By Bea Tarthur
Posted on Sunday, June 26th, 2016
If this story was about you, you’d hide your face, too
Every morning could be the day that my husband’s (T.) secret compulsion is revealed. Will people judge him? Will they judge me because I allow this to continue? I fear what it does to him but more than that, I dread how his actions impact me. He carries a great burden by burying his infatuation deep into the cleft of desire. We’re not talking about comparatively tiny matters like his obsession with quoting the first 9 seasons of the Simpsons with eerie accuracy nor is this about his insistence that every person he meets needs to intimately understand the mechanics behind Kerbal Space Program; this is a far more dire scenario with a humble origin story. When this tragedy is all over, promise me that you won’t abandon me, okay?
Unrelated Life Fact #8723, no one likes it when you throw away the chocolate assortment key, bite into each chocolate to uncover the flavor, and then offer to be the new key.
Valentine’s Day (V.D.) is a commercial holiday that is about buying your way into love and bungling it in new and novel ways. For our first V.D., T. secured himself under the spell of Fuck Up Cupid by not understanding some basic rules.
1.) Restaurant reservations for V.D. must be secured 2-3 weeks prior to V.D. If you don’t follow this, you will be making a reservation at Taco Bell for a heart shaped Dorito scented quesadilla.
2.) On second thought, don’t eat out on V.D. The menus are comprised of artisanal salt brutalized by kale on a saucer for $45/person. You will leave hungry and visit Taco Bell anyway.
3.) Chocolates and other delicious sweets wait for no one on V.D. If you wait until the day of, the only sweets that remains are shitty sugar free turtles that look like dookie and conversation hearts made of the ashen remains of good candy.
3.) Chocolates and other delicious sweets wait for no one on V.D. If you wait until the day of, the only sweets that remains are shitty sugar free turtles that look like dookie and conversation hearts made of the ashen remains of good candy.
T. was 0/3 on this count. He waited until two days prior to V.D. to make a reservation, leaving us with an appointment with bad Italian food. After enduring the sub-Olive Garden experience (where were my constitutionally guaranteed unlimited breadsticks, dammit?), we returned to his apartment to exchange gifts. The dazzle in his eyes told me that he thought he had selected the perfect gift for me. As I unwrapped it and espied the words “Sugar”, “Free”, and “Turtles”, I girded my reaction, put a smile on my face, and thanked him for the sweet gift. An attempt was made, folks, and the sentiment was appreciated even if the flavorless crap-shaped confections weren’t what I had wanted. He breathed a sigh of relief and told me, “I was planning on getting you your favorite chocolates but this and Raisinettes were all that remained.” He chose wisely because Raisinettes are strictly reserved for your enemies.
Few people know this, but the only way to get rid of sugar free turtles is to eat them. If you leave them in your pantry, they multiply, or at least that’s what I’ve read on the internet. Fearing a plague of turtles, we immediately opened the box and each took one. This was followed by a second and then a third. The turtles are afraid of their journey into your stomach and it’s only fair to give them a little company. However, T. didn’t stop at 3. He chased those three turtles with another. That fourth was pursued by twin turtles eager for a ride down the Alimentary Slide into T’s awaiting but crowded stomach.
I side-eyed his excessive consumption of the turtles, but every turtle he ate was a turtle that would never enter my mouth, so I looked away. Sadly, two of my other five senses were not able to ignore T.’s miscalculation. My ears first detected the tell-tale grumbling and rumbling from his stomach. My nose quickly followed suit as thick, sulphurous evacuation alerted me to what he didn’t know. Most human bodies can only tolerate a small amount of sugar alcohols found in sugar free snacks. If you overconsume them, your G.I. tract re-enacts that sewer scene with Tim Robbins from Shawshank Redemption, complete with the poo. I explained to him what was happening but it was too late, the expulsion was imminent.
What was supposed to be a special date night between T. and I became a rendezvous between T., the escaping turtle remnants, and the toilet. He clocked quality time with the bathroom and learned new things about himself like “Who knew he could sit on a toilet for that long?” and “Wow, his body really doesn’t like it if he devours large quantities of sugar alcohols”. After what seemed like decades but was likely only an hour, he emerged a new man with his behind problems literally behind him… or so I thought. He sat next to me at the table and opened the box of turtles and ate one. I asked him how he could have forgotten what had just happened because I was certain I was not dating a goldfish nor a man with a goldfishesque memory. He informed that, “I don’t want you to experience what I just felt. I’m doing you a favor and finishing these.” My mouth gaped as I knew nothing could prepare my nose for the odors that would be released in mere minutes given the speed he was binging through the swiftly dwindling pile of turtles.
You would hope that this would have been the last time and only instance I would have to endure the secondhand wrath of sugar free treats but I am here to tell you that it was not. Despite my best efforts, sugar free candies invade my home sporadically and T. can not control himself around the siren call of gummy bears, chocolates, or mints. If it sneaks into our home, they magically empty themselves in his mouth. He incurs the cost and so do I knowing that his stomach is not safe and my nose can not retreat far enough away.
About the Author:
After a long career as a fetus, I was pushed out into this world kicking & screaming about the lack of internet, reality tv, and 30 minutes or less pizza delivery. It would take far too long for me to receive these simple requests. When I'm not wishing for the future, I'm running around my home pantsless, blasting PJ Harvey, and shakin' my buns.
