A Loss of Control

A Loss of Control

Cooking wasn't my thing. Fear of catching my hair on fire the third time wasn't my idea of trial and error. So the only time I used the stove was to remove the dust. Charles (Chuckie) used the GFGrill. For everything. And what he couldn't do there he used the microwave. To this day I don't understand his compulsion for having so many kitchen appliances. We had a hoteye, a sandwichmaker, four blenders, five different icecrushers, potatomaker, hotdog grill, name it, we had them all. I opened the pantry while he was stir frying some vegetables on the grill. "Why don't you use this wok we had for a year that is still in its box?" I did ask rather smugly. He asked why would he do that when he already had the food nicely cooking here? "Why did you buy   this?" I asked. He said it matched the blender that he would make his homemade soy sauce. The blender by the way hasn't been opened either. It was a year and a half old. "Charles, this is out of control. The pantry is so full of appliances we had to get another pantry for groceries. Some of the appliances are over five years old if not older. We even had a recall on the juicemaker three years after the purchase and was able to return it unopened. In fact the only appliances tried were three icemakers and the hotdog warmer. I tried not to squeal. He raise his voice two octaves higher and shouted, "I can raise my voice higher, too."  I held my hands together trying not to point. He came over to me, took my hands with one of his hands in the oversized ovenmitt from which had been badly burnt over the years from candles. And the other hand holding a wooden spoon. Was he wearing a chefs hat? Not only that  but the white smock with his name on it that he had donned was enough for the setting. Black pants. He was cute. "When we get a bigger home," his eyes widening, "All these will be out for you to use." What did he just say to me? " My use. I took my hands back and turned around trying not to laugh. He went on this time and said, "Most of these were gifts." He was right. Only because he asked for them on his wish list I would occasionally find slipped into a pocket of my clothing or between a sofa cushion.  I waited for what seemed like eternity. He stepped around to the front of me. He closed the pantry. "Ok," with his hands behind his back, "I'll ask or purchase another appliance after we move." I couldn't imagine another appliance that we didn't already have in stock. Uh-oh: upgrade, better and powerful. Like icemakers. I looked at him in horror. This man was mad. Concern was on his face, "What's wrong, you look pale?" "I'm fine, you frightened me there for a moment. I can't imagine you not trying something new on the market." He totally ignored my remark. He said, " I may not be the brightest man alive," people called him Postman Einstein, "but I know," lecturing me, "When we have a bigger kitchen, the pantry is also going to be twice as large as the two we have and combining them we would have three, two small ones and one large one." I was losing him. When he came back to the real world he started laughing. I started feeling nausea. I walked away. We had dinner and watched the Blue Comedy Tour and then went to sleep. That next afternoon when I came in the house from work, he was very silent. I asked him if something dreadful had happened to him at work. Was there an accident, someone was ill. I went on. He moved one hand up and motioned me to come sit by him on our sofa. When I reached him he quickly moved me and sat me in front of him. I was on the hard coffee table and he was on the big fluffy sofa. Something wasn't fair. He tilted his head to the side still holding my hands, I was going to say something and he put his finger to his lips. I opened my mouth and quickly his hand was under my chin closing my mouth. He tilted his head the other way, his eyes searching my face and then still into my eyes, very calmly said, " I got a call from the the Priest today. He wanted to thank both of us for donating three appliances to the needy. He was going to thank you personally, but he said you left in such a hurry he didn't have time to meet you at the donation door." He breathed. I held my breathe. "Charles, I'm sorry. So very sorry. I will replace them. If you insist. Are you angry?" He moved closer to me, I could feel his warm body, he smelled so nice. He held me in his arms then pulled me away some and moved his arm in front of me and I was looking not at his face now but were flowers he held up. I had to focus. The flowers were beautifully arranged with a wide variety . I moved them down to kiss him, we both touched foreheads, his other hand on the back of my head. We started laughing. I couldn't stop because safety pinned to three different flowers were receipts from the what "we" donated. There are some appliances still left in the pantry which is now locked up. I can't seem to let go of anything he physically touched. I have everything of of his and mine. Just knowing he held something of ours and the thought of letting it go. To me it's unbearable. I've seen people start over, but what makes them do it?