Sunday, March 26, 2006

And My Stomach Heaves In Protest

I realize I am a bit biased but, Mr X is an attractive man. Thick dark hair, big brown eyes, full mouth, easy laugh, big (but not Ew Gross! Must-be-steroids kind of big) muscles. He's charming, easy going, always willing to lend a hand (Good Grief! It sounds like I'm describing a dog we want to give away....) great dad.
All this, but if you ask him what his most endearing quality is? He'll tell you it's his iron cast stomach.
"I can eat anything that doesn't eat me first!"
I think he got that saying when he was growing up but no, we will not further discuss my Mother in Law's cleaning and cooking habits. At least not today. Tomorrow?
Tomorrow she is fair game.
What was I saying?
Oh yes. My husband's iron stomach.
He'll eat pretty much anything ( but not bologna, not anything that even remotely sounds like bologna. Not anything with bologna in the name even if it's not bologna because why would you call something bologna if it isn't bologna? What the hell kind of sense does that make? If it's not bologna than they shouldn't call it that. Yes. We actually had an argument about what constitutes bologna and whether or not it was completely moronic that he would eat hot dogs but not bologna. I once tried to make him a sandwich with this lunch meat that looked vaguely like bologna but was actually turkey ham (and what the hell is up with turkey ham anyway? Wasn't it good enough just being turkey or ham? Why and combine? And I know that they would mix that together at the lunchmeat making plant, but every time I see turkey ham, I imagine some poor turkey getting pregnant by a pig and then what would their baby look like? I think it would not be pretty.) and he refused to eat it because he thought I was trying to sneak some bologna in on him. Like I would be that obvious! No. When I'm trying to sneak in some over-processed pig snout I shred it and hide it on his pizza thank you very much. And if he asks? It's ham.)
I must stop going off like that. I keep forgetting what I was talking about. Do you know how annoying it is to be talking to someone when they suddenly go off the whole story and on to something else and then they forget what they were talking about?
I do it all the time. A friend once told me that now she knows what it would be like to be friends with someone with Alzheimer's.
Anyway, Mr X also hates throwing food away (gee, I wonder where he gets that from. But we aren't talking about her today so....). I once watched him eat a week's worth of leftovers (there wasn't enough individually to make a meal and why we had to save all the little bits I'll never understand. We have a dog. Dog would have loved a little chicken parm and tacos) for dinner. It was positively disgusting. I watched with this morbid fascination. It was like watching a bird eat roadkill. So gross that you desperately want to look away, yet you can't.
When he wasn't feeling so well the next day I asked if he thought it might have anything to do with the E.Coli he ingested the night before.
"No way. That stuff was still good. Must have been the cereal."
Right. Because a week's worth of leftover's? No problem. Fresh bag of cocoa puffs? Certain death.
But tonight I drew the line.
He eats this carb control yogurt. It's nasty stuff. I don't really like yogurt to begin with, but this is vile. Tonight he found some way in the back of the fridge behind all the jars of pickles and olives (I hide them in the back so I don't have to see them staring at me).
"How old is this?"
Any time you dig something out of the back of the fridge and have to ask how old it is? Not a good sign.
It expired in the beginning of February.
"You are NOT eating that!"
I had visions of me emptying puke buckets over the next several days as he insisted on finishing all 4 containers of the most vile yogurt ever created.
"Yes I am. It's still good."
"No you are not and no it is NOT!"
"It's fine!"
"Open it."
"Fine, then you will see it's still good and be gone!"
He peeled back the label and I could see this watery ooze swilling around the top.
"It's... it... well. I'll do the sniff test."
And before I could stop him (because I could smell it from 3 feet away) he breathed in and then turned a few shades of green.
I plucked the container from his hands and chucked the yogurt in the trash.
I will never understand what compels a man to eat things that have gone past their prime. Is it a show of their manhood? Or insanity?