CSquaredPlus3

Tamale and Slash; A Boy and His Personal Brand

A couple of weeks ago, Middle Boy's beloved fish, Rainbow, went to the big fishbowl in the sky.  Rainbow was a betta and Middle Boy's first personal pet.  Mary, our dog, doesn't really count because Mary and Middle Boy never hit it off, especially after the two unfortunate pooping incidents of 2003.  One on his bed, and one almost on his lap.  It was as if the dog and the boy knew immediately that they didn't like one another seven years ago. 

Middle Boy [now 10] has always loved animals, so one year, his deductive reasoning skills led him to the conclusion that because Mary was an animal, and because he loved all living creatures, he must love Mary.  He's a logical child so the sound arguments left him no other choice.  I'm certain he continues to rely on this rationale every time Mary glares at him or chews holes in the carpet under his bed.

Rainbow's passing was heavy in our home.  The sadness he experienced surprised Middle Boy, which subsequently surprised and moved me.  He came down the stairs nervously saying, Rainbow's dead. He was fine this morning. Together we confirmed that, in fact, it was curtains for Rainbow.  Middle Boy wanted to execute the flushing ceremony himself, even after the color drained from his face when he thought he saw blood in Rainbow's habitat. [There was no blood.]

It was a long, sad afternoon.  I cleaned the fish tank.  I also removed some fishsticks from the freezer, per Middle Boy's request.  "Too painful," he said. [He's since managed to choke down salmon and shrimp, so I think he's recovered from the "seafood-is-Rainbow" PTSD.]

Middle Boy found comfort in processing his thoughts aloud.  I don't think I fed him too much.  He didn't act sick.  I've had him for almost two years.  That's old for a betta.  I think he died of old age.  Probably in his sleep.  That's gotta be it.

I finally asked, "Would you like a new fish?  Would that make you feel better?"

He tried not to jump on the offer, but I could tell it was exactly what he wanted.  "I think so," he said.  "Not to replace Rainbow, of course.  Just to help me with my grief."

We went to the store to purchase a fish.  Middle Boy wanted to make sure the new fish didn't resemble Rainbow.  Again he reminded me, Rainbow could never be replaced.

The new fish is bright red and perky.  He flutters and swims when he hears voices.  Middle Boy noticed that Tamale [the fish's name] does not like to be observed eating and we've been instructed to leave the room when the fish is fed.  He needs PRIVACY, Mom.

 

Middle Boy gave me permission to share this tender fish story.  In an effort to balance his soft side, he also gave me permission to share a drawing he created a few days ago.  It's Slash from Guns N' Roses, one of Middle Boy's idols.

Middle Boy -- a fish loving, electric guitar playing, softhearted, appreciative of the edgy and cool set, ten year-old.  I hope he never changes.

When A Dog Goes Down and Why I Hate Team Sports

Sitting in the office, my back to the french doors leading to the front yard, I noticed a person running quickly towards our house in the reflection on my computer screen.  I turned around and saw a tall man wearing a Snowbird baseball cap taking long, purposeful strides.  He resembled James Taylor.  I felt safe.

I met him at the front door as he reached for the door bell.

"Do you know who's dog that is?" he asked as he pointed to the too still, cream-colored, fluffy animal lying in the street.

I looked where he was pointing.  "OHMYGOD!  YES!"

Our neighbor's dog had broken through his electric fence and was hit by a car.  The tall man witnessed a white truck hit the dog, throwing the dog several feet.  The truck didn't stop.

I called my neighbor and spoke with one of her sons.  When her son told me his mother wasn't home, I didn't tell him what had happened to their family pet.  The dog was still alive but had clearly been seriously injured.  I called my neighbor on her cell phone several times over the next ten minutes, as I simultaneously fetched a towel, wrapped the dog, and had panicked discussions with the tall man about where I would take the injured animal for help if my neighbor didn't answer.

I finally reached my neighbor and she and her husband were only a moment away.  The tall man and I were hunched over the dog when they pulled up in their car.  Within a couple of minutes, the dog was on his way to the nearest animal hospital.

I'm not a dog person, mostly because I'm busy... and a neat freak, but I have tremendous compassion for animals.  We have Mary and I joke about my desire for her to wear underwear [for hygiene purposes].  Chris still claims he plans to make a hat out of her when she passes because he spent $8,000 to save her life one summer.

