20-Year Anniversary Math

I hate math. I absolutely hate math. I’m using the word “HATE” here. I don’t understand it. I don’t know how to do it, and the entire concept of math just makes no sense to me.

To this day I still DO NOT know how to answer the age old mathematical question which I believe every 5th or 6th grader is given . . .

Boston and New York are approximately 280 miles apart. One train leaves Boston traveling towards New York at an average speed of 80mph. Another train leaves New York at the same time traveling towards Boston at an average speed of 60mph. How long will it take them to meet?

I have NO IDEA how to figure this out. I don’t even know where to start. In fact thinking about it right this second, the ONLY thing I can come up with is that the train traveling at 60mph is experiencing mechanical difficulties, and is unable to achieve top speed. Or maybe there’s a switch problem on the track and that’s what’s causing the second train to go slow. I’m lost. I’m 43 years old, and I have NO IDEA how to do what I can only assume is a relatively easy grammar school math problem. I hate math.

But . . . I do like numbers. And I do like statistics. I like batting averages, and earned run averages. I like free throw shooting percentages. I like plus/minus numbers in hockey. I like counting down the days until vacation. I like keeping track of how many laps I swim, and then adding up the total distance swam. I like knowing how many miles I ran, and how fast I ran them. I like knowing what percentage of free space I have on my DVR . . . yeah that one is a little weird, but I like keeping it under 50%. Don’t ask. And I even like knowing how many songs I have on my iPod.

So while I HATE MATH . . . again there’s the word “hate,” I actually like numbers.

Which means I’m already having a field day working on the numbers for my upcoming wedding anniversary later this year. You see, my wife and I will celebrate our 20th anniversary together in October and I am already coming up with all sorts of numbers related to this event.

For instance . . .

This October we will have been married for 7,300 days.

That’s 240 months.

1,040 weeks.

175,200 hours.

That’s 20 Christmas mornings together.

That’s celebrating 20 birthdays (well 40 if you combined both of ours).

That’s 80 changes of seasons.

That’s 40 day-light savings time . . . . and I understand that whole day-light savings time thing about as much as I understand math. . . makes no sense to me.

It’s two kids.

One of which I’m positive is mine.

It’s three dogs. One we got rid of because he wasn’t nice. One died after more than 14 years, and one that currently likes chasing speeding Amtraks, so if that keeps up it could be four dogs soon.

It’s approximately 20 good arguments about finances . . . yeah about once a year . . . typically right after Costco rejects our credit card as we’re trying to buy a case of Sunny D, a half-gallon of Soy Sauce, a sleeve of frozen hamburger patties and an industrial size bottle of liquid soap . . . we argue about our finances . . . or lack thereof. And then I struggle with what hurts more . . . the fact that we don’t have a lot of money . . . or that I wasn’t able to get that half-gallon bottle of Soy Sauce.

It’s about 60 good disagreements over what she’s served for dinner . . . my wife is an AWESOME COOK . . . I really lucked out there, but I’d venture to say that about three times a year she concocts something in the kitchen that looks and tastes . . . . well . . . . like something from that Fear Factor Show years ago. Her last one was some chicken and rice baked casserole that still haunts my dreams. My younger son has not been able to eat a chicken nugget since. You just mention the word “chicken” and he starts twitching. He may need to see a therapist.

It’s at least 40 “Come To Jesus-type” sex talks where I sit her down and say “Babe, I gotta have more sex,” and she says “Yeah, whatever.”

And speaking of sex . . .

It’s 960 Sundays without sex. It’s Sunday. It’s “family day.” It’s the calm before the storm. There’s no sex on Sunday.

It’s 960 Mondays without sex. She’s too depressed that the work week has just started.

It’s 960 Tuesdays without sex. She’s too tired.

It’s 960 Wednesdays without sex. Though in all fairness Wednesday night is not really her fault. Wednesday is paddle night, and I typically don’t get home until about 11:00, and I’m pretty sure I smell something awful. To make matters worse I usually burst through the door bragging about winning some court #4 series V match, and though my wife typically sits there and pretends to be impressed, I believe that if she were being brutally honest with me she would say something along the lines of “I’ve never been less attracted to you as I am right now.” I cut her some slack on Wednesday night.

It’s 960 Thursdays without sex. She’s too focused on finishing the work week strong so that she can enjoy the weekend.

