Eventually, The Husband (who was at the time, The Fiance) moved in and threw a major wrench in my little plans. Suddenly there was this person hanging around all the time expecting things like meals and, lord help me, snacks. Worse than that, even when he was offered lovely, nourishing things like natural applesauce, tiny dill pickles, and even my prized mustard and tomato sandwiches, he’d scoff. Instead he’d demand more and better food and when I’d sweetly produce from it’s hiding place behind the ice cube trays a cherished and rare discontinued 190 calorie Lean Cuisine, he’d inhale it in a single gasping breath before determining it an inadequate appetizer and continuing his demands. Then he would stab a jagged, rusty knife into my chest and spit on my still twitching corpse. Or, at least, that’s how it felt.
Faced with the unyielding presence of this strangest of strange roommates, this person who seemed to think it perfectly normal to want food on a regular basis, I found myself at a bit of a loss. What exactly is it that people who eat…eat? As unbelievable as it seems now, I honestly did start out trying to feed him the same things I was eating. I gave him a potato boiled with a bouillon cube and showed him how to mush the thin slices up to make something that was almost, but not quite, exactly unlike mashed potatoes; I made him a mustard and tomato sandwich with a fat free Kraft single to boot; and I introduced him to the subtle and luxurious decadence of huge, colorful bowls of sugar free Jell-O…for dinner. I’d like to think my delusions were at least as charming as they were pathetic; yet he remained unconvinced.
Several months and multiple unsuccessful compromises later, I found myself in uncharted waters. For a large part having kissed and made up, food and I were on good terms again, but where I had once subsided on mostly healthy foods and natural vegetation, I now found myself falling victim to The Husbands horrific shopping habits; floundering adrift in a sea of processed salty snack foods and sugary baked goods. My childhood spent with an incessantly dieting mother and a foreign old-world grandmother (Who once, accidentally and unknowingly slaughtered and served my mother her own pet ducks.)(Oh, yeah.) had done very little to prepare me to deal with someone who routinely ate Spaghetti-O’s and Little Debbie snack cakes. Even my steamed broccoli with it’s conspicuously absent sodium content and its lack of anthropomorphized mascotry was ultimately no match for the likes of the Hamburger Helper oven mitt. (That bastard.) I caved like the fat-free, low-cal, low-carb, white bread that I had been eating for the previous ten years or so of my life. An item so lacking in substance and riddled with holes that I had once affectionately nicknamed it Air-Bread.