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My Husband Sent Me Two Dozen Roses for Mother’s Day and I'm Furious

And, no, it's not because I wanted chocolate

By Denise SheltonPublished 3 years ago 5 min read
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My Husband Sent Me Two Dozen Roses for Mother’s Day and I'm Furious
Photo by Bence Balla-Schottner on Unsplash

My husband likes to spend money. Throughout our marriage, it’s been a constant tug-of-war: he periodically blows the ready like a Kardashian at Fashion Week, and I have to figure out how to pay for everything. It’s not fun.

When I got home from getting my car repaired this morning, a large box from “Rosefarmers” was on the doorstep. At first, I thought he bought me a rosebush, which wouldn’t be so bad. After the initial outlay, I’d get free roses for years. But, no such luck.

By Ricardo Resende on Unsplash

He bought me a dozen red and a dozen white long-stemmed roses and a polished tin container to put them in. We don’t own a vase big enough for something like this, and we own a lot of vases. After a few days, these roses will reside in the compost heap, and I’ll have a polished tin container. Whee!

Out of curiosity, I went to the Rosegrowers website and looked up how much this extravagant gesture cost him. As it turns out, it was less than I imagined. (He got a Mother’s Day discount.) But that’s not the point.

The point is that we have to cut back on our expenditures, and two dozen roses are something I neither need nor want. My parents were florists. I associate roses with bridezillas, funerals, and working weekends.

By Rhodi Lopez on Unsplash

We recently returned a leased car, and I was doing my happy dance over the fact that we no longer had to meet that monthly car payment. The fact that we had to pay a $350 “turn-in fee” plus tax was quite the buzzkill, as was the news from our CPA that we owe $2,775 in income taxes. Naturally, that doesn’t include the fee he charges for doing our taxes, but that I expected.

I had $5,000 in the bank saved for our trip to Ireland. I’m going to have to make a serious dent in that in covering these unpleasant surprises. I better find a leprechaun when I get there and shake him down for the difference.

By Allec Gomes on Unsplash

In the last few months, we’ve been able to retire a lot of debt thanks to the Federal stimulus checks and a bonus my husband got at work. I paid off a Prosper personal loan and all our credit cards. It’s not like we’re on the brink of bankruptcy or anything, but I’d really like to get a little bit ahead of the game for a change.

I planned to start doubling up on our home equity loan payments to pay it off early. I was breathing a sigh of relief, but that didn’t last long. Thanks to Shifty McSpendthrift, we won’t be able to pay off our credit card balance this month. I’m bummed, but he couldn’t care less. At least one of us is okay with it. Too bad it’s not me.

By Emil Kalibradov on Unsplash

My husband has three obsessions: fine wine, vitamins and supplements, and (to a lesser degree) tech gadgets. I have a mortal fear of adding up what he spends on these things each year, but I know it’s enough to drop the jaw of most anyone outside the 1%.

He earns the bulk of our income, and he’s certainly entitled to buy what he wants with it, but it stresses me out. We’ve learned from experience that you can never know when your employer may no longer require your services. If he should suddenly lose his job, it won’t be pretty, but then it never is.

Early in our marriage, before my husband developed these particular obsessions, he had others: things like clothing, exercise equipment, first edition books, and his 1965 Mustang. At one point, I decided that he should pay the bills to get a better idea of our fixed expenses and what things cost. I hoped it would be a wake-up call, but he just hit the snooze alarm, turned over, and went back to sleep.

By Benjamin Voros on Unsplash

He paid bills late or not at all. I had to resume the responsibility of money manager, and it‘s been my job ever since. My numerous attempts to institute a budget have been abject failures.

For a budget to work, everyone in the family has to be on board. My husband prefers to smile and wave from the pier. Maybe he’s expecting his ship to come in.

My husband likes to point out that he doesn’t spend money on what many people do. He doesn’t gamble or day trade on the stock market, play golf or go to major league games. He doesn’t hang out at bars with his buddies, doesn’t own a boat, hunt, or fish. He has no desire to buy a Tesla, a Rolex, or a private island in Seychelles. I should consider myself lucky indeed!

I guess, in part, my frustration is that I don’t value a lot of the things he likes to buy. Take the vitamins and supplements, for instance. I don’t think he’s getting his money’s worth. Not by a long shot.

By Mike Juarez on Unsplash

I’ve read studies concluding that many supplements either don’t provide a benefit or don’t contain the ingredients they say they do. (The FDA doesn’t regulate them.)

I say if his supplements worked, he’d look like a Greek god (which he doesn’t unless you’re thinking of Dionysus).

Despite evidence to the contrary, my guy believes he’d be in worse shape without his morning and nightly pill piles. I might as well try to convert Pope Francis to Scientology.

The tech gadgets are another thing I have no use for, and neither does he, most of the time. He buys them, fiddles with them for a while, and then abandons them. Our e-waste collection is world-class. At least I’ve been able to sell some of them on eBay.

Then there’s the wine. Now, at least this I can appreciate and enjoy. I’ll admit I’m an enabler on that score. Great wine is, well, great.

By Klara Kulikova on Unsplash

You have to take the good with the bad. For a marriage to last, there’s got to be some give and take. I guess I’ll give him a break and take another glass of wine, a chill pill, and ask Alexa to play me some Ke$ha.

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About the Creator

Denise Shelton

Denise Shelton writes on a variety of topics and in several different genres. Frequent subjects include history, politics, and opinion. She gleefully writes poetry The New Yorker wouldn't dare publish.

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