It’s 960 Fridays where I THINK I HAVE A CHANCE OF SEX . . . you know it’s Friday after all . . . and yet not so much. Friday night is still a mystery to me.

And it’s 960 Saturday nights where I actually have a realistic shot of sex.

960 Saturdays where I have made sure my face was clean-shaven.

960 Saturdays where I’ve tried my best NOT to act like a jack-ass . . . probably succeeded at least 600 times.

Gotten her tipsy at least 750 times.

Taken one Viagra. You all know what happened there.

Gotten BOTH kids out of the house 15 times.

And have actually gotten laid 480 times.

I have 480 I.O.U.’s.

It’s 100 requests to plunge the toilet after she accuses me of clogging it up.

It’s me blaming my oldest son for at least 80 of those clogged toilets.

And it’s me lying about 70 of those.

It’s 20 years of me looking at her and wondering why she’s with me.

It’s 20 years of her wondering the same thing.

It’s 20 years of me feeling like the luckiest guy in the world.

It’s 20 years of me knowing that despite all the other uncertainty that seems to surround me on an
almost every day basis, that my marriage makes sense.

It’s 20 of the greatest years of my life.

Now if I could just figure out that damn train question.

A Birthday Blog for my Wife

I haven’t done many things right in my life. Looking back, I can’t say I’ve ever actually finished something I started, and even if I try, I usually screw things up at the last minute. However as I celebrate yet another birthday with you I cannot help but reflect on how things have worked out the way they have.

Even those who seemed to do everything right along the way have had some kind of obstacle to overcome, and usually there was someone there to hoist them up, allowing them to continue. Reflecting on the past, who knows how many years, there is only one reason I am actually a fairly productive member of society (and there are certainly different levels of “production,” so just work with me here). And today is her birthday.

Babe you stood by me when I wasn’t doing anything worth standing beside . . . let’s see pretty much my entire college career, the Knauz car sales days, the whole softball umpire “incident,” and so on . . . really do we need to go on? . . . can we just leave it at “you walked with me down every dark alley and dead end, never making an issue of the point that I was a blind man trying to choose my own direction?”

You have believed in me when there wasn’t much to believe in . . . I’ve already mentioned the whole 6-year college stint, right? And you have pushed me to persevere even when I was ready to give up . . . though keep pushing, because I’m really good at giving up . . . so seriously fucking push!!!

At the risk of sounding “cliché,” I couldn’t have done any of this without you . . . . and honestly that’s sincerely meant as a compliment even though I recognize that some people may not consider that to be much of an endorsement since I haven’t really done much. But I’m thinking there’s a gutter with me in it if you’re not here. So how’s that?

You have been laughing at my childish humor way before Dan started laughing at it, and you have enjoyed my writing way before Brian started enjoying it. You seem genuinely interested in talking about my day even though I could very well have the most boring job on the face of the earth. Seriously on most days I have to force myself to stay awake while working . . . though some of that could have to do with that AWFUL mattress your dad gave us . . . I’ve never felt anything like this . . . no wonder he gave it to us . . . he sure as shit didn’t want it anymore. We need a new mattress. And fast.

It’s amazing that the satisfaction I feel when I do something right . . . which is not often . . . pales in comparison to the joy I experience when you rest your head on my shoulder. You can make my heart melt just by touching my hand, and any fears or doubts I may have vanish when you look at me with your hazel eyes . . . I think they’re hazel. They’re not really green, and they’re not really brown. Frankly after 20 years I still have no idea what color your eyes are, but they ease my fears. How’s that? And if we’re going with full disclosure here . . . I still fear prison rape, and dark rooms, and there’s not a damn thing your dazzling green/brown/hazel eyes can do about it . . . BUT ALL OTHER FEARS leave when you look at me.

You could take away my job, my health and all things I value as long as you still love me. It’s all I’ve ever wanted.

Okay that too may have been a tad strong. I may be “reaching here a bit.” Let me rephrase that . . . you could have my job. Again it’s painfully boring. So take the job. My health . . . hey I’m 42 years old . . . I’ve had a root canal procedure TWICE now in the SAME tooth in less than a year. My lower back hurts almost on a daily basis (I blame that fucking mattress). I don’t really think the stress fracture in my foot ever healed. And I’m pretty confident I broke a rib a couple weeks ago hitting fly balls to the baseball team. So how good is my health anyway? Take it. But “all things I value.” So you’re taking my flat screen? My cable box? My central A/C unit? And my Zebra Cakes? Shit. That seems like a lot to give up. . . BUT . . . I’d at least consider it. How’s that?

