sports

It might work

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“Yes, Your Honour…I DID IT!  I killed him!” the wife cried out.  “All those years of belittling me, treating me like some sort of slave.  Cooking and cleaning.  Raising the kids on a shoe string budget.  And then…then I heard about the lovely ginger girl he had been seeing.  After all these years! Me with nothing new to wear and he spends his money on the floozy from the diner!  Ha!  She was young enough to be his daughter.  Disgusting!  Despicable!” she hollered. “Such a simple plan! HA HA HA!” she laughed maniacally as she was dragged back to her prison cell.  

As she sat in the small cell she smiled victoriously to herself thinking about her triumph. Oh yes!  I did it!  The world should be rid of scum like him.  I’m glad I did it.  Oh sure, it wasn’t easy to get him to take the poison.  It took me weeks of planning.  Then my dream came true.  The poison presented itself in the most imperceptible way.  Oh sure, trying to get him to eat it was hard enough, but watching him take each bite made it all worthwhile.  I wished his red-headed bimbo could’ve seen him as he choked it back.

No matter what I tried to do to get my husband to eat his vegetables, he was always such a baby.  Actually, I had an easier time getting the kids to each their vegetables. But no…not my big, strong, husband.  Ha!  Brussels sprouts, broccoli, peppers, spinach.  Oh no….he wouldn’t eat those.  And then it hit me!  Caesar salad.  Sure he’ll eat that!  Romaine lettuce smothered in that creamy, garlicky sauce, with a sprinkling of that snow white parmesan and bits of greasy bacon to cover the poison.  Yeah, I knew he would eat that.  Die! Die! Die!

For once I was glad he didn’t watch the news.  The sports channel was all he wanted to see.  Watch the game.  Watch the re-run of the game.  Watch the plays of the day of each game.  Huh.  Well I showed him didn’t I.  

“Why don’t you watch the news.  Find out about current events,” I would off-handedly mention.

“Who cares!” he would yell out. “Accidents, robberies, fires, earthquakes.  I’m a regular Nostradamus.” he would say.  “I predict there is one of those somewhere in the world,” he would quip. “Now go get my supper and it had better be hot!”  

Yeah, that was what I had heard nightly for 23 years. When the children were younger I had learned to feed them their dinner first so they wouldn’t bother their father.  They asked too many questions and he didn’t like that.  He didn’t like them knowing that he didn’t have all the answers.  Actually, he didn’t have any of the answers unless it was about sports stats.

Well, on this night I told him that I had a surprise for him for dinner.  He was gonna have a loaded baked potato and a nice peppercorn steak, medium well…just the way he liked it.

“Really?” he asked. “Why?”  

“Steaks were on sale.  I bought one just for you,” I trilled.  “Don’t you want it?” I asked. “If not I’m sure the kids would enjoy it,” I teased.

“Don’t be stupid.  Gimme the steak.” he growled.  “And it better not be medium rare,” he warned.

My plan was working. I had to remain calm. I took a deep breath as I walked over carrying the salad. “Here’s your Caesar salad.  Just like in the restaurants,” I said cheerfully, plunking the bowl down in front of him.

“I hate salad!” he snorted, as he turned his snarling face toward me.

“I know, I know, but this is special dressing.  I didn’t make it.  It’s that celebrity chef’s fancy dressing.  It was on clearance so I got it for half price,” I rambled on, “and it’s got bacon bits and everything…just like in the restaurants.”

He turned his head back to face the tv screen. Distractedly he shovelled the salad into his mouth.  I smiled as he took each big bite. Forkful after forkful and the salad was gone. Every last leaf of it.

I took the salad bowl into the kitchen and washed the bowl right away. I dried it then put it back on the shelf, nestling it into the other bowls. I plated his steak, done medium well, and plopped the baked potato beside it. I topped the steaming hot potato with sour cream and chives…and more bacon. Maybe he would have a coronary. I could dream couldn’t I?

“Here you go,” I said as I placed the plate in front of him.

“Move out of the way,” he barked, “you’re blocking the tv.”

