Column - Minister of Finance

So the other day, my wife sits me down for "the talk."

No, surprisingly, she's not leaving.

Apparently, according to her calculations, we're spending more than we're bringing in. She had worksheets and numbers to back up her astounding claims. It was a first-rate presentation. Still, I was blindsided.

This simply can't be, I thought.

For one thing, I am frugal to a fault. I bravely continue to drive a 13-year-old car with 230,000 miles on its odometer just so we can avoid adding another car payment to our budget. As I type, I'm wearing a shirt that I'm pretty sure was purchased during the Clinton administration. First term.

I've been diligently saving for a rainy day. True, my savings account is a blue Mason jar filled with pocket change, but I'm pretty sure it's recession-proof.

Basically, after eating peanut butter sandwiches and carrots for lunch day after day, this news of insolvency was hard to stomach.

But money management is not my strong suit.

In the very small sultanate of Dormanistan, my wife is the powerful minister of finance. She balances the books, pays the bills, tackles the taxes and holds all the secret codes for accessing the treasury. And because we are neither bankrupt nor in jail, her job-approval rating remains very high.

I hold a key post in exterior affairs as undersecretary of mulch or, well, it's really not important. Suffice it to say, I'm vital.

The "joke" around our place is that I'm actually a 1950s housewife.

It's true. I do make most of the meals we eat. I enjoy cooking, especially the parts of getting dirty, wrecking an entire room, playing with fire and drinking beer. But edible food does result from my efforts. I've heard few complaints.

And my wife handles the money, calmly, like Ward Cleaver. But now, I fear my allowance may be cut.

Whenever "the talk," happens, attention always turns to my Iowa season football tickets and the NFL game package we buy through DirecTV. These absolutely critical components of my life are portrayed unfairly, under the cold unflinching light of accountancy, to be frivolous, unnecessary luxuries. And they are displayed as exhibits A and B in my indictment as a budget buster.

I feebly point to the shocking sums spent on trips to the stylist and hair care products and such, with little impact. Not even the Kirby vacuum story carries much weight anymore.

My then-future wife got a call from a salesman hoping to come over and shampoo our rug for free. Of course, the free shampoo is really a sales pitch. You see how wonderful the $1,000 vacuum cleaner performs and you have to have one. My wife accepted, assuring me she would not be taken in.

So, the next day, I was going on and on about how gullible you'd have to be to fall for it. And who would ever buy a $1,000 vacuum cleaner? After several minutes, she could take no more and blurted out her confession. She pointed to the closet, where the new telltale Kirby was hidden. Busted.

So even the minister of finance is human. But I'll heed her stern fiscal warning. That way, we can get everything nice and balanced in time for football season.