And So, Goodnight

I might die.

Designated Hitter ever-so-graciously offered to cook ALL WEEKEND.  So Friday night I had to cook because he had been working.  Then Saturday we went to a Memorial Day Weekend BBQ and the host did all the cooking, except I made chocolate caramel bars AND homemade ice cream.  In his defense, I offered to do that cooking because it was that or yard work and it was about 3 degrees cooler than the surface of the sun here so I opted for the inside activity.  Anyway, yesterday I made the decision on what meat he should grill and then I went to the basement to dig it out of the freezer (and I think I did side dishes too, but I really don't remember and I might be unfairly accusing him of something to make my story better)  And today I made the homemade potato salad and he shoved the beer can up the chicken's ass and put it on the grill.  Also I made rhubarb crisp on Saturday. 

This is actually one of the least annoying versions of that old story.  There have been much worse weekends.

So this afternoon while said beer-can-up-the-ass chicken was sitting on the grill, I took a nap.  Hitter was in the basement not paying a damned bit of attention.  Grill ran out of fuel.  I have no idea how long it was out of fuel.  Oh, and before you make fun of me for calling it "fuel", we don't have a gas grill.  We have some fancy damned pellet smoker thingy.  So technically it ran out of pellets, except I get a little weirded out about referring to pellets because it sounds like we're burning hamster food to cook our food.  Wait, where did I go just now?  Oh yeah.  So he gets the grill going again and then tells me that supper will be about a half hour later.  I couldn't help but wonder how long the chicken sat there in the salmonella danger zone.  But, whatever.  We all gotta take out our immune systems for some exercise once in a while, right?

Chicken comes in and he starts cutting it up to eat.  I take one look at the dark meat that he sliced off and I go "seriously, is this chicken even done?"  No shit, it was still that kinda milky-translucent color.  He insisted it was, because his meat thermometer said it was 170.  And he was starting to get that tone of voice where if I kept pushing, he may never even pretend to "cook everything all weekend" and that would be the beginning of the end of us because I already think we don't go out to eat often enough but he keeps me from bitching too much by cooking for me on the weekends.  Sometimes.  At least the meat anyway.  Partially.  So I didn't bother to ask if he had used the thermometer correctly (short answer: no.  long answer: he never does) because I knew it would lead to World War III only we'd be using semi-cooked chicken as biological warfare and potato salad as hand grenades.  I just picked some of the most-done-looking chicken from the very outer edges of the bird and tomorrow when he's at work I'll put the rest of the chicken in the oven for a while.

Then I got on WebMD to see what the symptoms of salmonella poisoning were, and guess what?  Apparently I have three different kinds of cancer and also AIDS.  Really, WebMD?  You could go to WebMD and type in "I picked up a piece of paper and then got a little cut where the edge of the paper touched my finger" and WebMD would be all "you have triple-cancer-plus-AIDS"

But now I have a tummy ache and I'll spare you the details but lets just say I might spend some quality time in the bathroom.  But I don't know if that's from the bioterrorist chicken or if it's because of the three bowls of ice cream I had today.  Seriously.  What was I thinking?  I have that milk-makes-me-sick thing.  (I'd look up what it's really called on WebMD but they'd tell me it was triple-cancer-plus-AIDS.  Which I got from a paper cut.  Nice try, WebMD, but I'm not falling for that one again!)  I MADE that ice cream, I know it has milk in it.  But somehow three bowls seemed like a good idea.  Not all at one time, I had one of them for breakfast and one after lunch and one as a mid-afternoon/pre-nap snack.  I really gotta lay off the morning sugar.  And not just because I don't want to have a serious discussion with Wilford Brimley about diabeetus, it's more because I think it's making me stupid.  Except I did beat Hitter at a game tonight that's for ages 12-and-up.  But then he totally kicked my ass at a different game for 8-and-up.  I am happy that my story did give me the opportunity to say I beat Hitter.  Which is really weird and either violent or kinky or both.  And also sometimes "Hitter" looks like Hitler and that's not working for me.  But typing out Designated Hitter all the time is annoying.  Maybe I'll just nickname him Desi but then I'd have to change my name to Lucy and that ain't happening. 

I have no idea where I was going with this post.  Except to say that I'm really sorry I didn't become a famous blogger before I die.  Of course maybe tomorrow I'll wake up not-dead.  I doubt I'll become famous overnight though, especially writing messes like this.

*I think I need to create a new tag for this one... "Hypochondria" implies that it's irrational.  I think your husband trying to poison you with a salmonella chicken is totally justified hypochondria.  And also maybe evidence for the prosecution at my murder trial.  

**Update from the next morning: I am still alive and I'm even feeling pretty good.  Yay immune system!  I'm still going to cook the chicken more.