There's nothing worse than seeing a dog suffer.  When our neighbor's dog had been hit, I was numb with fear and panic.  I managed to do what needed to be done but my heart was pounding and I felt like I might faint from the overwhelming emotions.  I wanted to yell at the tall man, "Help him!  Fix him!  He's hurting!"  I might have actually yelled those things.  It's kind of a blur.

It's a good thing I'm not an ER doctor.  I'd be no good at that.  It's not that I don't want to help -- because I do -- it's that the intense empathy I experience nearly cripples me.  It's also the fear of not knowing precisely what to do.  Analysis paralysis.  I don't want to do the wrong thing, especially when the stakes are high.

Just like team sports...

Volleyball terrifies me.  I've never learned how to hit the ball without hurting my forearms.  I'm the one you don't want on your team because even if the ball comes directly to me, I'll scream to my teammates, "GET IT!"  We've declined many invitations to play on a couple's volleyball league.  Chris knows better.  He's seen me panic in backyard pool volleyball games.  I can't handle the pressure.

It's the same with softball.  I have vivid memories of playing left field for the Green Eyed Ladies in Winchester, Indiana, when I was a kid.  Hated it.  The ball would land and roll practically to my feet -- I'd look at the right fielder and scream, "GET IT!"  I threw like a girl [still do] and struck out every time I was at bat.  A couple's softball league is also out of the question.

Had the neighbors not been so close to home, I would have managed to get the suffering dog to the animal hospital.  My adrenalin kept me moving, although I was spinning a bit, and asking the tall man redundant questions and repeating, "This is terrible.  This is terrible.  This is really, really terrible."  Babbling seems to frequently be my modus operandi.

I spoke with my neighbor and the dog is alive.  His condition has been changed from critical to stable.  When he returns home, I'm requesting that they up the juice on his electric fence.

I may not be able to be crowned The-Queen-of-Grace-Under-Pressure, but I'm always well-intended.  If history repeats itself, I have a shot at being the next Nobel Peace Prize winner.

It's in the eye of the beholder.

This morning I asked Chris to do this...

So that Mary could do this...

We discussed how we couldn't believe it snowed again, when we've had several tastes of spring - enough to stow away winter things until next year.

This snow will be gone as quickly as it came.  We'll likely be in the yard this weekend working on beds - seriously.  This snow doesn't bother me.  It's too beautiful.

Then again, I'm in the house drinking coffee in my pajamas, with my hair sticking out like Witchiepoo's from H. R. Pufnstuf, while Toddler Child occasionally asks, "Can I touch you ear?" [Ear fondler, remember?]  I'm not shoveling it or peeing in it. 

It's still beautiful from my perspective.

The Damn Scam

First Offense:  Phoenix, Arizona - August 2008

Mamaw was watching television, most likely with the newspaper folded in such a way in front of her on the coffee table that she could glance at it and be reminded of the date.  She likes to know what day it is.  The phone rang.  Upon answering, she heard the voice of a young man claiming to be her grandson. 

"Hi!  It's your grandson!"  She was naturally pleased, because it's rare that her adult grandsons call her.

"Is this Patrick?" she asked.  The young man said he was.  He told her he was in some trouble.  Please don't tell any other family members.  He was in jail and needed a few thousand dollars to post bail.

The story didn't jive for Mamaw.  Not because she didn't think it was Patrick, but because she didn't think he should be calling her for money.  Mamaw told Dad later in the day about the call and said she didn't think it was a good idea to send money.  Dad listened to Mamaw's story and quickly concluded she hadn't been called by one of her grandsons.  He explained what had likely happened to her. 

Mamaw is 91 years old.  I've written about her here and here.

Second Offense:  Bellevue, Washington - March 2009

Chris' grandmother received a call from a young man claiming to be her "favorite grandson".   She, like Mamaw, was delighted to hear from one of her adult grandsons.  She assumed it was Chris.  [He's obviously her favorite.]  The young man said he was in some trouble.  He also requested other family members not be alerted because he was embarrassed and would explain later.  He needed $3700 wired immediately - he was in jail in Vancouver.

Chris' grandmother told his grandfather about the phone call and together they made a trip to the bank.  They withdrew money and prepared to wire funds to their favorite grandson.

