Sunday, October 18, 2009

Gaaaack! My Wife Tried to Poison Me!

Gawd, I love my wife but sometimes I think she’s trying to “do me in”, “knock me off”, “rub me out”, “off me”.

You see, I’ve got this favorite glass. It’s the only one I use. I don’t wash it. I might rinse it occasionally, but I don’t wash it. I love it when I pour milk into it and the little residue of cranberry juice turns it just slightly pink. Now, don’t get me wrong. It’s not that I’m unsanitary or lazy, it’s just that this is my glass. I’m the only one who uses it. It’s my lip germs, so why bother, right?

So last night, somewhere around the 10th inning of the Yankees/Angels game, I was thirsty. I went out to the kitchen and picked up my glass next to the sink where I usually put it after sloshing some water in it from the last time I used it.
I grabbed the jug of cranberry juice from the fridge and poured the glass about 2/3 full. Walking back to my flatulence invested throne in the living room, I took a sip. It tasted odd. I took another, bigger drink. “Hmm, is the cranberry juice going bad?” I thought to myself. I held the glass out at arm’s length, twisting the glass back and forth, inspecting it, then shrugging.

Settling in to watch the rain drenched finish of the game, I didn’t really think anything of it again until I took my next sip. “Blecccccccch!” It tasted worse. And then it dawned on me.

“Awwwww, dammit,” I thought to myself as I spit the vile, nasty, rancid tasting cranberry juice back in the glass. “She’s trying to kill me again.”

Yep, my beautiful, gorgeous, raven-haired wife had thought she’d do me a favor again (actually she was doing herself a favor, I think). She had poured about a quarter of an inch of freaking vinegar into the glass and let it sit to remove some of the accumulated crud in the bottom of the glass. “Why, why, why! The inhumanity! She’s trying to poison me!”

And I, of course, without bothering to check in the dim light reflected onto the glass from the open refrigerator door, just poured in the juice and started drinking. “Gaaaack!”

Now this isn’t the first time that this happened. That’s why I was able to figure out so quickly (only 3 or 4 drinks from the glass—how oblivious is that!).

Perhaps this was some sort of subconscious revenge on the part of my wife for my having accidently dropped and broken her personal salad-ice cream-soup bowl the day before. The mind works in surprising unconscious ways, you know.

So I guess now I have to have a secret spot to “hide” MY glass. It’s just a simple jelly glass with little cartoons of goofy dinosaurs on it. But it’s mine even though it used to be hers. It’s mine, mine, mine!

I guess I’d better go out and find her a new bowl before she comes up with some other form of insidious torture—the thought of her devious creativity is too frightening to contemplate.

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