Money

Cell phone chirps, caller ID says it’s my wife calling. “Hi Honey!”

“Do you have a minute?” Uh-oh. I can tell by the clipped tone of her voice that this is not my lovely, doting bride, the future mother of my children, calling to say she loves and misses me while I’m away for a conference. This is business; and I already have the fear.

“Um, yeah, I’m just taking a break between speakers. What’s up?” Wait for it.

“How much money have you spent?” Gulp. This is a loaded question. As the household chief financial officer, she knows exactly how much I’ve spent.

“I dunno, a few hundred dollars, something like that? Vegas is kind of expensive sweetheart … ” Sweetheart. Thrown in as an act of desperation as I try to take mental tally of how much it’s been. I realize I have no idea.

“Expensive? I guess so. You’ve spent more than six hundred dollars. In less than twenty-four hours.”

Shit. “No I didn’t. I couldn’t have. Six hundred dollars? Are you sure?”

“Yes, I am sure. Yesterday you had withdrawals of $200, $280, $100, and then $100 today. So actually, that makes $680.”

Blink. Blink. The click-pinging of slot machines and other casino din, which I’m sure she can hear in the background, mock any attempt to account for having spent six hundred dollars, constructively, in Las Vegas.

“What on earth did you spend all that money on? I thought this was a corporate thing.”

“Well, um, I dunno, Vegas is expensive, you know cabrideslimosdrinksdinneralittle gamblinganothercabridetceteraandsoon—are you sure it was that much sweetheart?”

“Why do you keep calling me ‘sweetheart’? You never call me that.”

“Well, you know, honey, stuff just kinda, adds up. I’m really sorry sweetheart.” I am in full retreat. I am pathetic. Dear God, why didn’t I let this go to voicemail.

“Sorry? What the hell is wrong with you? And stop calling me ‘sweetheart’! We’ll talk about this when you get back. And try to make it home without spending too much more. I love you.” Click.

My wife and I rarely fight, but when we disagree, it’s usually about money. Yes, we fit that textbook example of domestic discord. We have one bank account, which collects both our paychecks. As a mortgage banker, I deal with other people’s money all day, helping them budget and plan for what is normally the largest expense in their lives. The last thing I want to do when I get home is account for my own finances. (The very thought of balancing even my own checkbook gives me jaw-clenching anxiety.) So rather than being the carpenter who lets his own house go to ruin I entrust my wife, a sales representative by day and domestic goddess by night, with handling all the finances. She manages our money, pays all the bills, keeps us on budget, and does a fantastic job. I love her for it. It’s an arrangement that works well for us—that is, until I periodically screw it up.

For the record: The CFO occasionally blows off budget, too. But here’s the thing: I’d been blowing dough as if it were all my own—we’ll chalk it up to a twenty-four-hour bug. Even though those dollars were being spent on things my wife and I would agree are valid social/business purposes, the fact that I didn’t track it, or at least warn her I’d be high-rolling, was what put me in the doghouse. Between the two incomes, our account was plenty padded. There wasn’t a cash-flow problem. This wasn’t about money in the least.

Six hundred dollars at Target? At Sam’s Club? At Pottery Barn? That’s no problem for her (and for me, just to be clear). These are legitimate expenses; food for the family, household maintenance, and nesting materials to make for a happy home. But six hundred dollars in Vegas with nary a throw pillow to show for it? You have no idea. —Alex Stenback