Financial

The Chip My Wife Never Plays

It’s been hot in Oklahoma again this summer. Since this is only our second year here and most of our plants aren’t cactus, I’ve been talking to the mower man about an irrigation system. Turns out he’s also an electrician. Turns out he also has a friend who installs sprinklers. The man contains multitudes.

Before leaving for Europe, he gave me a ballpark quote. The allpark numbers pushing $5,000, maybe more.

I told him, “I think my wife will let me have this one.”

She did not let me have this one.

She’d go for something around half his estimate, and I already know that number is the conservative one. So the sprinkler system joined the long list of projects that have quietly died in our house. I get it. I own it.

Here’s why I own it so completely: a few years ago, I carved off a little chunk of our retirement money and handed it to algo trading bots and crypto. My financial advisor told me not to. I did it anyway. That decision gave Judy a veto power that isn’t close to 50-50. It’s more like 60-40, and some days I think she’s being generous with the 40.

I recently sat down with my advisor to close out the company I’d run for twenty years, the one that funded my brief career as a degenerate gambler with better vocabulary. I apologized for not listening to him. He was kind about it, which somehow made it worse. He’s clearly seen clients make mistakes that make mine look like a rounding error. Small comfort, but I’ll take it.

So now, when Judy wants a pedicure or a hot tub or literally anything, I zip it. I’ve earned exactly zero opinions on discretionary spending for the foreseeable future.

The strange part is how well this has worked out for me.

I’ve always been a guy who likes to get his way. Guilt turns out to be a remarkably effective muzzle. I can’t fully bury that part of my personality, but knowing I torched a chunk of our savings on bots that promised passive income and delivered passive regret keeps me in check more than any argument ever could.

Judy has a chip she could play anytime she wants. One mention of the crypto years and I’d fold like a lawn chair. She’s never played it. Not once. She’ll give me a look sometimes, the kind that says she knows exactly what she could say, and then she just doesn’t say it.

That’s either extraordinary restraint or a very patient long game. I haven’t ruled out either.

I only let myself get clipped in one category, though: money. Everywhere else, I’m still fully operational. And even the money-clipping is mostly self-imposed, which I realize makes me sound like a man bragging about his own house arrest.

In overpriced Iceland, while I was doing math in my head over every hot dog, Judy said, “I don’t want to think about the money. I want to enjoy our vacation.”

I have never once had that thought naturally. I have to be talked into it, every time, like it’s a foreign language.

Her attitude about money has genuinely made our marriage better, especially given that she married a guy who projects financial competence while quietly having handed his savings to a chatbot with delusions of Wall Street. Not every marriage survives getting frisked by a promise of “regular ongoing income” that turns out to mean regular ongoing losses. To be fair to the bots, they never actually promised me anything. That was the marketing department’s job, and they did it well.

The one thing keeping me from full self-pity is that my company did make real money, and I did put a good chunk of it away. So it’s not like both hands were empty. One hand made it, the other hand threw it into a wood chipper. Not the trade I was hoping for, but it beats “I lost it all,” which is the version of this story I could’ve been telling you.

I can’t undo the bad calls. I can keep telling anyone who’ll listen that “get rich quick” is a genre of fiction, not a strategy. There might be legitimate investment opportunities out there that won’t put a dent in your marriage. I’m sure there are. I just haven’t found many worth chasing once the number gets into six digits, and I’ve stopped assuming my judgment is sharper than everyone else’s.

Turns out the actual smart move was never picking the right algorithm. It was marrying someone who didn’t need one.

Date Night, Retirement Style

Family visits start Saturday in Columbus, and our daughter’s crew is off doing their own pre-twins celebration, which meant Judy and I had the house and no real plan for dinner. Last week’s Sam’s Club haul was gone — cooked, eaten, or handed off to kids. Nobody wanted warm-ups. So we went out.

In our defense, we barely tried to stock the fridge for these ten days between trips. We split a Costco pizza across three meals with a couple of bag salads propping it up. We got a burrito bowl from Chipotle and ate our own chips with it, which I’ve decided counts as cooking out. I also grilled some chicken. That’s real. I marinated it and everything.

We’re also deep in our post-cruise phase, which means yogurt and protein shakes for lunch, because apparently the responsible move after a week of unlimited soft serve and buffets is to eat like we’re training for something.

Before picking a restaurant, we did what any financially disciplined household does: dug through the gift card drawer. This particular card came from our hockey boy, who totaled his car on the way to practice — a gift for “going above and beyond,” which is a generous way of describing talking to a police officer before 9:00 outside a charter school. It didn’t have much left on it, but Bricktown Brewery had a happy hour hamburger special and an all-day pizza deal if we got seated before 6:00. That was all the motivation we needed to get out the door.

