Your Mid-Week Update for 01/22/20

Growing up, I was always told that poison was a woman’s murder weapon. At the time, I don’t think my mother realized what she was doing. What she thought was a (slightly) sexist cautionary tale about the dangers of cunning was really early inspiration.

I used to dream about poison. About slipping a little arsenic into my teacher’s coffee, or poisoning the water supply with a deadly hallucinogenic. Though mother abhorred cunning – she was more for the outright manipulation – she did teach me that you never reveal what’s truly going on inside. So even little me knew better than to draw Mrs. Voorhees choking on her own vomit as her poisoned mug fell to the floor. I kept that fantasy inside.

I never did poison my English teacher. Poison wasn’t even my first weapon. But I did imagine all the ways I could have.

In my imaginary world I had a wealthy but disgusting husband who always had a glass of brandy before going to bed. Being a doting wife, I would pour his drink, all the while knowing that I’d rimmed the glass with bleach. Over the months or years, he would grow sicker and eventually die, leaving me a grieving widow with all his money and I would just move on to the next disgusting husband before anyone thought to investigate his death.

I love a good Black Widow story but when I married James, that all went out the window. Besides, that story is hardly believable. They would catch me in an instant.

Unlike now.

I know, I know. My life also seems a little fantastical. But at least I’m not living in a noir film. How cliché was my imagination? Get a better imagination, younger me!

Oh wait, I did.

If you can’t tell, this week has been long. And not even for fun and dramatic ways.

Our heater broke so we’ve been taking turns dealing with the repair guy. Meanwhile, the house is freezing. The extended contract at work is piling on extra stuff because “since you’re here, I might as well get you to do it”. It’s not that I hate the hours, I just hate people who are inconsiderate like that.

And I can’t even kill him because the contract is another six months. After I’m gone, so is he.

In the meantime, I can imagine rimming his coffee cup with bleach until he chokes on his own vomit.

As always, dear readers,

Stay Safe