Once, right after our return from Paris where we celebrated my wife Susan Turnbull's birthday (I won't say which one), my sweet bride noticed that I had foolishly put a wooden plate in the dishwasher that wasn't ever supposed to go in there.
The upshot was that the varnish was all cracked and warped, and the plate, for all practical utility purposes was ruined.
But not to worry. Suze, in her fury and needing to vent, recalled a moment in Paris when I was being (how shall I say this?) um... less than my usually easy to get along with self, and painted a quick, expressionistic portrait of me on the plate. She calls it "Paris Bill." Nice, huh? See why I love her? My first wife would have probably just hit me over the head with the plate, or thrown it at me like a frisbee.
Susan's just punishment, on the other hand, may conceivably outlive me for many generations to come.