticket the other day.<\/p>\n
<\/a><\/p>\n Me: I\u2019m fucking rolling in cash.<\/p>\n Me: Paying off the car doesn\u2019t make you a saint, you know.<\/p>\n Me: Right. Just the person who does all the heavy financial lifting.<\/p>\n Me: The hostess sat me very far away from the site lines.<\/p>\n Me: You\u2019d need a shovel to find me.<\/p>\n Me: Yes.<\/p>\n Me: I am wearing my bike helmet.<\/p>\n Me: I don\u2019t know if she thinks I\u2019m an elderly bike courier.<\/p>\n Me: She probably just thinks I prefer solitude.<\/p>\n Me: I look pretty intellectual.<\/p>\n Me: Thoughtful, soulful.<\/p>\n Me: A man who looks like Roger Sterling just refused to sit in my section.<\/p>\n