I can’t imagine that I’ve always been easy to live with. As I said, I tend to screw things up. But perhaps the most valuable thing you have given me is a desire to continue to try to be better . . . well that and sex. That whole willingness to have sex with me is pretty “valuable.” Actually in terms of “value” I don’t know if you can really put a value on sex.

Someday you and I will renew our vows . . . it’s not really high on my list of things to do, but I’ll at some point I’ll give in, and here’s pretty much what I’ll say . . .

You are by far the greatest thing that’s ever happened to me. All kidding aside you are the one thing that has worked out exactly the way I had hoped it would. Deep down, past my joking around, I treasure every part of you. I love how smooth your skin is. I love that you don’t expect me to notice your new haircut. I love when you pretend to be mad when I pinch your butt . . . you are pretending, right? I love that you’re a great mom. I consider it an honor that I’ll grow old with you. I don’t know why you picked me . . . nor do most of your friends . . . but I’m sure glad your VW Cabriolet broke down in my driveway after our first date. Just knowing that you had to come back the next day to get your car got me excited.

So I love you, and Happy Birthday, Kirsten

I’m Calling Off the Hunt for Sex

In any family structure, or in any family unit, the mom and the dad play a different, and yet equally important role.  Without the other, the family unit simply does not function as well as it does when both mom and dad are “gelling.”  Call it the ying and the yang of the family unit.

For instance, the man is responsible for investigating any strange sounds in the middle of the night.  In fact this has twice led to me running around the main floor of my house buck-naked wielding a baseball bat.  Hey, I sleep naked, and I’m not about to take the time to lace up my sweatpants and adjust my hoodie if I honestly think someone could be breaking into my house.  Come on.  Frankly I’m hopeful that the sight of my beans and mash dangling like a pair of dice from the rearview mirror . . . okay small dice . . . but just as fuzzy . . . . would be enough to frighten any would-be robber away without having to swing the Louisville Slugger.

And guys are also responsible for bringing a little levity to most family conversations.  For instance if my wife is grilling my older son about school work and grades I typically chime in with a “hey dude, as long as the chicks dig you, you’ll be fine . . . why do you think I went to school . . . look at your mom . . . yeah . . . she’s with me, and I can’t add.”  Or if my wife is reminding my younger son about the importance of teamwork I crack off a “little man, I’ve seen your team play . . . they’re awful . . . there’s no ‘I’ in team, but there is in Kick Ass . . . so let’s go.”  It’s just what guys do.  That’s our role within the family unit.

Women, on the other hand, are responsible for making sure the family gets to events/parties/activities on time, or at the very least on the right day.  My wife is notorious for being late, and as a result our family is often times late to functions, but she at least gets us to things on the day of the actual event.  I’d get our family to a Saturday party on Tuesday.  And of course the woman is responsible for rebuffing much of the man’s “levity” to ensure that kids know what’s really going on, and what really needs to be done.  And this usually can be accomplished by simply reminding the kids that “Your father is a moron and barely has an 8^th grade education, so go ahead and laugh at his silly comments, but you’re better off listening to me when it comes to things like school work and eating your vegetables.”

In the end, kids are smarter than you think, and most of them realize that dad’s funny, but mom’s smart.  And that’s what makes the family unit work.  It’s the best of both worlds.  After all, you can’t have two fun parents. . . . otherwise it’s a carnival, and that just doesn’t work.

But outside the family unit, within the actual one-on-one relationship between a man and a woman, there are still defined roles that each person plays.  And unlike the responsibilities that both the man and woman have within their family unit, the
responsibilities they have within their own relationship are much simpler.  Well, simpler in the sense that they are basically both responsible for one thing, and one thing only.  The man is responsible for reminding his wife that “it’s been awhile since they’ve had sex,” and the woman is responsible for telling her husband that “it actually hasn’t been that long, and bugging me about it won’t help matters.”