Chris' grandfather became suspicious while talking with the young man as they were getting specific wiring instructions.  He began asking the favorite grandson questions to confirm his identity.  The perp cracked when Grandpa Ross asked, "What's your dog's name?"  He hung-up.

Grandma and Grandpa Ross are 84 and 85 years old.

Lessons Learned

1. Grandchildren of Mamaw - If you're in trouble, Mamaw might send you a file in a cake to spring you from the clink.  Don't hold your breath for cash.  Go to Plan B.
2. Grandchildren of Grandma and Grandpa Ross - Ensure you have Grandma and Grandpa's contact information on your person at all times.  Specific wiring instructions for your financial institution would be helpful also.
3. Favorites - My brother Mallory Joe is NOT Mamaw's favorite grandson.  Chris IS the favorite grandson of Grandma and Grandpa Ross.
4. Mary [our dog] - She gets extra treats this month for saving Grandma and Grandpa money.  She really is like Lassie...

Seriously, warn the older people in your life about this scam.

Pasta Under the Piano

The Discovery
One week ago today, Chris and Toddler Child were in the basement rolling around on the floor.  [I don't know what they were doing.]  Chris noticed some discolored moisture near the peddles of our piano - an antique upright.

Chris pulled the piano away from the wall and discovered a wet, chunky mess.  Huh, he thought.  He cleaned the big chunks with paper towels and was coming up the stairs into the kitchen just as Toddler Child was telling me, "We have a messy house."

Chris' Description
I looked at Chris curiously.  He said, "Yeah, something weird happened down there.  Someone spilled something under the piano."

I told him that was impossible, the piano's too big and heavy plus the kids don't eat or drink in the basement.  Maybe Mary [the dog] puked, I suggested.  She'd have to stick her little snout right at the base of the piano and projectile vomit to get it under the piano, but it could happen.

"I bet that's it!" he said.

Proud of our genius, I followed Chris to the basement to see what he'd found.

WTH?
Walking down the stairs, I immediately saw the messy house that Toddler Child described.  "Chris!  This is NOT a spill or dog vomit.  Look at the baseboard.  It's a frickin' leak.  Crap."

In Chris' defense, he had been focused on cleaning the big chunks and hadn't spent much time investigating the source of the problem.

Our over-inflated genius heads deflated.  Quickly.  Fear, panic and visions of money flying out the window began visibly filling us.  Like orange water being poured into a clear vessel.  We were running around, orange water sloshing and spilling out of every orifice in our heads - his contaminated water was getting on me, and mine on him.  We were a mess.

The Professionals
Where's Dwayne Schneider [One Day at a Time], Mr. Roper [Three's Company], or Tim Taylor [Home Improvement] when you need them?  We've had every inept plumber, roofer, *mold specialist, and generic repair person at our house the past week.  A professional comes in the house, shakes his head, mumbles, tries to fix something that isn't broken, then charges us at least $100.  We have few answers... and a leak.

*Mold
We don't have a nightmare-mold situation, but there was organic material growing in a small area under the piano.  Some of the staining on the carpet was paint and old mystery stuff that leeched from the piano - not mold.  But the original chunks Chris cleaned?  Most likely... mushrooms.

Because Chris had cleaned the bulk of the mess, I couldn't describe it to the mold guy.  I called Chris at work.

"Hey.  The mold guy's here.  What did the chunky stuff look like?"

"Pasta."

"Really?"

"It was like pieces of pasta noodles."

"Like ziti?"

"I don't know.  It just looked like pasta."

I told the mold guy what Chris said.  He made a few notes, said he's seen much worse and seemed to be amused by my disgust at the entire situation.  Hardy f**king har, asshole.  Here's YOUR hundred bucks. [It's like a strip club in our house, only I'm doling out hundreds and my dancers are fat guys with ungroomed mustaches, jackets that smell like gasoline, and very dirty shoes.  I feel frustrated and irritated I've spent so much money.  Sound familiar, fellas?]

Status
We have a water softener specialist scheduled to arrive this afternoon.  We [Chris and I, NOT the professionals] think the source of the leak is the water softener.  Using our crack analytical skills, we're certain we've honed in on the problem.

The damaged carpet, baseboard and drywall have been removed, and the contaminated piano has been wrapped until we can find someone to move it, and I don't know... remove the organic material from the bottom of it?

There's a HEPA air filter in the basement that's been running since Friday afternoon.  I think we're pretty much defunkified.

