- May 18, 2001
- 7,882
- 380
- 126
I never thought I would have to wonder if Mrs. Ned is attempting to knock me off. Now I find myself waiting on her to take the first bite of anything that she prepares to see if it is safe for me.
Last fall we bought a fairly expensive house that was well within our means but way above the price range within which we had hoped to stay. The payments haven?t been a problem, but apparently there is one thing that has been bothering the wife. The problem is that she makes only a small fraction of my salary. In other words, should I accidentally overdose on Nyquil, shoot myself in the head, and in my impaired state of mind stumble into the path of an oncoming train, she would not be able to make the payments, which she has been thinking about a whole lot? a whole, whole lot.
Out of the blue one day she suggested that I should dramatically increase my personal life insurance policy. The first time she mentioned this, it was a throwaway comment she said in passing. This happened a few more times, and I didn?t pay much attention. Despite my attempts to brush off the idea, she became more and more persistent, chewing on my ears at every opportunity. As time wore on it seemed like she was pestering me about it more insistently every time I turned around. Finally, because my sanity could take no more, I relented. What are a few extra dollars every month if it gives her peace of mind and buys me a little blessed silence?
Perhaps I should have noted with caution how ominously happy this seemed to make her.
A few nights later, coming home from work I walked through the door and into the most wonderful aroma in existence. I?m just a mere man; I?m no match for the overwhelming nirvana of the palate that is her taco salad. In moments I was drooling and defenseless. She encouraged me to eat up. She smiled. ?Don?t you want some more?? as she piled on the tomatoes, lettuce, tortilla chips, and beef. She smiled again, even bigger. She acted slightly hurt that my heaping bowl was so ?meager? since, after all, this was my favorite meal. Trying to be polite, I piled it even higher, and then greedily began to shovel it into my growling belly with both hands.
She watched. She smiled. Then she smiled some more. She seemed positively innocent and angelic.
An hour later the volcanic event disguised as an explosive gastric disturbance was wracking my body with spasmodic pain. Cold sweat soaked my t-shirt as my bowels decided to claw their way to the surface inch by agonizing inch. Apparently a large badger has sometime in my past taken up residence in my colon; on that particular night, he was really liver-shredingly angry. I?m no anatomy expert, but I?m pretty sure I passed some things that might be important to my continued existence.
We had enough leftovers that this scene repeated itself several times over the next few days. Normally, I?m the picture of digestive health. I?ve even joked around that I could eat nails and not suffer any ill effects. Something definitely was out of the ordinary; I just couldn?t place my finger on it. At this point, I had no reason to be suspicious that I might be the victim of malicious intent.
Last night she urged me to finish off the final scraps of what was left. Luckily for me she made a miscalculation in her little scheme: she let me assemble the food myself. As I was putting it all together, out of the corner of my eye I noticed a small label on the bag of tortilla chips. It said ?made with Olestra.? In case you aren?t familiar with Olestra, it is a fat substitute found in some snacks. Unfortunately, one fact known about this chemical is that for some people it causes complete catastrophic gastric meltdown. Until now, she?s always avoided buying products with this stuff in it. So I questioned her about it. She acted a little defensive and made out like it was a simple mistake.
I don?t trust her. I must find any other poisons she might be planning to use on me. I?m thinking that when I get home, a strip search followed by a careful cavity examination is in order.
If a few days pass without me posting, someone please call the police.
Last fall we bought a fairly expensive house that was well within our means but way above the price range within which we had hoped to stay. The payments haven?t been a problem, but apparently there is one thing that has been bothering the wife. The problem is that she makes only a small fraction of my salary. In other words, should I accidentally overdose on Nyquil, shoot myself in the head, and in my impaired state of mind stumble into the path of an oncoming train, she would not be able to make the payments, which she has been thinking about a whole lot? a whole, whole lot.
Out of the blue one day she suggested that I should dramatically increase my personal life insurance policy. The first time she mentioned this, it was a throwaway comment she said in passing. This happened a few more times, and I didn?t pay much attention. Despite my attempts to brush off the idea, she became more and more persistent, chewing on my ears at every opportunity. As time wore on it seemed like she was pestering me about it more insistently every time I turned around. Finally, because my sanity could take no more, I relented. What are a few extra dollars every month if it gives her peace of mind and buys me a little blessed silence?
Perhaps I should have noted with caution how ominously happy this seemed to make her.
A few nights later, coming home from work I walked through the door and into the most wonderful aroma in existence. I?m just a mere man; I?m no match for the overwhelming nirvana of the palate that is her taco salad. In moments I was drooling and defenseless. She encouraged me to eat up. She smiled. ?Don?t you want some more?? as she piled on the tomatoes, lettuce, tortilla chips, and beef. She smiled again, even bigger. She acted slightly hurt that my heaping bowl was so ?meager? since, after all, this was my favorite meal. Trying to be polite, I piled it even higher, and then greedily began to shovel it into my growling belly with both hands.
She watched. She smiled. Then she smiled some more. She seemed positively innocent and angelic.
An hour later the volcanic event disguised as an explosive gastric disturbance was wracking my body with spasmodic pain. Cold sweat soaked my t-shirt as my bowels decided to claw their way to the surface inch by agonizing inch. Apparently a large badger has sometime in my past taken up residence in my colon; on that particular night, he was really liver-shredingly angry. I?m no anatomy expert, but I?m pretty sure I passed some things that might be important to my continued existence.
We had enough leftovers that this scene repeated itself several times over the next few days. Normally, I?m the picture of digestive health. I?ve even joked around that I could eat nails and not suffer any ill effects. Something definitely was out of the ordinary; I just couldn?t place my finger on it. At this point, I had no reason to be suspicious that I might be the victim of malicious intent.
Last night she urged me to finish off the final scraps of what was left. Luckily for me she made a miscalculation in her little scheme: she let me assemble the food myself. As I was putting it all together, out of the corner of my eye I noticed a small label on the bag of tortilla chips. It said ?made with Olestra.? In case you aren?t familiar with Olestra, it is a fat substitute found in some snacks. Unfortunately, one fact known about this chemical is that for some people it causes complete catastrophic gastric meltdown. Until now, she?s always avoided buying products with this stuff in it. So I questioned her about it. She acted a little defensive and made out like it was a simple mistake.
I don?t trust her. I must find any other poisons she might be planning to use on me. I?m thinking that when I get home, a strip search followed by a careful cavity examination is in order.
If a few days pass without me posting, someone please call the police.
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