After the debacle that was My Mother’s Chili (it’s a title- it gets capitalized), tadalafil my mother was never allowed into the kitchen without competent supervision again. Or, ambulance at least, unhealthy she wasn’t allowed to make anything more complicated than peanut butter and jelly sandwiches. For myself, I made a vow that I would never commit the same sort of blasphemy against the art of cuisine.
Skip ahead a dozen years. I’ve graduated high school and am studying Education at the University of Akron. My wife and I have recently moved out of a shoebox-sized apartment (when I tell you it was so small that I could stand in the living room and reach the kitchen and the bathroom without actually having to stretch, it’s not really an exaggeration) and into our first house. I won’t go into detail about this house except to say that when we had it appraised, the building inspector gave it thoughtful stare and said, “Well, you can’t exactly call it a fixer-upper; we’re going to have to invent a new word…” We paid less on our mortgage for that house, near the heart of the town, than we had for the little rodent-infested apartment we had just moved out of, and it’s arguable that we were still being robbed.
In any case, though, it was an investment; our money was going into a sinkhole that would someday actually belong to us. In the meantime, though, we were so broke that we had to panhandle outside elementary schools in order to scrape up enough change to buy gas so that we could go to work and school. I’ll tell you, there’s nothing quite so depressing as realizing that the average five-year-old child has- in his pockets- roughly double your net worth…
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