In which my husband poisoned me...

accidentally, of course... probably.

I used to always say that there was no such thing as a bad pizza.  That all pizza was good simply because it was pizza and in its pizza-y-ness it was therefore inherently good.  I won't say that ever again.

Let me preface the story by saying my husband is an excellent cook.  He makes his spaghetti sauce from scratch.  He makes his pizza from scratch, dough, sauce... everything.  And what he creates is wonderful.  So so good.

He likes cooking pizza on the grill with the special grill pizza stone.  He's used those easy start charcoal bags before and I didn't like how the pizza turned out using it.  It tasted off and I didn't eat it.  Monday night he did the same thing.  Being a considerate husband, he always makes my little pizza first and then his.  I was a hungry girl Monday night and though once a again my pizza tasted and smelled a bit off... I ate it all.  That was around 7.  By 9 I was in the bathroom puking my guts out.  And I'm sorry for this bit of imagery...  aromery?  The whole bathroom smelled of lighter fluid.   It was most foul.

At 9:30 in the depths of my illness I called out to my sweet man, "You poisoned me!!  I'm dying!"  He felt horrible.  His pizza had been fine because of course all the "Quick Start"-ness of the charcoal bag had burned off and the grill was actually, you know, ready to use and not lethal.  I went into bed around 10 and woke up a 4 in the morning yesterday and ran to the bathroom for round 2.   I came back to bed around 5 and I said to him, "I know you didn't do it on purpose and I know I didn't have to eat it, but I kind of hate you right now."  In his mostly unconscious state he mumbled a "Sorry." and rolled over.

Last night, he so wanted to redeem himself.  He wanted so badly to make me a pizza in the toaster oven.  I couldn't stand the thought of it.  So he made me chicken fingers.  Thankfully, vomit producing free chicken fingers.

Today, the day after...  I am so sore.  My chest is sore.  My ribs are sore.  It's so painful to laugh...  luckily, I'm at work.

I'll have to keep an eye on that wily man of mine.  He may have finally realized that my life insurance is worth more than my tender nagging and loving criticism.