A FEW MONTHS AGO, I started getting these advertisements in the mail. Of course I always get advertisements in the mail, but these caught my attention long enough to keep me from throwing them into the recycling pile.

"Lookee here," I said to the Truly Unpleasant Mrs. Johnston, "a credit-card company wants to give me a credit card and not charge me for using it. Now that's a deal I can't pass up!"

"You better read the fine print, Buddy Boy," said Mrs. Johnston, calling me by one of her two favorite nicknames. Her other favorite nickname for me is "Mr. Stupid."

(I must digress here. Mrs. Johnston believes two things. The first is that she married an idiot, and she has devoted her life to making her husband into a better man than the one she married. She hasn't been too successful, but that doesn't stop her from trying. The second thing she believes in is reading "the fine print." Mrs. Johnston always reads the fine print. She said she learned her lesson when she didn't read the fine print on our marriage license and later found out she signed up for a life sentence. I rarely read the fine print because my lips get worn out and my attention starts to wander. I'm through digressing now, and will continue.)

You would think after all these years of living on this planet that I would have learned the old lesson of "there ain't no free lunch." I suppose there are some free things, but I rarely find them, and in the end I usually end up paying for them. For example, I'm going through the supermarket and this lady is frying up little hot dogs or something. She holds one out on a toothpick and asks: "Free sample?" Of course I take the free sample. And, fearing the sample lady might be a widow who really needs the job to feed the three kids at home, I eat it right in front of her.

The little hot dog on a stick may taste like bad kidney beans, but I always nod my head and make "yummmmm" sounds. That's when the widow lady gives me a coupon for 10 cents off and hands me a pack of "Uncle Bob's Tiny Tastee Things." They sell at $3.99 for 10 ounces and are made of "pork, beef and wood byproducts."

This is why I married a woman I call my "Pit Wife." When I'm in a store or answer the door or the phone, I just sic Mrs. Johnston on the person trying to sell me something.

"I'm sorry," I tell salespeople, "but I'm not allowed to make decisions. You'll have to talk to my wife."

In the background, salespeople can hear a low growling from Mrs. Johnston. That's usually the end of them.

The problem is she's fending off only the people who come to our door, call on the phone or snare me in a store. I could tell by the expression on Mrs. Johnston's face when I started talking about the 0.0 percent deal from the credit-card people that now she knows she'll have to start opening the mail, too.

Steve Johnston is a retired Seattle Times reporter. His e-mail address is stevejonst@aol.com. Paul Schmid is a Seattle Times news artist.