I tried to be an aggressive driver. Someone else tried to be an aggressive driver at me. I missed the entrance to the restaurant entirely, had to loop around at the light, and dropped Judy off to fight for our spot on the waitlist before anyone else could sneak their name in ahead of ours. Ten to fifteen minute wait, she reported. A good number. Enough to stretch the gift card to its full potential while doing penance for the opulence of our European trip.

We were seated by 5:45 and already knew our order before the menus hit the table. When the waiter asked about drinks, we let him know we’d be getting the free ones that came with the ten-dollar hamburger deal. Lemonade for both of us. I asked Judy if I was worth the extra dollar fifty for sweet potato fries. She said yes, which, if you’ve been married a couple dozen years, is code for “I love you” and also “please stop asking me this.”

I should mention that settling into the gap between trips does not bring out my best self. Judy knows this and indulges me anyway, more than she probably should.

Pizzas kept coming out of the kitchen while we sipped our lemonade, and half-priced wood-fired pizza is a genuinely hard thing to say no to. But the foil in our toaster oven was still greasy from the Costco pizza’s reign of terror, so we held the line. Barely.

The hamburgers arrived just before 6:00. Same basket, different colored fries. Ketchup was not my choice of condiment for sweet potato fries, but they were never the main event anyway. The burger was the star. Judy cut hers in half to create the illusion of restraint, then barely paused before starting on the second half. Her fries had come cold. We considered asking for new ones, but since she had no intention of eating them regardless, sending them back felt like theater. I’ve been a jerk before. Usually to family. I know my limits.

She tossed me a few of her fries before we noticed our baskets were mostly empty and flagged down the check.

Turns out the gift card only had $6.50 left on it. Judy handled payment, which has been her job ever since I developed a reputation for being stingy on tips. She’s better at that kind of math than I am — more aware, more generous. Every so often she asks me to bump it up a couple of dollars, and I don’t put up much of a fight. We both like the total to land on a round number, so a dollar or two of rounding doesn’t bother me.

By the time we got back in the car, only forty minutes had passed since we put our names down. The restaurant probably would’ve preferred we lingered over a beer or two, but they held up their end of the deal, and so did we. Judy didn’t plan on getting home in time for Wheel of Fortune, but with the food coming out that fast, it was hard to avoid.

Her word for the whole night was “efficient.” We’re both home all day — she’s working remotely, I’m on babysitting duty when it’s offered — so by dinner we’ve already said everything we need to say to each other. No chit-chat required. We’re deep into overlap territory on our list of conversation topics, and with more travel ahead, we’ll be leaning on our European stories for a while. We tell them well. People seem to think we’re funny. Really, we’re just two people who’ve rehearsed the same bits on each other enough times to have the timing down.

Efficient eaters, happiest in our own recliners. You will not find a more thrilling dinner date than us.

The Budget That Lived Briefly

Judy set a wedding budget. Then she exceeded it. By how much is still unclear — probably double, possibly more, definitely enough that when the DJ called asking for his balance, her response was “Oh, I forgot about that one.”

I’ve been married long enough to know what that sentence means.

The original number was $2,000, plus we’d cover the rehearsal dinner — a reasonable, grown-up figure that apparently functioned more as a conversation-ender than an actual plan.

Here’s what I did with that budget: nothing. My wife said she had it handled, and I believed her, the way a husband learns to believe things when the alternative is a much longer discussion. I am a man who does well with specific instructions. “Pay this person on Venmo for the cake” — done. I noted “cake” as wedding-adjacent, did not open a spreadsheet, turned off my critical thinking like a responsible partner, and performed the task.

What I did not do was connect the cake to the flowers to the cheese cubes to the small jar of gherkins now living permanently in our refrigerator. Somewhere along the way, the wedding became a slush fund — gentle, loving, entirely intentional — designed to cushion our son, who has been mostly carrying this thing himself. His bride just finished her doctorate. She’s looking for work. The traditional “bride’s family pays” rule did not survive contact with reality, and Judy quietly decided we’d pick up the slack without making it a whole thing. Hard to argue with, honestly. Tracked? Absolutely not.

I stopped looking at the credit cards. If I don’t look, the gherkins are just groceries.

Now here’s where I become the punchline.

A couple of years ago I had what I generously called “success” with algorithmic trading bots. Then came the other part. I let the situation run longer than it deserved, checking the account periodically, hoping something would turn around. This week I finally closed every bot that was “unlikely to ever recover and make profit,” which was all of them. Everything is now in a normal, managed, boring retirement account. The math is simple: more went in than came out.

Judy’s response: “I wish you had never put money in that thing, but I’m glad you’re done.”

No lecture. No monthly callback. Just — glad you’re done.

So when the DJ called, and Judy said she forgot about that one, and I felt that small hot flicker of “we had a budget” — I thought about the bots. I thought about what it looks like when someone decides not to make you pay for something indefinitely. And I closed the credit card tab.

