You may be wondering how Husband was able to drag me to my first chemo appointment yesterday. Because it’s hard to psyche yourself up for a good poisoning. It’s the polar opposite of the Eat Local Challenge. Well, except for the local part. And the challenge. Perhaps I’ll rename it the Eat Local Poison Challenge. Tasty, tasty poisons. Naturally, Husband had his work cut out for him, so he pulled out the big guns:
Him: Put on something nice. I’m taking you out to dinner.
Me: Shut up, you are not.
Him: Yes, I am. Now hurry up and get ready. Our reservation’s in less than an hour.
Me: But it’s 2 o’clock in the afternoon.
Him: The chef makes his own hours.
Me: Really? Is it like an underground supper club or something?
Him: …Yes. Yes it is.
Me: Oooooooo. But there’s booze, right? No BYO?
Him: He definitely mentioned something about special cocktails.
Me: Weeeeeeeeeeee. Really? Crap, what am I going to wear.
Him: Find something fast. You have five minutes.
After 20 minutes of yelling and swearing at the contents of my closet, I’m looking stupid in the stupid outfit I picked out and we’re finally in the car heading towards the city.
Me: So what kind of food is it? Are we talking French or Indian or something with weird foams and shit?
Him: Interesting you should ask. He’s doing this innovative thing where you inject the food directly into your bloodstream. Ruth Reichl was raving about it on NPR.
Me: Ruth Reichl? Are you sure?
Him: Yeah, she said it’s all the rage in certain New York circles.
Me: What circles? Junky circles? Where’s the fun in that? How do you taste anything?
Him: She said that instead of the flavors expressing themselves on your taste buds, you feel the sensations…other places.
Me: Other places? Like where? Like (leaning in, whispering) down there?
Him: Maybe there. Wherever. The chef personalizes the meal for each diner so everyone gets a unique experience.
Me: (fanning myself)
We get off the Pike at the Pru and I assume we’re going to the South End, but then he keeps missing all the turns, I’m noticing. Probably because he’s so used to driving me all the way to Longwood for my goddamned appointments. Wait a minute.
Me: Where are we going again?
Him: I said it’s a surprise.
And that’s when we pulled up to the Dana-Farber building and Husband was exposed as the traitorous traitor he really is. Needless to say, I didn’t get the chemorgasm I was promised. (I faked it so the chef wouldn't feel bad, though.) Next time, I’ll wear a better outfit.