That’s it.  That’s all the man and woman have to do within their own relationship.  The man has to go . . . well . . . . hunting for sex, and the woman has to . . . . well . . . . shoot the hunter down.  Now every so often the woman has to green light a little “activity” just to keep the hunter interested , though the hunter NEVER loses interest . . . . EVER . . . . he may become frustrated, he may become ornery, he may THREATEN to lose interest , though this is a total joke and actually should NOT be used as an actual threat towards the woman.  Remember, she could call your bluff.  He may even begin to “accidentally” bump into you as you’re bending over to take something out of the oven . . . . I’m just saying it could happen . . . . but he’ll NEVER LOSE INTEREST because it is definitely the man’s job to keep hunting for sex.  It is NOT the woman’s job.

But recently a funny thing has happened to me, I’ve stopped hunting for sex.  I’ve stopped bugging my wife for it.  Now I still want it.  By no means have I lost my sex drive.  Far from it.  I’m as horny as ever.  And I’m absolutely 100% attracted to my wife (she’s still smoking hot at 40).  But I’ve stopped the on-going quest for sex.  I know it will happen at some point.  We’re not done having sex, but I’m just done reminding her that it’s been awhile since we last “did it.”  And this isn’t one of my ploys to get her more interested in me.  Oh, I’ve tried those before.  Tried the whole show complete disinterest in sex to see if I could get her more interested in it, and it failed miserably.  Hell, I was basically on my knees begging the court for mercy three weeks later.  This is something altogether different.

Maybe I’m just ready to concede that most men and women are different.  Most men want sex all the time while most women want to wait for a special occasion . . . . like the Summer Olympics or when the Cubs win the World Series.  This used to be a real problem for me.  But maybe now it’s not.

Or maybe this is a larger step in my on-going goal to grow up (which I’m still struggling with).  Maybe it’s time to admit that I no longer have what it takes to stay in the big leagues.  Maybe it’s time to accept the Triple-A assignment.  I can’t believe I’m saying this, but I think it may be true.  Maybe it’s time to stop hanging out with Derek Jeter and swapping high-fives with Alex Rodriguez.  Maybe it’s time to grab a seat on the bus next to the clown mascot as we head to a game somewhere in Ohio.

I don’t know?  Honestly I’m trying to figure it all out.  I’m not sure what’s going on, nor am I sure why I’m blogging about this (as no doubt my mother is going to have some choice, and probably uncomfortable comments about this one), but I am definitely switching gears here.  I’ve gone from asking my wife for a Flying Camel, A Dirty Sanchez and a ball rub under the table the next time we’re at Friday’s, to not really caring whether we have sex or not this coming weekend.

Huh?

Maybe I’ve realized that there’s more to a marriage than sex.  Nah…I think I have just decided that I’m not going to let it control me.  I’m going to say shit to my kids about their baseball ability without worrying if it will cost me sex.  I’m going to tell my wife that I don’t want her parents’ bedroom set even though I know she wants it.  I’m going to put the kibosh on scheduling “fun” social events at our house over the holiday weekend.  Now I know that agreeing to those events will get me laid, but I’ve decided that I don’t care.

Go Clay!  Now, this “stand” I’m taking is definitely freeing, and making me feel manly.  However, I have to say that it isn’t doing much for me in the sex department.  And eventually that is going to take precedence.  Maybe tomorrow, in fact.  Although we have two baseball games and a soccer game, so we’ll be exhausted by the end of the day anyway.  Low percentage opportunity.  Maybe the next day?  I may have to green light that Memorial Day BBQ at our house afterall.

I Need More Beads

So there’s a new “Self Help” book out called ’40 Beads.’  It’s written by a married woman and it specifically focuses on improving your sex life with your spouse.  In just a matter of weeks its shot up the Best Seller’s List which simply confirms my theory that if I had the ability to help people, or if I had any good advice to share with people . . . about almost anything . . . I’d be a published author.  As it stands . . . I have a lightly read blog. 

Anyway this whole 40 Beads thing started when this woman decided to give her husband 40 straight days of sex for his 40^th birthday.  Now let me just stop right there and throw a “shout out” to this woman . . . . “IF IT DOESN’T WORK OUT WITH YOUR CURRENT HUSBAND PLEASE CALL ME!!!!”

I asked for an iPad for my 40^th birthday . . . . and I didn’t get it. 

This woman just offers up 40 straight days of sex. 

Are you kidding me?

This woman is my new hero. 

