Himself Doesn’t Beat His Wife

What’s on my mind? Himself doesn’t beat his wife; has never beaten his wife; will never beat his wife. There! With that out in the open, let’s proceed.

Not being the tallest kid on the block, I sometimes improvise creative ways to reach the tantalizing Top Shelf Stuff from the kitchen cupboard when I can’t be bothered to fetch the step stool. Some people (I won’t name names) don’t even need a step stool because they’re ta-a-all.

Himself effortlessly skims whatever he wants from the top shelf while I scamper at his feet, hoping for crumbs. Although his height comes in handy, I tend to be the independent type who doesn’t like whinging “Hims-e-lf … Hims-e-lf  …” too often. I’m also lazy, knowing how to get what I want. But let’s not talk about sex, just now.

We have one of those fancy pod-coffee machines; you’ve probably seen them. A year or so ago, I bought about 2.3 million coffee pods because they were on sale (Want some? I have 2.1 million left). 

This coffee is a premium brand that would probably taste great to an Italian, but not to us. Too black. Too strong (Have I told you Himself doesn’t beat his wife? I’ll get to that part).

So happy was I to buy these pods that I kept no receipts. With the hoarded coffee tasting like BLECH! I entombed the pods in two airtight plastic boxes (Qua-lity plastic! Hea-vy plastic! Lid-ded plastic!). Out of sight, out of mind, as the old saying goes. 

I put the boxes on the top shelf of the kitchen cupboard to RIP. Our house has a storage room containing still more dark Italian roast coffee pods. I pretended they weren't there; I never looked at them. BLECH! BLECH! BLECH!

I’m the waste-not, want-not type. The money I’d sunk into this coffee bothered me, so I resurrected the pods. I discovered that preparing a couple of pods in our fancy coffee maker and diluting the coffee with boiling water made a passable pot of coffee. Who knew?

You would have figured that out pretty fast. But as the dull-witted, short person I am, it took a year (BING!) before I realized I could water down this too-strong coffee. 

Cut to those plastic boxes loaded with strong Italian coffee pods on the top shelf of the kitchen cupboard. Cut to the step stool. Cut to Himself, contentedly snoring as I crept around the house, trying not to disturb him. Hauling the step stool (DRA-A-A-G) from its (SQUE-E-E-EAK!) cupboard seemed too noisy and too much trouble.

To reach the pods laid out in their plastic tombs, I stood on my toes while trying to wiggle them from the cupboard with a metal cooking spoon. When gentle prying achieved nothing, I resorted to a forceful yank. 

Everything happened at once. Not only did the two coffee-stuffed plastic boxes tumble down, but so did two others containing metal bolts or hammers or whatever else needed to be out of sight, out of mind. All these boxes (and the cooking spoon) fell on my EYE-YI-EYE!

I now have a doozy of a shiner. And by the way, if you meet me on the street, Himself doesn’t beat his wife.

© Nicole Parton, 2019