I grinned as I walked away. Say what you want, I thought, you won’t be talking for too much longer. My plan had worked. Sure, the steak had cost me a fortune, but I wasn’t a savage. Every person should be able to enjoy their last meal, right?

The pain started the next day. He rolled around in bed moaning, clutching his stomach. I kept telling him it would pass. Maybe he was lactose intolerant and was just feeling gassy. It progressed to horrible diarrhea and then the bloody urine by day 3. Oh…this was bad.

“Take me to the hospital,” he said weakly on day 4. I told him it was just symptoms of a viral infection. It was nothing bad and it would pass within a day or two. Since I was a Registered Nurse he believed me and lay back down on his sweat moistened pillow.

By day 5 he was weak and dehydrated and had nothing much to say. I knew his kidneys were failing. It would be over soon. He couldn’t even keep water down and without an IV feeding him, his body would start shutting down. I, his doting wife, kept up my vigilant care-taking; care-Faking. HA HA!

And on the 7th day…I rested. He was dead.

I never thought they would do an autopsy. Why would they? A man dies at home with his loving wife taking care of him; a trained healthcare professional.

I found out at trial what had happened. While I was in the kitchen plating his steak and potato, my husband had texted his ginger-haired girlfriend: Hey gorgeous! Loverboy eating Caesar salad.  

His bimbo watched the news.

“E. coli outbreak: Romaine lettuce. At least 32 people have been sickened in the US, with 13 taken to hospital, while another 18 people have been stricken in Canada. The latest outbreak follows the deaths of at least five people in the summer linked to romaine lettuce.” She decided to show the cops the text she had received. She thought it might be relevant after she saw his obituary notice.

MORAL OF THE STORY: Carnivores live longer. (haha…kidding!)

Actually, I thought this story would make a great excuse for those of you who hate to eat vegetables. Now you can say, “I can’t eat that salad, I might die from E. coli!”

It might work.

P.S. One of my favourite short stories is by Roald Dahl and it’s called Lamb to the Slaughter. A fascinating quick read.

And Nobody Lost an Eye…

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Wiseguy and I are happy grandparents (who refuse to grow up).  We are lucky grandparents to five beautiful grandchildren.  None of them are into the double digit birthdays yet, so shopping for birthdays and Christmas can oftentimes be done in advance.  When I extricate myself from my humble home to go on a shopping spree, I will oftentimes pick up “future” gifts for the grandkids.  If I am in the midst of a clearance sale extravaganza I become quite a neanderthal; hunting and fishing for the best deals.  It was with grandchildren in mind that I purchased an interesting little toy that has left me with an indelible memory forever.

On this particular trek to the store, I ventured into the children’s area and found a toy on clearance called the Penguin Popper.  It looked kind of fun.  In my head I was already debating who would be the lucky recipient of this unique gift.  The eldest (a girl of 8 years) is more into the “tweening” phase of her life and is more likely to appreciate articles of clothing for her “American Girl” doll (or clothing for herself).  Then next in line would the 4 year olds; one boy, one girl.  Now, if I gave it to the boy, who is into wrestling and fake fighting, I  could see his excitement with the toy turning into devastation as one of the other kids would lose an eye.  How about the 4 year old girl?  Well, she does have great tomboy moments.  I could see her getting a kick out of it.  Then I thought, well her cousin (the 4 year old boy) would probably wish he had it (even though someone would lose and eye) and there would be sadness and loss of joy so I couldn’t bring myself to create that kind of drama in our lives.  So…no to both 4 year olds.  The last two were way too young for it.  A two year old and a one year old.  The toy’s packaging stated this as well:  Ages 4 +.  Hmmmm, what to do.  I expanded my search.

I thought about my niece’s kids.  Little dude of 8 months was waaaaay too young.  How about his big sister?  She would love something like this!  She is 3 1/2 years old.  Almost 4.  And she laughs hysterically when people get…injured.  Hmmm, like a mini ball in the eye from 20 paces would be hilarious.  My competent adult brain finally decided that this actually wasn’t such a great kid’s toy to introduce into our family.  I did the only plausible thing.

