Home & Garden

The secret to marital bliss is simple — know your limitations.

As I round the bend on three years of marriage, it has become clear to me that this whole arrangement isn't nearly as complicated as I'd once been led to believe.

Course, some might argue that I'm a couple of lug nuts short of a set when it comes to being a typical dude (I have no clue what that means. I just wanted to write "lug nuts" … there, did it twice.)

I'm not mechanically inclined. My talents around the house lean more towards mopping and dusting than plumbing and laying laminate. I'm a lifelong renter and back then, when the lights flickered or the toilet ran, I just called the landlord (a title that always sounded so regal, as if he should show up carrying a scepter while wearing a poofy cape — like the Burger King only less creepy.)

As a homeowner, my single greatest accomplishment has been hanging the mantel over our fireplace.

This was back when my toolbox consisted of a screwdriver, nine nails, an old light bulb and a pink hammer. Admitting that it was actually my wife's isn't nearly as bad as admitting that I didn't have a hammer of my own.

Never in all the history of cussin' have so many foul and filthy words spewed from the mouth of a single person. I was like Richard Pryor, Sheriff Buford T. Justice, Yosemite Sam and Ralphie from A Christmas Story all rolled into one.

But thanks to enough Liquid Nail lathered on to seal the Hoover Damn, it hangs there to this day.

And that's just a few of my more obvious shortcomings in the manly area (let me rephrase that). Suffice it to say that, like everyone, I've got a few imperfections.

But I like to think my charm, intellect, cheerful disposition and snazzy sense of humor more than make up for the litany of aforementioned blemishes to my personality resume.

Plus, I garden. Meaning I bring beauty into our lives. And as every gardener knows, with beauty comes responsibility, but I'm forced to do my duty on a budget — an allowance, really.

I'm also lousy with money.

I get 75 bucks a week worth of Me Money. It was about three months into our union when My Lovely (and thrifty) Wife came to the realization that I should not have access to the family coffers.

See, despite being a writer, I hate writing stuff down. And with a check card, that becomes even more cumbersome given my endless need for certain necessities — a Sonic slushee here, a Glade Plug-in there, the Black Sabbath box set, three tons of mulch — and pretty soon, like the transition from the Clinton to Bush administration, a surplus dissolved into a deficit.

Now, I'm a kept man, living the high life on a $75 stipend. We used to do it monthly, $300 bucks all at once, but I'd just spend it all the first weekend.

This way when it's gone, it's not gone for too long. But I'm still forced to make some tough decisions, all of which seem yardly motivated.

Do I buy Miracle Grow or the new Metallica CD … a few bales of pine straw or gas for the week, a McDonald's value meal or a five-gallon acuba.

Nobody said living on a budget was easy, because neither money nor gardeners grow on trees — but it takes both to plant 'em.