I'm convinced there are mold spores growing in my lungs because I've developed a sudden respiratory condition.  I've been the one at home dealing with all the professionals, showing them the mess, watching them touch it and stir it, and float potentially dangerous spores in my airspace.  My condition is one that mimics a virus that's prevalent in our area, but I've reminded Chris if he remarries upon my death - I'll haunt him.  Just in case I have the deadly mold spores in my lungs.

Daughters

Mothering our boys comes naturally to me.  They're fun, sweet, energetic and so far they think Chris and I are pretty neat.  I always knew I'd be a parent.  I assumed I'd have at least one boy and one girl, with a bonus kid or two.

Growing up, I projected my own feelings on a future daughter.  I had a difficult time understanding that my parents and grandparents didn't think about me while they were young... before I existed.  One of the reason's I kept journals was so that my daughter could someday read them and know I understood exactly how she was feeling.  I kept special dresses from my childhood and teenage years.  I saw pictures of my mom and grandmothers in their pretty dresses as young girls and was saddened that they didn't save them for me.  How could they get rid of such gorgeous gowns that I would have LOVED to wear while playing "dress-up"?  I saved dresses for the daughter I assumed I'd have.  So she would feel understood, and know she was thought of prior to her arrival.  I saved dolls and stuffed animals too.  I still have everything. The journals, the dresses, and the dolls.

I wrote in one of my journals, "When I grow up, I'm going to let my daughter watch Battle of the Network Stars, even if it's a school night, because I know she'll really want to, and she'll still be able to get up in the morning for school.  Mom and Dad are so mean."

It was important for me to prepare for... her.

As I've connected with friends on Facebook, one of the best parts is seeing photographs of everyone's families.  We all put our best, most attractive, smiling faces on display - Look at me!  Look at my wonderful marriage!  Look at my cool single life!  Look at my beautiful kids! - recognizing the reality is that we all have ups and downs, bumps in the road, and a few unattractive days.  There's not usually a camera documenting those times.  So, we see the happy and the fun.  And... the BEAUTIFUL LITTLE GIRLS that EVERYONE has!

I adore our sons.  Our family is complete and I love the novelty of being the only female in our house.  Makes me feel special.  I won't have a daughter.  It's okay.  I'm able to talk with girlfriends about their relationships with their daughters, and befriend many, many young girls.

Yesterday a package arrived while I was reflecting on the photos of friends' beautiful daughters on Facebook, and the lack of estrogen in our home.  The package was from Cheri at Blog This Mom.  She had already shipped me a Snuggie after reading about my fascination with them.  Cheri's daughter, Laura, shares the same fascination and received one for her 9th birthday.

I couldn't imagine what was in the new package.  It was an American Girl DVD!  [Thank you Cheri!  For everything.]  After reading my "February 1978" post, Cheri sent me Chrissa Stands Strong. 

"Meet Chrissa Maxwell.  She and her family have just moved, and Chrissa has to start at a new school mid-year.  Will she fit in?  Can she find new friends?..."

I haven't watched it yet, but I intend to.  With the boys.  Cheri said so.  Which means, our family will be watching An American Girl: Chrissa Stands Strong one evening this week.

In the meantime, I thought Mary would enjoy reading one of my childhood journals.  Here she is, comfortably wrapped in the Snuggie, moved by the fact that I documented feelings 35 years ago on her behalf, and excited to watch our new chick flick.

My girl...

Christmas 2008 - The End

I'm certain everyone's tired of looking at, and reading about Christmas trees, cute kids and food.  This is the last from me.  Promise.

I posted a photo of our naked tree a few weeks ago.  It stayed naked for several days, and I really liked how it looked all undressed.  A couple of people [literally two] wanted to see it decorated.  Some of the ornaments are as old as I am, some are made by the kids, and some are from the grocery store "impulse buy" section near the gum, videos, and *warm french bread [*every day at 4:00!].

Other than having a tall ceiling, our family room isn't very big, so it was difficult to get a photograph of the tree in it's entirety.  Apologies for three unusual shots.

My parents spent Christmas with us.  Mother's birthday is December 22nd and I had intentions of doing a post in her honor.  I'll do that... later.  Mom and Dad arrived on her birthday after a long, snowy drive from Arizona to Utah.  We celebrated.