We were careful in our earlier years, because we had to be. That discipline is part of why a blown wedding budget is uncomfortable now instead of catastrophic. We earned the right to be a little imperfect with money, and we’ve both used that right with some enthusiasm.

She keeps terrible track of wedding expenses. I once handed real money to a robot that lost it. Neither of us is keeping score.

That’s probably what a long marriage eventually becomes — you run out of the moral high ground you thought you were standing on, and then you just have each other, some leftover gherkins, and a wedding that’s going to be really nice, rain or shine.

The Termite Guy, the Ant, and the Contract I Should Have Read

The termite inspector showed up this morning. I wasn’t excited about it, but I like the feeling of a thing being done.

I’d been waiting for him the way you wait for the dentist—not dreading it, exactly, just wanting to get it over with. He roamed the house freely. My wife was on the phone in the family room. My son, fighting off an illness upstairs, was somewhere between working and sleeping. The inspector covered every room, poked around the garage, focused on the outside walls, and pronounced us clean for another year. His lime green boot covers were the most exciting part.

Before he left, I asked him about the ants. There’d been a small parade of them moving through one corner of the kitchen, and I wanted a professional opinion. He came over, I lifted the toaster, and one lone ant skittered across the countertop. Just one. Either he was keeping all the good crumbs for himself, or our kitchen wasn’t worth the effort. The inspector asked whether the previous treatment had used a residual or non-residual chemical. I had no idea. I searched my email for an invoice and came up empty. He told me the office would call about a treatment plan—non-contract, he said. He said that part like it mattered.

It did.

Last year, after the termite inspection wrapped up, I let the termite company do an annual bug treatment. It was a new build. I would see what problems emerged. They left little traps around the house and garage, and I watched them do essentially nothing for a few months. When a pest control company knocked on my door, I figured I’d give them a shot. The company was called White Knight. I signed their contract without thinking too hard about what “contract” actually meant.

Turns out it means something.

When I called to cancel today, I got a screener first—baby crying in the background, pleasant enough. Then I was transferred to the woman whose job it is to make you reconsider. She opened with, “I hear you feel you’re paying too much. Let’s see if we can take care of that today.” I told her I just wanted to cancel. She shifted. To exit the contract early, she said, it would cost $285. I had one treatment left at $129.

So: pay more than double to leave, or wait out one more treatment and cancel then. I told her that was ridiculous. I told her I’d never sign another contract with them, that if anyone from the company knocked on my door again I’d send them away immediately. She said, “Have a good day, sir,” and hung up.

I put a reminder on my calendar for three months out. One more treatment, then I’m done.

The less stressful move would be to pay the $285 and be done with it today. I know that. But there’s something in me that can’t hand over money for nothing, especially not money I owe because I didn’t read a contract carefully enough. So I’ll wait. I’ll take the last treatment. I’ll call back and cancel, and I’ll probably have to fight for that too.

I’m not too old to learn a lesson. I’m just too old to pay a cancellation fee that costs more than the service itself.

Bleeding the Benefits Dry

The car-buying detail is good information but it’s landing in the wrong spot — tucked after what should be the emotional pivot toward the closing line, it reads like a footnote. It also slightly undercuts the “we’re done, we used the benefits” finality you’ve built.

Better placement is right after the billing reveal, before the wrap-up paragraph. Something like:

“Since we do need cars going forward, we were able to buy both of them — well-maintained, low mileage, good price. Toyota took care of them for three years so we didn’t have to.”

That way it feels like the last piece of the benefits puzzle clicking into place, not an afterthought.

Here’s the full draft with that adjustment:

Bleeding the Benefits Dry

My wife is about to “retire” from Toyota — and I use that word the way HR uses “restructuring.” She’s quitting. They’ll survive. We’re mostly just trying to make sure we don’t pay for anything on the way out the door.

Since we don’t know if the new insurance will be awesome, terrible, or a scavenger hunt where every doctor is mysteriously out of network, all my dental and eye appointments got yanked forward on the calendar. Prescriptions maxed out. The HSA accounts are running on fumes, which is exactly how Judy wants them. If there’s a responsible adult in this story, it is not me.

The last frontier is the vehicles.

At her level, Toyota Corporate expected the family to have at least one Toyota in the driveway — strongly suggested in the way where people notice what’s in the parking lot when you’re not allowed to work remote. Since we didn’t go for the biggest option available, we ended up with two. Both on leases Toyota paid for entirely. Lease payment, insurance, all maintenance. We don’t put many miles on either one. Most of what we do is within ten miles of the house, so after nearly three years, “maintenance” has mostly meant tire rotations and oil changes. I’ve spent a couple of mornings in the last two weeks taking care of exactly that.

