You’d think it was a gift-wrapped Playboy Bunny.
In a way, I kinda wish it was.
“OHMYGOD!” my husband screamed in wondrous delight as he ran into the kitchen and reached for the box on the table. He clutched it to his chest, jumped around in excitement and hollered, “It’s here! It’s finally here!”
That’s one way to get a just-turned-48-year-old man to move quickly without tossing a cold can of beer in the air and yelling, “CATCH!”
Seriously, who asks for a juicer to celebrate his birthday?
I’ll tell you.
A weirdo. That’s who.
....OK, I conceded. It also makes smoothies. I can get on board with that.
If it’s a double chocolate-peanut butter-Hershey’s syrup concoction that makes the world seem brighter during PMS.
Not, however, the spinach-beet-parsnip stomach bomb of doom my husband is sure to whip up.
So you might be questioning my lackluster response, my obvious trepidation at his gift, considering I’m the one who bought the damn thing for him. Oh, the damage a girl can do when online shopping.
But it was the only thing he wanted for his birthday, so I caved and bought it.
Crud. I’m an enabler. They make Lifetime movies about this kind of thing. Really bad Lifetime movies.
And I’m sad because I know the presence of that box in our home means one thing and one thing only.
A dreadful, four-letter word that strikes fear into the heart of someone like me who is in a serious relationship with carbohydrates, sugar and red meat.
“Juiced carrots,” my husband shuddered after he swallowed, grimaced and slapped the cup down on the counter, “taste like dirt.”
So it’s safe to say the honeymoon period is over.
Consider me shocked.
“It’s not like you were a big fan of the orange veggie anyway,” I lectured. “Did you really think its taste would improve after squishing it into a bazillion pieces?”
He frowned and peered into the glass, “Well, I thought the strawberries would cover it up.”
Back it up, folks.
Strawberries and carrots? Commence gagging now. The man has two college degrees and for some reason thought that would taste good?!
For the love of God, we may as well become circus folk.
“You mixed strawberries with carrots?” I questioned around a mouthful of Cheetos.
I wasn’t about to let him drag me into his alternative lifestyle of mixing foods that had no business being mixed together unless under threat of firing squad.
And even then, I’d seriously have to think twice about jumping on the juice train rather than throwing my arms out wide and instructing the dudes with guns to go ahead and make my day.
But then I had an absolutely marvelous idea. Because it’s me and I’m a genius.
I held up a Cheeto and gestured toward the blender, “Can we put this in there? Because then I’m all for this mixing orange foods thing.”
My husband ordered and held out - yet another - glass in the air as I walked through the kitchen. Or as I had begun calling it, the militarized zone.
I really needed to find another place to stash my Cheetos.
I looked at the cup with not-so-veiled disgust. “What’s this one? Troll feet with dandelions?”
For some reason he didn’t find that funny.
He just pointed at the cup, “Drink.”
I threw him The Look and said, “I know it’s been a while, but I do not recall ‘Thou shall honor and obey and drink whatever my husband says’ written anywhere in our wedding vows.”
He just smiled and asked with a quiet kind of evil, “Did you check the fine print on the marriage license?”
But you can be sure it was next on my to-do list.
“Come on,” he urged, putting the cup under my nose. “You’ll like it.” He shrugged then added in a quiet voice, “I lost five pounds last week.”
I growled, grabbed the cup and proceeded to chug my life away.
Chemistry I’m not too found of.
But he lost five pounds last week.
Math? That I can understand.