 

Christmas week, we went sledding, worked on a puzzle, ate and drank, shoveled snow, built an igloo in the backyard, relaxed, ate and drank some more, and shoveled more snow.

 

I made Beef Wellington for the first time EVER.  [Sorry Sherri, I know you're a vegetarian, so don't look at this or click to enlarge.  It's a big hunk of "tortured flesh" - John Robbins' words, not mine.]

 

The days between Thanksgiving and Christmas were fewer this year.  I know many of us felt it.  I was mailing Christmas letters on the 24th, and I have a few more to address.

Christmas morning arrived even though I wasn't quite ready for it.  And everything was just. fine.  It was better than fine.  It was peaceful, there was falling snow, and we were all happy to share time together.

The economy dampens my spirit, and increases my stress.  It affects us all.  Chris and I are taking things a day at a time and trying to focus on what's important, and release the things we can't control.  [Remind me I said that when I freak out - please.]  I hope everyone was/is able to enjoy the simple things this holiday season.

Mary in her pretty dress...

 

The Justice League

Halloween is not one of my favorite holidays.  For many reasons.  I don't like how creepy it's gotten over the years.  I've seen toddlers wearing the Scream mask, and others with graphically drawn wounds on their faces.  What happened to clowns and old, fat farmers?  Gypsies, and little boys dressed like their dad, using their mother's eyebrow pencil to draw a mustache on their face?

It's also a problem at our house because of Oldest Boy's diabetes.  A little candy once in a while is fine, but to gluttonously "go for it" isn't good for him - any child really.  Middle Boy's allergic to wheat and dairy, so again,  presents a problem.  Now that they're older, 11 and 9, they understand the limitations of their individual bodies.  It was much more difficult a few years ago.

Without further ado...

I knew Toddler Child was going to be Batman, so I excitedly bought Mary (the dog) her Wonder Woman costume.  I begged Chris to be Robin... he wouldn't do it.  Middle Boy had a Superman costume from last year and I picked up The Flash for Oldest Boy on sale.

I confess that Oldest Boy and Middle Boy only wore these for the photos.  They said they'd be mortified to be seen in the neighborhood actually trick-or-treating in them.  I think they had fun once they were in them though...

 

After pictures, the two older boys changed into their real costumes and got on with the more important business of trick-or-treating.  [For Toddler Child, it was "twinkle-tweeting".]  Oldest Boy was a Jedi and Middle Boy was a CLONE trooper, not a stormtrooper.  They both made their costumes (except the helmet).

 

Once the kids were off, Mary had her own important business - guarding the Ross Cave and running upstairs to stare at the bird periodically.  You never know when a parakeet might attack.

 

We feel sooooo much safer with Wonder Mary on watch.  Her costume commands the respect she's always deserved and the Lasso of Truth concerns us all...

 

The eagle has landed.

The new parakeet in our house has been exciting for everyone.  Oldest Boy named him Wren.  The bird guy told us it was a male - don't ask me how he knew.  I think he just said that knowing there's a 50/50 chance of being right, and we'd never call him on it.

The boys frequently check on the bird, and are concerned about him being alone when we're away.

Mary Schnauzer didn't notice the bird when we brought him home on Friday.  She played in Oldest Boy's room (where the bird lives) and we even tried to point him out to her.  It went right over her little walnut sized brain.   A squirrel can sit two feet away from Mary in the back yard and if it doesn't flick her in the forehead, she doesn't notice it. 

Finally, she saw the bird.  She's completely obsessed now.  She doesn't bark or growl, but she sits there... staring.  Like Eddie on Frasier.

We told the boys that Mary probably doesn't want to eat the bird, but she'd love to play with it, which would be bad.  I think they get it.

While we all get used to the bird and he gets used to us, a watchful little schnauzer named Mary will be overseeing the bird's every move. 

Road Warriors

Friends recently visited us while on a business/pleasure trip.  They road tripped from the east coast to the western states with their two kids (travelin' age kids, not babies or toddlers) and their pet horse dog named Wilbur. 

Wilbur is an 8-month old Bullmastiff with a brindle coat (I looked that up - it's tiger stripey).  His family says he weighs 130-ish pounds - emphasis on the "ish" - with 80 additional pounds to look forward to as he matures.  Wilbur simultaneously fascinated and terrified the kids and Mary.  Ultimately fascination took over.  Wilbur vocalized like Chewbacca, drooled, blew snot bubbles, lumbered around like Baby Huey, and had the most expressive face.  We decided his face was a cross between a bear and an orangutan.

