addiction

I have recently been informed, by my wife, that I am a junkie.
My habit is apparently so heinous that it must be kept from my daughter at all costs. When my beloved caught me in the act of slaking this horrible thirst, she reacted as if I was lighting up a crack pipe.

It all started out innocently enough: we were at Wally-World and caved to our daughter’s incessant demands that we buy a watermelon. She had been riding my case for the better part of a week; wheedling, begging, and flashing that smile that girls are apparently born knowing works on guys.

The choice was to buy an approximately grapefruit-sized watermelon, seedless, organic for 4 bucks. Or to buy one that was about the size of a 1972 Lincoln, also seedless, but apparently grown using some kind of alien DNA structure that rendered it not-organic, for the same price. Being a cheapskate, I opted for the larger, alien-influenced one. We took it home and emptied out the refrigerator to make room for the melon.

After three days, I decided (with the help of a whining three-year-old: "daaaaaddy, when are we gonna eat the watermelon?" over and over and over, like a screwdriver repeatedly piercing my skull) that the melon was likely cold enough and I should go ahead and cut the thing.

So I went out to the garage and gathered up my two-wheel dolly and a chainsaw (the only implement I own large enough to attempt the procedure) and set to.

After changing clothes and cleaning watermelon guts off the ceiling, I gave some to my daughter, admonishing her not to drip on the recently flooded floor, and took a piece for myself.

I went to the sink, so as not to spill salt on the floor. Yes, I said salt. I don’t know where I got the habit, but I put salt on my watermelon. Makes it scrumptious.

My wife, who was washing up a few dishes, gasped at the brazen way that I, right out in the open, salted my fruit. Aghast that I hadn't even attempted to hide in shame, she dashed into the living room, scattering dishes on the way, (we needed new china anyway) to make sure our daughter wasn’t in danger of being corrupted by my horrible habit. Fortunately, the youngun wasn’t paying any attention to anything but Blue’s Clues on the TV and the watermelon she was busily keeping (mostly) from dripping all over MY seat on the sofa.

My wife stayed in the living room, making sure that my daughter didn’t get exposed to the nasty habit her father was exhibiting, until I was done eating.

God help me if my wife finds my M&M stash.