Issue One

Okay, maybe I haven’t helped matters much. But as the family accountant (by default, I might add — if I didn’t do it, we’d quickly regress back into an extended-adolescent "how late can we pay before they shut off the electricity" scenario), I am regrettably the official household nag. It all started when we came back from our honeymoon. I immediately, pro-actively and responsibly drew up a family budget (panicking with the thought of countless dollars sucked in by greens fees and Sabres tickets). I then anticipated the difficulty in selling my final creation to my husband, and decided to begin with baby steps.

I turned my attention to work-a-day lunches. I knew the last time he brought his lunch to work was…never. So I asked what his approximate daily expenditure on lunch was. $6 was the final estimation. $6!!! I mean, a can of Chef-Boy-R-Dee only costs $1.29. And that’s not on sale. Where was my new husband’s head?

I laid down the law. "From now on and forever you will bring your lunches to work," I said. I immediately sensed the hesitation. He admits, after some arm-twisting, that he’s eaten lunch every day for the past 5 years with the same co-worker. (They take turns buying — how cute.) My impression was that there might be some withdrawal symptoms from this particular arrangement.

I mean, suddenly human feelings are at stake. Either that, or my husband is employing the ever useful "friend-as-scapegoat" positioning to avoid making his lunch every morning. So I think strategically. And counter with the similarly pragmatic "wife-as-scapegoat" positioning. "Tell him you’re married now, and to avoid financial ruin your wife has put you on a budget." And I take one for the team.

Lunch is just the bottom of the financial barrel when it comes to organizing finances as newly-marrieds. Take big purchases. My idea of making major purchases is to pursue quality, even if it costs more. My philosophy is ‘Spend more now, and you’ll spend less later.’ Plus pretty things please me.

My husband, on the other hand, is always angling for some kind of deal. And I don’t mean the annual Ethan Allen sale. I’m talking behind the scenes, buying from someone you know, estate-sale closeout, slightly damaged but still-looks-good stuff. At rock bottom prices.

He gets this from his father, who is perhaps the world’s best shopper. I don’t mind the wheeling and dealing. What I do mind is that occasions for awesome deals arise less than infrequently, and we happen to need a dining room table, like, yesterday. My heart breaks every time I consider my first full set of fine china, wasting away in a cabinet with no one but me to admire and coo at it.

Of course, I myself am financially perfect. I believe myself to be conservative yet willing to occasionally splurge, generous with gifts, thrifty at the supermarket, and a real sale shopper. I mean, sending my clothes to be laundered instead of doing them myself is just a necessity. And Wilson Farms is the closest grocery store, saving money on gas, if not groceries. And how could I even consider going to New York City this fall without my own pale green pashmina? I mean, that’s just practicality—I would have spent a lot more on it once I got there.

I’m reminded of my perfect-ness last Wednesday night, after my husband returns from work late. He asks if I’ve gone grocery shopping, as I promised. Unfortunately I just couldn’t miss "The Sopranos" for another week, and have reneged on my commitment.

"Oh sorry hon — why don’t you just go out for lunch tomorrow," I say distractedly. And wonder why he’s looking at me that way.