It’s a simple story, sad but true. BJ walks by, carrying a plate of leftovers still steaming from a reheat in the microwave. I recognize the meal and yell, “Noooooo, Beej! Don’t eat that!” We act out this little play very, very often. Now, I must confess, every now and then it’s because he’s breaking into something I’m saving for MCO (Maryanne’s Consumption Only). But, more than likely, it’s because he’s partaking of something nuclear.
You see, my darling husband operates under the dangerous delusion that refrigerated food lives forever. His trusting nature leaves him vulnerable to aged-out leftovers that he deems immortal (“It’s still good…It’s been in the fridge!”). That’s why I am forced to clean out the refrigerator very often—not because I want to, not because I enjoy it, and certainly not because I’m a tidy person. I clean it out for my husband’s safety. If I ever decide to hasten his death, all I have to do is skip cleaning the fridge for a month and he’ll die from eating hairy, moldy taco salad. Just today, I was dismayed to discover he’d polished off last week’s corn on the cob. Delicious, he assured me. Deadly, I corrected him.
Newsflash, sweet and entertaining husband of mine...
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