At my house, one of the many things we fight about is money. I realize, of course, that the same thing could be said about almost any couple, but with us there’s a slight difference: the fighting couple in question consists not of me and my husband, but rather of my daughter, Clementine, and myself. (Don’t get me wrong: my husband and I would love to fight about money; unfortunately, we never seem to have enough of it to make the effort worthwhile.) When it comes to Clementine and myself, however, shortness of funds has never been a barrier to conflict: no matter how little of it there is, I like to watch it come in; she likes to watch it go out. In other words: I’m a miser; she’s a spendthrift.
I’ll be the first to admit that she may have a point: my penny-pinching ways are somewhat legendary both in and out of our family. My husband once even complained that there was not one thing he could buy me that I would enjoy more than knowing that the money had never left the bank. Of course, he was inspired to make that comment by my less-than-enthusiastic reception to his Christmas present that year– a calendar. ( “A calendar? You bought me a calendar in December? But–if you wait until March, they’re practically free!”). (It probably didn’t help that two hours later I was still clutching my new calendar and repeatedly muttering the words, “March… practically free…”).
When it comes to my daughter, Clementine, however (or, as I like to call her, The Profligate Daughter), my Scrooge bona fides aren’t even needed to qualify for miser status–next to her, everyone would be considered a miser. Clementine doesn’t just like to spend money–she burns to spend it. Each penny that remains in her possession is like a heavy weight, oppressing her very soul. She reminds me of those winning contestants on the old version of Wheel of Fortune, where after each round the contestant had to spend their prize money on a revolving dais of crap before they could leave. (If they didn’t, any remaining funds would be put into a gift certificate for some place like “Zabu’s House of Fine Furnishing,” where you just know that the entire showroom floor is filled with objects like life-size ceramic cheetahs and “authentic replicas” of ancient Mayan death masks.) Before the show’s producers wisely changed it so that people could actually take the money they won home with them, the threat of Zabu would cause people to desperately try and spend their winnings on the “prizes” displayed on stage, the obvious theory being that it was better to deal with the devil you know (your very own jukebox!) than the devil you don’t (a grandfather clock shaped like an alligator!). Invariably, this would lead to scenes with grimacing octogenarians saying things like, “Well Pat, I guess I’ll take the Vespa for $5200.”
Or, in Clementine’s case, “I guess I’ll take the hose repair kit for 60¢.” Because even if we’re in a hardware store, if she has money in her pocket, she has to spend it.
I once stood at a pharmacy counter (waiting, I must confess, while the pharmacist checked to see if they had anything cheaper than generic) and watched as Clementine scoured the aisles of four-legged canes, toilet lifts and orthopaedic shoe inserts in search of something in her price range. And then, since her price range consisted of the nickel she had found on the way into the store, watched as she consoled herself with a handful of free pamphlets on such edifying topics as “Alzheimer’s and You” and “Know Your Prostate.”
If only she had seen the pile of calendars by the register–she could have bought a whole handful for her nickel. After all, since it was March, they were practically free.