No I didn’t return it!   Remember the adults who refuse to grow up?  Well, I was so excited about my decision to keep said toy that I couldn’t wait to see Wiseguy’s face light up when he saw our new play thing.  I could picture us popping that ball out of the penguin’s mouth and having the kidlets go chasing after it to see who would get it first.  Then they could ALL take turns playing with it and no one would lose an eye and no one could keep it because it belonged at the grandparent’s house.  WIN WIN!  Right?

When I gave hubby the rundown on how we were now the proud owners of a Penguin Popper, he rolled his eyes in helpless defeat.  Not sure, but I believe (assume) these were the thoughts running around in his brain:

  • Not more junk!
  • Another toy?
  • Someone is going to lose an eye!

The comment that actually emerged was, “Waldo is going to steal the ball, choke on it, and die.”  (Note:  Waldo is our 10 year old super cute and fluffy thief dog.)IMG_3861

Well, I didn’t see that comment coming.  So, me being me, I had to prove that THIS was the coolest toy ever and he would be the most fun grandfather in the history of grandfathers!  Wiseguy turned and started to walk away.  I had to prove my point so I grasped the Penguin Popper in both hands, holding it directly in front of me, and I squeeeeeeezed his stomach.  (I’m assuming it’s a “him” Popper because there is no pretty bow on his head.  If it was a girl Popper they would’ve put a pretty bow.  Also, the inventors probably figured that girls wouldn’t do fun (vicious) things like this, but boys would and so the Penguin is definitely a boy.  Ahhhh, classic stereotyping at its best.)

Here is what happened after the stomach squeeeeeeeeze:

  • Loud POP! sound
  • My eyes opened wide, in a bit of disbelief actually, when I saw the velocity of this little once-inch ball catapult away from me
  • Wiseguy turned to me when he heard the POP!
  • The ball hit him on the side of the head
  • “Are you kidding me?!” emanated in an exasperated tone from my husband’s general direction
  • I laughed…hysterically!

I was in stitches!  I couldn’t breathe.  Tears were streaming out of the corner’s of my eyes.  I doubled-over to hold my stomach.  I couldn’t believe it actually hit him!  Oh, I had read the box while I stood in line to purchase the product.  It contained the usual words of warning:  “Never aim at anyone”.  It also said it could shoot up to 20 feet away.  Yeah, best case scenario maybe, I thought.  And yet, here I was in utter shock as the ball had ejected far, far away and NAILED Wiseguy!  My next thought was quite simple:  I’m dead.

Wiseguy was at my side in two strides (he has long legs and can cover 20 feet in two steps).  He confiscated the Penguin Popper from my hands.  I pivoted and ran.  I ran for my life.  I heard POP! and I turned around.

(Sidenote:  Why is it that when you hear a noise you look toward the direction of the sound instead of running away from it?)

Like a slow-motion movie I saw the ball (mini ball?  ball-ette?) wing by my head.  Wiseguy had missed.  Wiseguy NEVER misses!  He is Super Sportsman extraordinaire!

I am unsure why this next thing happened, but I believe it was from the confusion of NOT being hit.  I doubled over laughing uncontrollably….again.

POP!  Woooooosh!

He missed me…AGAIN!  Saint’s preserve us, I was lucky (or unlucky?).  Wiseguy then unceremoniously deposited the Penguin on the kitchen counter and meandered away.

My next thought:  Best day ever!  So many good things happened to me in that short amount of time:

  • I got a fun new toy since Wiseguy didn’t want it.  Mine…all mine!
  • I actually beat Wiseguy at a (non)sport
  • I laughed and laughed and laughed – my core muscles got quite the workout and all my tension of the day washed away

IMG_5673I am so grateful that I found this toy.  I am grateful that I decided to keep it.  I am grateful that I got to play with this toy.  I am grateful for the once in a lifetime experience I had using it.  I am grateful that Wiseguy finds this story as amusing as I do and doesn’t mind that I have shared this.  I am grateful that he isn’t really considering payback.  Right?  Right????!!!