Of course not more than a couple days into her 40-day sex marathon she realized that this was going to be easier said than done.  So she came up with this plan to give her husband 40 beads, and whenever he wanted sex all he had to do was drop one of the beads into a bowl which she kept by her bed, and within 24-hours of him doing so she’d be ready to go.  As she says in her book “She’d be a sure thing.”

So it was basically 40 “Free Passes” for sex. 

Fine.  It’s not exactly the 40 straight days of sex, but its 40 guaranteed romps in the sack.  Not bad.  It definitely beats an iPad. . . . which again I DID NOT GET.  I can’t stress this enough . . . literally I still don’t own an iPad and my birthday was in early February.

So there’s the “jist” of the book.  But of course it got me thinking.  Why only 40 Beads?  Why not 50 Beads?  Or 60 Beads?  Is this woman telling her husband that he’s only guaranteed sex 40 times a year?  Sure when you’re holding 40 beads in your hand it probably seems like a whole lot of beads, but when you consider that there’s 365 days in a year suddenly those 40 beads don’t look so good.  I think she’s short changing this dude. 

Here’s the way I see it . . .

Our starting number is 365 days. 

Now subtract 84 days for her 12 menstrual cycles.  Listen I’m not even going to get into this.  I barely understand the male body let alone the female body.  I don’t care that some women have shorter cycles while others have longer cycles.  The fact that I just wrote that makes me uncomfortable.  Talk about an area where I CANNOT offer advice.  I’m simply going to account for one full week per month.  Now if you can work in a BJ while she’s on that cycle, well God Bless You.   

So now we’re down to 281 days.

Now subtract another 140 days which is half the remaining number.  And why am I deleting half of 281?  Really?  You need to ask?  Seriously?  Let me ask you a question fellas. . . . how many times have you said this exact line . . . “Well I’ve got a 50/50 shot at getting laid tonight.”  There you go.  Delete 140 days.  I’m simply doing this in an attempt to be realistic.  If someone out there has a better than 50% chance of getting laid whenever they ask for it, well chances are you’re not reading my blog . . . and by the way . . . fuck you. 

So now we’re down to 140 days.

Now subtract another 40 days.  This is what I call miscellaneous bullshit.  It’s the petty excuses that women use to get out of having weekday sex.  It’s the comments, or the roll of the eyes, or the shrug of the shoulders that keep us from getting sex on Tuesday and Wednesday nights.   It’s your “I’ve had a long day at work,” excuse.  Or “The kids drove me nuts today, and I’m in no mood” excuse.  It’s the “You just played paddle tonight while I stayed home with the kids,” comment.  Now I don’t care whether you play paddle or even if you have kids. . . . just subtract 40 days.  Your wife can EASILY come up with 40 excuses on why she doesn’t want to have sex with you on a weekday. 

Now we’re at 100.

Subtract 1 for her birthday.  It’s HER BIRTHDAY!!  Are you kidding?  Even I know not to ask for sex on HER BIRTHDAY!

We’re at 99.

Subtract 1 for Mother’s Day.  Again, don’t be silly.  I’m thrilled if my wife acknowledges my presence on Mother’s Day.  She usually reminds me that I should take the kids and “get lost” on Mother’s Day. 

98 days now.

Subtract 35 more for all the dumb shit things we say and do during the year.  This includes, but is not limited to the following:

• Getting out of the shower, shaking your tally-wacker and saying “You want a piece of this, don’t you?”  Surprisingly that is not a turn on for women.
• Getting caught plotting out your “date-night” schedule AROUND her menstrual cycle.  Again I don’t really understand this whole menstrual cycle thing, but I do know that I’d rather not “waste” a Saturday night out if I have no chance of getting laid.  That’s the Saturday night we sit home and order in pizza.  My plan there was a good one, but in hindsight I probably shouldn’t have put those big red “X’s” through the calendar.
•  Asking any of the following questions upon climbing into bed at night: 
• Do you want to lick my balls?
• Can I tea bag you?
• Can I stick my love rod in you?
• Can I stick my tongue in your ear?

Even if your wife is drunk she’ll never say “yes” to any of those things.  Seriously I know what I’m talking about.  Just trust me.

 Which brings us to 63.

I want 63 Beads.  Granted it’s not as catchy a title as 40 Beads, but it’s what’s fair.  She’s short-changed her husband by 23 Beads.