Chris and I were simply fascinated by our friend's ability to:

1)  drive from the east coast to the western states;

2) do this with two kids (our travelin' age kids have a rough time on road trips);

3)  share the trip with their horse dog;

4)  not just bring a bag of dog food, but travel with several pounds of frozen, raw meat to feed Wilbur.  (I had never heard of feeding raw but dogs are carnivores and many people feed their dogs raw meat because it's healthy for them - look it up.  I did.  Mary's not getting any though - meat that is.)

These are hardy, compassionate, life lovin', dog lovin' people! 

Chris and I have been on vacation strikes for years at a time because of traveling-with-small-child induced exhaustion.  Toddler Child almost killed us in Colorado and the two older boys complained about the long car ride. 

We've taken Mary twice with us to Mother and Dad's in Arizona.  The first time was right after her near-death experience and she sat on my lap for 11 hours with 50 staples in her stomach.  I don't know why we took her the second time.  Maybe we thought it'd be "fun" to take the family dog on vacation.  Mary spa's it now.

A few years ago Middle Boy was interested in studying and drawing dogs.  We bought him a few books on dog breeds and dog art.  He spent a lot of time alone in his room reading and drawing.  We saw several sketches of Old English Sheepdogs, Dalmatians, and mutts.  We didn't know the extent of his breed knowledge.

Shortly after Middle Boy became the dog expert in our house, we planned a trip to Arizona.  I packed Mary's suitcase for the Little Dog's Salon and Resort.  Chris and the boys waited in the car while I handled Mary's check-in.  An outdoor play area was visible from the parking lot, so all the little dogs could wave good-bye as their humans drove away.  Middle Boy had been quietly observing the dogs.

As we headed towards the airport, Middle Boy said, "Did you see those two, white Bitchin' Fries?"

There's something about Mary...

Mary is our dog.  She's a 5-year-old miniature schnauzer we've had since she was 10-weeks-old.  Growing up, we always had a dog or two so I assumed I would enjoy having one as an adult.  I really don't.  Mary's a good little dog and she's not mistreated -- she has a nice life. 

I've realized I'm not a dog person and I can say that without shame... now.  We were told Mary would take a maximum of 2 weeks to housebreak.  It actually took an extra 102 weeks.  Two weeks plus 102 weeks = TWO years. 

As I complained to Mom about Mary's constant accidents, Mom said, "Well, you're just not a dog person," with the same tone in her voice used to describe someone's unpleasant, personal challenge, like, "Well, you know she's had problems with alcohol...AND she smokes."

Because someone isn't a dog person doesn't mean they don't like animals.  I actually love animals and am a responsible pet owner.  I'm simply being honest when I say, I think I made a mistake.  When life has me operating near the edge [more days than not], Mary throws-up or pees on the carpet and pushes me right over that edge.

Mary doesn't shed and is a clean breed, but the thought of where her paws have been outside as she trots in our house, bothers me.  The fact that she's naked makes me twitch and quiver.  I'd love for her to wear underwear or pants. [I imagine dog people don't have these thoughts.]  I don't like knowing she goes to the bathroom, doesn't wipe [not even on the grass -- I've watched], then comes in the house and sits down like every thing's normal.

Having confessed [without shame] that I am not a dog person, and Mary is our little weak-moment-decision who we love and can't imagine life without, I'd like to ease any real dog person's mind who might be concerned about Mary's longevity in our home by sharing how we saved her life.

When Mary was a little over a year old [still not housebroken] she became ill.  Turned out she had a blockage that required removal via surgery.  She developed staph infection a few days later, ended up being transported to a fancier facility, had a few more surgeries and was hospitalized for almost two weeks.  While she was in the animal hospital, Oldest Boy, Middle Boy and I visited her three times every day.  NOT kidding.  I cried each time, begged her to live -- the boys cried.  It was sad.  The doctors said it would take a miracle to save her. 

We received our miracle.  Eight. Thousand. Dollars. Later.

Chris says when Mary passes, he's making a hat out of her.  He wants something to show for the time, tears, sweat and $$$ he's invested.  Mary's longevity in our home is guaranteed.