This morning should have been the easy one. I made the appointment myself — last week Judy made it, which created a small hiccup I had to talk my way out of — and I showed up on time. They told me an hour and a half. The dealership sits right next to a park I’ve been walking regularly, so I put my earbuds in and set out to knock out four miles while I waited.

Somewhere past mile three, my phone buzzed. A video from the dealership — a technician walking around the car, narrating that everything looked fine. Maybe the cabin filter was a little dirty. Otherwise, good to go. If everything’s fine, why isn’t my car done?

I called the dealership number and worked through the menu until a perky AI picked up. She was more useful than I expected. She offered to forward a note to my service advisor. The note was expletive-free, so I let her.

A real person called back shortly after — not my service advisor, but a human nonetheless. She explained the holdup: the cabin filter. Did I want to approve replacing it?

I pointed out the obvious. Toyota pays for maintenance on this leased fleet vehicle. I don’t own it. I’m not paying for anything today. Am I really the right person to authorize a repair on a car that isn’t mine, for a bill I won’t see? She stayed on script but acknowledged the logic didn’t quite hold. She’d pass it along.

While that got sorted out, I finished my walk through a very active disc golf course. The trees and wind were keeping things interesting, and several signs reminded me the park accepted no responsibility for errant discs and the body modifications they might cause. It seemed like a reasonable time to head back.

My service advisor never did call. When I found him at his desk, he offered something in the mumble-mumble range that functioned as an explanation. I’ve had to defend the indefensible myself often enough to recognize the form. It bought him another fifteen minutes.

Before I left, he mentioned one thing worth the whole morning: if I’d been paying out of pocket today, the bill would have been about half of what Toyota was being charged.

Since we do need cars going forward, we were able to buy both of them — well-maintained, low mileage, good price. Toyota took care of them for three years so we didn’t have to.

We’re down to the last few things we can legitimately wring out before Judy’s final day. I’m not proud enough to say we got everything we could out of them — but benefits are there to be used, and we used them.

The new job is almost entirely remote. When she can work 95% from home, that beats a daily commute in a free car every single time. The real perk isn’t leather seats or free oil changes.

It’s not having to leave the driveway.

The Call That Postponed My Retirement

This is a further explanation of two of the titles included on my “semi-retired” business card. (Dual Format Bookworm and Spousal Support Engineer)

The phone call came two months ago, and just like that, the Summer of ’26 vanished.

It was an offer my wife couldn’t — and, logically, shouldn’t — refuse. A similar role to her current one, fully remote, better pay, working with a well-respected colleague from her past. I wasn’t in the room when she took the call. I heard about it afterward, which is probably how most husbands learn the major plot twists in their lives.

I considered a counterargument. The best I had was “I have over 6,000 books on Kindle and Audible.” Most of them were free. The rest I bought on sale, fully intending to read them immediately. That argument, it turns out, doesn’t hold much water against a high-level role with better benefits. So we pushed the goalposts. Summer of ’29 it is.

To understand why I didn’t put up more of a fight, you have to understand our roles. For 35 years, my wife has been the undisputed Bread-Winner. I’ve made several noble attempts at being a Dough-Winner, but her bread is simply better baked, more plentiful, and has a much more reliable crust.

As we navigated kids, fostering, and a move to Texas, she was the one traveling when the company called. She worked evenings and weekends to make the bosses happy, while I waved from the sidelines — or texted her from the same room to see if she remembered she had a husband. My retirement is technically rock-solid and investment-backed, but it is not the golf-and-slow-coffee variety. It is a series of Supporting Roles. I am the Head of Domestic Logistics, and my CEO just signed a three-year extension.

Here’s the part that gets me. She’ll be home. Physically present, same house, same zip code — and completely unreachable. My wife working remotely is not my wife being available. It’s my wife in a digital fortress with a closed door and four consecutive video calls.

I was hoping to pass the childcare baton this year. Instead, I’ve been re-enlisted. I am currently a specialist in diaper-related hazardous waste management — an unpaid internship with zero upward mobility, but I’m told the exposure is great. By the time 2029 rolls around, our granddaughter will be four and likely helping her mom manage two or more siblings.

Then there are the hockey boys. Another three years of work means another three seasons of high-protein breakfasts and civilized-living lessons. It’s all penciled in. As long as they like toddlers and don’t commit any sins beyond redemption, the house stays full.

So we’re staying in the wind and the Oklahoma heat a little longer. Our local kids will be here at least two more years before their academic pursuits take them elsewhere, which means delaying retirement only adds one year of real extension anyway. I participated in this decision. I agreed it was the right call. My counterargument was weak, and I knew it.

I am a reluctant retiree, but I have people — and one very small person — depending on me most days of the week. I don’t get paid, but that doesn’t mean I don’t get compensated.

I’ll get to those 6,000 books eventually. I just need my wife to retire first.