Murder Me Tender

A Crime To Remember, Shadow of Doubt, Dateline, 20/20, if it’s on ID (Investigation Discovery Channel), I can’t get enough of it!  At least once a day one of the guys will catch me watching and will roll their eyes and ask with exasperation, “Another murder show?”  Dean accuses me of watching in order to plot his demise.  But honestly, when he lost his last job during the economy downturn, his life insurance went with it and sadly he is no longer worth more to me dead than alive.  In my opinion, this is all the proof I need that I am not, in fact, plotting on him.  Strangely, he isn’t as reassured by this evidence as I am.  Go figure.

Maybe I should have prefaced this by saying that if Dean turns up dead, I am in no way responsible.  I really do love him!  A lot!  Most of the time.  I really would miss him!  A lot!  Most of the time.  He really is my best friend!  A lot! Most of the time.  I’m not saying that I don’t sometimes daydream about offing him, like when he’s refusing to share any of the covers on an especially cold night, or when I tell him the most important thing he needs to pick up at the grocery store is something sweet and he brings home everything except for something to satisfy my craving monster.  But it’s normal to consider dispatching of one’s spouse under those kinds of extreme circumstances, isn’t it?  Still, no way would I ever actually follow through on it.

One major preventative factor in this scenario is that I can’t stand blood.  Especially other people’s blood.  When one of the boys is bleeding, the first thing I do is scream for Dean to come and look, because if there is blood then surely there must be a missing appendage, and I just don’t think I could pick up a finger or a leg to put it in ice for transport to the hospital.  Just writing this makes my knees all quivery and my stomach scrunchy.  So that’s one huge reason that I wouldn’t actually murder him.  I couldn’t stand all the blood, and I am definitely not the one who is going to clean it all up.  Also, if I get rid of him, then who will nurse my babies back to health when they nearly bleed to death after the cat scratches them or they get a hangnail?  See?  I need him.  I have to keep him.

If anything untoward ever does happen to my dear, (mostly) sweet, amazing husband, this is my irrefutable attestation that I am in no way involved.  Regardless of what the history in my DVR may infer.  If there is one thing that I have learned from all those hours of watching real life murder mysteries being solved, it’s that you never, ever get away with it.  And I am no good at pre-planning.  I’m a spur of the moment kind of gal.  Especially when I am enraged.  So I wouldn’t be prepared with plastic wrap over the carpet to catch the blood spatter.  I wouldn’t begin to know how to get a weapon that wouldn’t be traceable.  My hands sweat when I’m nervous, so I’m sure I’d leave fingerprints on everything.  And I shed a LOT of hair.  Besides all of that, Dean outweighs me by a few pounds and I don’t have much upper body strength.  So I have no clue how I’d move his body to get rid of it.  I do have some really good friends, but most all of them like him more than they like me, so I doubt they would be any help.  And we’ve already established my issues with blood.  I just don’t see myself having the fortitude it would take to chop him up and dispose of him one arm, one leg, one ear at a time.  So I repeat, let this stand as my alibi, and as my defense.  I DID NOT DO IT!

Here’s another reason you can be assured that I’m not guilty.  In crimes of passion, the murderer always goes into overkill.  (I’m not sure that’s the best word to use here, but, well, maybe it is.)  Anywho, if the murderer is using a gun, rather than shooting once, they will unload a full clip, reload and shoot some more.  If a knife is the weapon of choice, they will stab many more times than is necessary to get the job done.  Unlike in impersonal killings, such as a mob hit, where the minimum force needed to get the job done is used and then the killer gets out, a passionate killer will go to extremes.  And I’m nothing if not passionate!

Case in point:  Recently sweet, darling hubby and I were in disagreement about how to do a thing.  He wanted to do the thing one way, I wanted him to do it the right way.  We conversed about how it should be done, gently at first and then increasingly more emphatically.  I was right, so there was no reason for me to give up on my stance.  He is stubborn so there wasn’t a chance that he was going to give in, either.  I finally got so frustrated with him that I spat, “I AM SO MAD AT YOU RIGHT NOW THAT IF I WAS GOING TO KILL YOU, I WOULD ONLY STAB YOU ONCE!”  To this, he pleasantly countered, “THAT’S FINE, I’M SO MAD AT YOU THAT I WOULDN’T EVEN STAB YOU AT ALL!”  And for the moment, I realized that because of our differences, all of the passion was gone from our marriage.

Not to worry, though.  We have since made amends.  Dean did what I wanted him to do.  He did it his way, and I begrudgingly agreed that it worked.  THIS TIME.  Now that our fences have been mended, I again love him so much that if I stabbed him to death, I would stab him 187 times.  Now THAT is true love!

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