Here’s the deal.
I’ve been married to this mucho caliente woman for just under 24 years.
A year ago I realized something: I had more money to spend when I was delivering papers at 12 than I do now at 43.
That’s a startling realization.
It’s not that I don’t make a good living. On the contrary, I do rather well.
It’s not because I have a son in college—he pretty much pays his own way on an academic scholarship.
No, I realized the reason I don’t have any money is encroachment.
It started off innocently enough: “Honey, you’re at work all day and sometimes I need to have write a check, why not let me handle the check book.”
Made sense to me. That was the beginning.
A few weeks later she casually mentioned how much easier things would be if I had my paycheck direct deposited into our checking rather than having to make an extra trip to the bank. Again, her logic seemed flawless.
Boy was I dumb. Ladies, just in case you aren’t initiated into how men view their finances, let me clue you in.
First, you get a paycheck. Let’s say your check each week if for $556.08. Now when a man goes to the bank, he deposits $500.00 and pockets the other $56.08. You see that money doesn’t really count. It’s just the “extra.”
So a week or so later, I was out of cash. I went to my wife and asked her to write me a check of $100.00 or so. I was mistakenly thinking it was “our” money.
“What do you want it for?”
“You know, some stuff. Walkin’ around money.”
“Well you can’t just come in and expect me to have money to hand you. We’re on a budget now, we have to get things for the house. I’ll try to save you back some money next week—maybe $25 or so—OK?”
Next week, of course, things were a little tighter than expected, so she could only give me $20 – she again mentioned the “budget.”
Funny, the longer she managed the money, the more things magically appeared at our house. New drapes (“those old ones were so disgusting,” she rationalized). Of course the new drapes necessitated new couch and loveseat. Which looked terrible next to those outdated end tables. And, as long as we’re doing the living room, we might as well replace our garage-sale bargain dining room set.
After 20+ years I have a house full of furniture, elegant table settings, size 8 dresses, 73 pairs of women’s shoes, beautiful earrings and “good” towels I have never used because they’re for company.
So, last year, I decided to take a stand. I took everything out of my den that I didn’t want to be there. Then I set my beautiful wife down and told her: You see this room? This is mine. I don’t care what you do with the rest of the house, but this room belongs to me.
“Oh, sure, honey, of course.” She had no idea how difficult this was going to be for her.
Things went well for about a couple days. Then, one day I walked into my den and she had decided I needed a new trash can. There it sat, right next to the ratty couch I had salvaged after my uncle died.
I picked it up, went to the door way and placed it just outside the den. Then I went and planted my posterior in the worn leather chair I had picked just for its comfort. I needed to work on my butt groove.
“Oh honey, did you see the cute little trash can I bought for your den?” She really didn’t get it.
“Hon, I don’t want you to think I’m angry, ‘cause I’m not, but if I wanted a trash can I would have gotten it myself. I don’t want a trash can. I can take care of my own den. That’s the point.”
She was crushed, but she seemed to understand.