 

EPILOGUE:  

Waldo got the ball.

He is still alive.

As of yet, nobody has lost an eye.

Fear of Trying…

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Nope, that’s not a typo.  There are so many people in the world that have a fear of “flying” but over the years I have discovered that I am one of those people who has a fear of “trying”.

It started way back in childhood.  The need to have straight A’s in school to impress my mother.  I studied and worked hard to impress my teachers.  Oh, I was a doozie.  I remember actually making research projects of my own to give to my teachers.  Yup…need for attention was way high!  As I got older, it didn’t change much.  My identity was based on what other people thought of me.  If they liked me, then I liked me.  A hard way to get around in life.  The thought of being mocked or laughed at took over my life and not in a good way.

I never signed up for any school sports.  I might look stupid if I missed catching a ball.  My team mates would be mad if I didn’t run fast enough in relay races.  Playday…that should’ve been a fun day.  It would mix children from all different grades and create teams.  There would be all kinds of games like dress up or shoe toss and you would compete against other teams.  Fun right?  My fear of trying led to such nervousness that I would screw up so many simple games.  The year our team won 3rd place I was so excited!  I ran home to show my mom and got, “How come you didn’t get first place?”  Devastating.

Today’s thought isn’t about pity.  It isn’t about relieving sad parts of childhood.  It’s more about looking back to see how much I have grown as a person and how I finally managed to quash my fear of trying.

My first defense mechanism was humour.  If I tripped going up some stairs or something I would laugh at myself first.  Beat everyone to the punch.  That helped a lot.  It’s no fun making fun of someone if they are already making fun of themselves right?

Next, self-confidence.  That was a hard one.  When I realized it was most important that I impress myself instead of others it really helped me out a lot.  Funny thing is that this self-awareness was not something I had realized on my own.  It was when I started dating Wiseguy that I began a very interesting journey to self-awareness and confidence.  It was strange having someone say to me, “do what you think is right” when it came to family situations.  I didn’t know what was right.  Right to me meant making everyone else happy and not caring about how felt.  So, with lots of talking and analyzing he helped me figure out how that really worked.

Even trying new things.  I wanted to take a writing course.  He said go ahead.  I was averaging 94%.  When it came time to submit a story for my final exam guess what happened?  Yup, fear of trying popped up again.  What if they didn’t like my story?  What if I failed the exam?  What if … what if…and that was it.  Never got my certificate.  Wiseguy didn’t harass me or bug me about it.  I guess he realized it was going to be quite a journey for me.

Wiseguy would take me to new places, new restaurants.  We would drive someplace where he had never been before.  It was all about leaving the comfort zone.  That fear of failure or looking stupid in front of others would almost cripple me sometimes. Example:  I would never order food in a restaurant that I would not eat easily with a fork and knife or spoon.  Spaghetti?  Never…what if the noodle suddenly slapped me in the face?  Chicken wings…so messy.  Soup…I might slurp it.  Wiseguy hung in there and year after year I would get better. He would tease me about ordering the same thing so he would dare me to try something new.  My Fear of Trying became the Year of Trying.

Don’t get me wrong, there are times that my stomach gets so queasy from fear and it takes me a bit of self talk to get me to realize that life is about trying new things.  Failure isn’t necessarily a bad things.  You learn so much from errors if you take the time to step back.

I have been asked to emcee a very important upcoming event.  When first asked I got that wonderful, sickening, stomach tightening feeling.  My brain began racing with the usual What ifs.  Then the miracle happened as it nowadays normally does.  The excitement of trying something new, like Wiseguy had taught me, was worth diving head first into the pool of life.  I am sooooo excited and looking back, I can’t imagine why I would’ve turned down such a wonderful honour from someone whom I love so much.

My wish to everyone today, grab that one little fear of trying that you have.  Shake hands with it, wish it well on its new journey OUT of your life.  Make this your Year of Trying.    ♥