The day after the now-infamous remote control/DVR debacle, Rowdy came in as I was watching a marathon of Snapped, a series about women who freak the eff out and kill their men. He grabbed the remote from the coffee table and, all inspired by the show's subjects, I growled, "Don't even think about it, asshole."
As I fried chicken in the kitchen, peering out from under the cabinet at the tumultuous lives of the women being profiled, I could see that Rowdy was perhaps a little frightened by the ideas I was absorbing.
One lady added just a few drops of anti-freeze into her husband morning coffee until it became so backed up in his system that his organs failed. Another plowed her cheating man down in parking lot, reversing and driving back over him more than once. And so went the tales of accidental shootings and carbon monoxide poisoning and hired hit men.
With each documentary, I could see Rowdy's eyes growing round and, through the corner of my eye, I would periodically see him glancing over at me. As I brought his dinner, laid out beautifully over one of our wedding plates, our eyes met in a deadlock and I could sense him fearfully wondering, "Has this crazy bitch finally flipped out?"
Then I just leaned in, kissed him gently, "Don't touch that fucking remote, baby."