On Saturday the ol' ball and chain tried to kill me.
I'll wait until that sentence sinks in...<waiting>.....<still waiting>...
Allow me to set the scene for you. Picture it, Sicily 1922...
Anyways, back to my husband trying to kill me. It was an ordinary Sunday afternoon, I had just woken up from my three hour nap (no shame, it's my life, I do what I want) and the ol' ball and chain wanted a snack before taking big dumb Gwen to the dog park. So he microwaves a hot dog, because in our home hot dogs are a solid source of protein, and proceeds to walk around the home while eating said hot dog. I'm watching, as expected, Dateline all snuggled up on the couch while thinking of what to make for dinner (sausage and artichoke stuffed shells...BTW).
After about 10 minutes, the ol' ball and chain goes to open the front door and all of a sudden I get a whiff of gas.
<sniff sniff> "Do you smell that," I ask.
<sniff> "No...wait...maybe..," he replies.
"It smells like......<sniff>...GAS!" I shout, and I briskly start walking around the house, sniffing the air. The gas smell is heavy and thick. "Where is our gas line???" I shout.
While the soon-to-be-ex-husband-whom-I-bilk-out-of-his-future-fortunes-and-retirement-savings walks out front to where our gas line is, I'm in the kitchen still smelling the gas heavily, and starting to get light headed.
I look at the stove and notice that one of the knobs for the burners has been clicked on, but without the flame, and I immediately turn it off.
<pause to allow the anger to rise>
That mother-fucker was making his hot dog, knocked the knob on for the gas stove, and didn't even realize it!
"You turned on the stove you moron! I could have died!"
Him nonchalantly, "Oh, oops."
"That's it? Oops??" I yell.
"Ha, well, sorry," he offered.
And then I was all....