My husband thinks I’m trying to kill him and I assure you I’m not. We’ve been married twenty-four years; if I were going to kill him I would have done it by now.
So where does he get this crazy idea? Well in fairness to him, there have been a few ‘food’ incidents.
First, you should know my husband had a bad experience with liver as a child. His dad wouldn’t let him go to the movies unless he finished his dinner. He found liver disgusting, so in order to eat it, he cut it into small pieces and swallowed it like pills with milk. He cleaned his plate but became so ill he missed the movie anyway. To this day, he can’t eat liver, he can’t watch someone else eat liver, and the mere mention of it makes him gag.
Soon after we were married, we were attending an awards dinner when a tray of appetizers was passed around. My husband chose carefully to avoid the liver pate. I on the other hand, loaded up. I love the stuff! When he went to use the washroom I couldn’t resist switching plates. The older woman next to me looked at me suspiciously. I explained I was switching plates, so he could try some of mine.
He returned to the table and without looking reached for an appetizer and shoved the whole thing into his mouth. He began to chew. His eyes met mine. I smiled at him. His face went red, his eyes began to water and then it happened; the dreaded gag reflex.
I couldn’t contain my laughter. He got up and ran to the washroom. Wiping the tears from my eyes I turned to smile at the lady next to me, but surprisingly she wasn’t laughing. It turned out she had no sense of humour at all. (Really, what is it with some people?)
Then there was the time my husband had been sick. His mother suggested he take cod liver oil but he wouldn’t hear of it. Concerned as I was about his health, I decided to take matters into my own hands. I slipped cod liver oil into his orange juice. I happened to mention it to our kids, so at breakfast, all eyes were on him. He reached for the glass and took a big gulp. We watched and waited. I really did feel bad about it afterwards.
Probably the worst example though, of my ‘having tried to kill him’ was the Pepto-Bismol incident. He was on the couch with an upset stomach late one night. We didn’t have anything he could take for it but our eighty-year-old neighbour was happy to lend us her Pepto-Bismol.
I read the dosage, shook the bottle, poured it onto a spoon and shoved it in his mouth. His eyes grew big and before he could say anything I shoved a second spoonful in. His eyes began to water, his face went red, I had seen this look before. His mouth still full, he uttered something like, “Ith it tha-post to be chunky?”
I said I didn’t know and tried to shove a third spoonful into his mouth. He stopped me, grabbed the bottle from my hand and muttered, “What’s the expiration date on this?”
When he read it out loud, I collapsed to the floor clutching my sides. It had expired seven years earlier. We poured the rest out; it was like chunks of old glue. I felt terrible. He felt worse.
And then there was the chicken. I don’t like to waste food; I simply can’t throw it out. It makes me feel guilty, so it sits in the fridge and well… sometimes it grows things.
More than once I’ve walked into the kitchen to see my husband wolfing down a sandwich.
“What are you eating?” I’ll ask.
“Chicken sandwich.”
“Not the chicken that was in the meat tray?”
“Yeah, why?” he’ll ask, a look of panic coming to his face.
“What’s the date on it?” “I don’t think I’d eat it.”
He gets that old familiar look on his face and runs to the garbage can. And so it goes.
He’s starting to think because I haven’t succeeded in poisoning him, I’m resorting to other methods of trying to kill him. He’s accused me of trying to wear him down, tire him out. That couldn’t be further from the truth.
I remember a time in our lives when our children were young; I was content to stay home and sometimes too tired to go out. Well guess what? The kids are gone now and I’m not tired anymore! I like to get up early and stay up late, and say yes to every invitation that comes our way. We’re usually the first to arrive at a party and always the last to leave. The roles have reversed and now my husband is content to stay home. He insists he needs more sleep than I do, and if he doesn’t get it, says it will be the death of him. He’s by no means old, but he is at that age where heart attacks aren’t unheard of.
Well I’m at the age where I don’t sleep. So occasionally, in the middle of the night when he gets up to use the washroom, I will pretend to be sleeping, and then sneak out into the hall. When he’s on his way back to bed, I’ll let out a scream and jump out at him. It never goes over well, but it does keep him on his toes.
I know all of this might sound bad, but honestly, I’m not trying to poison him and I’m certainly not trying to cause him a heart attack.
To show my sincerity, I’m going to start throwing out the old food, I’m going to lay off the pranks, and I’m going to cut back on our social commitments. But just to keep things interesting, I am going to try something new.
I’m going to start ‘smothering’ him with kindness; that ought to really send him over the edge…
Brianna Popsickle 