There’s 365 days in a year.  I don’t think we’re asking too much for wanting “guaranteed sex” 63 times.

After all, it still gives our wives 302 days to turn us down.  

You know actually a follow up to ’40 Beads’ could be ‘325 Ways to Say No.’

I could write it.  I’ve heard them all.

Playing The Percentages

They say the only two guarantees in life are death and taxes.  I disagree.  I can pretty much guarantee you that I’ll get every red light if I’m in a rush.  And I can pretty much guarantee you that I will put my serve into the net on set point in a paddle match.  And I can pretty much guarantee you that my kids will dislike whatever my wife is making for dinner.

However, even I will admit that my own personal “guarantees” are not as, well, guaranteed as “death and taxes” as I do occasionally get a green light, and I have been known to hit a serve in during a key point, and every so often my kids will agree to lasagna or grilled chicken. 

So maybe death and taxes really are the only two real guarantees in life, but I think I can attach percentages to other aspects of life and figure out how “guaranteed” certain things are.

For instance if my son is downstairs playing Call of Duty and my wife calls him up for homework I think I can say that there is a 95% chance that he’s going to lobby for at least 10 additional minutes to finish his game, and after those 10 minutes come and go I think there is a 90% chance that my wife will threaten to take the game away unless he turns it off and comes up stairs immediately.

I think there is a 98% chance that my younger son will try to get out of taking a shower, and that kid seriously smells.  Literally my eight-year old needs strong deodorant.  There’s something not right there.  We’ve actually talked to the doctor about it, who simply warned us that “it’s only going to get worse.”  I’m convinced we’re going to need industrial-sized fans to air out the kid’s room once he hits his teenage years.  And yet he’d rather smell than take a shower.

And I think I can attach a percentage to how likely I am to get sex on any given night.  It’s actually becoming a science for me.  Friday night with two glasses of wine there’s a 60% chance I get laid.  Believe it or not, three glasses of wine on a Friday night actually lowers the percentage to about 45% as that third glass of wine simply knocks her out.  Remember it’s Friday night and she’s had a long day of work.  Don’t let the “Friday night thing” fool you.  She’s been at work for at least nine hours.  Friday night is NEVER any better than 60%. 

Now Saturday night is a different story.  Saturday starts at 60%.  The day could begin with the dog puking on the floor and her car running out of gas while she’s en route to an indoor soccer game, and I’ve still got a 60% chance of having sex later that night.  Saturday is my best chance period.  Date night with just me and a few glasses of wine and it goes to 75%.  Date night with a few other couples and a few glasses of wine and it goes to 85% (yes, my percentages go up as long as my wife doesn’t have to spend the entire evening talking to just me . . . six days a week I’ll avoid getting together with people like I avoid the bubonic plague, but Saturday night comes around and I’m inviting perfect strangers to come and join us for a cocktail).   

And the percentages sky rocket to an all-time high of about 95% if we’ve actually shipped our kids off to other houses for sleepovers.  If I can come home to an empty house after a Saturday night out with friends and wine. . . . 95%. . . . and it’s never better than 95%. . . . in fact if any guy tells you he’s got a better than 95% chance of getting laid. . . . he’s not only lying, but he’s actually got NO CHANCE of getting any action that night. 

Now a weekday night after my wife’s had a long day of work and comes home to cook dinner and help our boys with homework . . . 0% chance.  I would literally have a better chance of getting sex if I hit her in the face with a shovel.  So it’s during these week nights where I “push the envelope.”  I will say and do pretty much anything during the week knowing I had zero percent chance of getting lucky anyway.

Don’t believe me; well let me ask you this, have you ever said to your wife “Can I stick my sex monkey into your hot butter hole?”  Well, I have.  Do you know why?  Because there was as much chance of her saying yes to that absurd comment as there was of her saying yes to a hand written poem titled “The 101 reasons why I’d like to make love to my wife.”  ZERO PERCENT CHANCE. 

Now of course that particular comment backfired slightly when she turned around and told me not to talk to her for the rest of the day, but I made that comment on a Tuesday, so I have until Saturday to make it right. 

Trust me; I’ll be back to 60% come Saturday morning.

So on second thought maybe there’s death, taxes, and my wife’s complete disinterest in weekday sex as the only guarantees in life.