When it comes to household chores, I work for free. And I’m worth every penny.

But since I’m on a fixed income, I am thinking of charging for my services.

“You don’t do anything,” said my wife, Sue, who is the family banker.

“That’s not true,” I replied defensively.

“What do you do, take out the garbage?” she said.

“Yes,” I said. “And I clean the bathroom. And do the dishes. And get the mail.”

“How long does it take to get the mail, a minute?” Sue said.

“Time is money,” I responded, using an old business axiom, which is derived from the Latin word “axioma,” meaning “feeble excuse.”

I got the idea to charge for chores after seeing a lawn sign by some enterprising individual who wanted to get paid for putting up other people’s Christmas lights.

“Maybe I should get paid for putting up our lights,” I suggested.

“You mean throwing a few strands on the bushes out front?” Sue said incredulously.

“Yes,” I said. “And for plugging them in.”

“You’re ridiculous,” she stated.

“That’s my job,” I countered.

My job used to include outside chores like cutting the grass, but Sue fired me because I didn’t trim the edges of the yard to her satisfaction, so she hired a landscaping company.

“How could I get fired from a job I did for free?” I asked.

“The landscapers are worth the money,” Sue assured me.

I didn’t put up much of a fight because I didn’t like cutting the grass anyway. Or raking leaves. Or shoveling snow.

“If I got paid for lying in a hammock, I’d be a millionaire,” I noted.

“Take out the garbage,” Sue said.

“I’m not supposed to do that anymore,” I replied.

“Says who?” she wanted to know.

“A nurse in the cardiologist’s office,” I told her.

I was referring to Annemarie, who called to give me the results of a recent CAT scan, which was taken to find out the status of my aortic aneurysm.

About a year ago, I was scheduled to have open-heart surgery because the aneurysm was thought to be large enough to operate on. A subsequent scan showed that I didn’t need surgery after all.

But this latest scan indicated that the aneurysm had grown and should be monitored.

“You have restrictions,” Annemarie told me.

“Like what?” I wondered.

“No heavy lifting,” she said. “Not even a case of water.”

“How about a case of beer?” I inquired.

“Not that, either,” Annemarie said.

“Can I do 12-ounce curls?” I asked.

“If you’re thirsty,” she said. “A full wineglass is all right, too.”

“Red wine is over-the-counter heart medicine,” I pointed out.

Then we got down to household chores.

“How about taking out the garbage?” I inquired.

“Not if it’s too heavy,” Annemarie said. “And no heavy laundry baskets.”

“I don’t do laundry,” I said. “My wife thinks I’ll break the washing machine.”

“My husband doesn’t do laundry, either,” she said.

“Does he do other household chores?” I asked.

“Some,” Annemarie answered.

“Does he want to get paid for them?” I wondered.

“Are you kidding?” she spluttered. “I’d never pay him. Besides, he’s scheduled to have open-heart surgery, so he can’t do much anyway.”

“My wife is a cardiac patient, too,” I said. “She had a heart attack a few years ago, but she’s doing very well.”

“And she does most of the household chores?” Annmarie asked.

“Yes,” I confessed.

“Then you should pay her,” she said.

“I can’t,” I said. “I don’t have any money.”

“Money isn’t everything,” Annmarie said. “And it proves one thing.”

“What’s that?” I wondered.

“You’re a lucky man,” she said. “So do what you can to help your wife. After all, like most wives, she’s priceless.”

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