There's a seven day old watermelon in the fridge.

Yup, last week she bought a watermelon. Now, the watermelon isn't actually 7 days old; I wasn't there when she bought it so it is probably 4 or 5 days old but the idea is the same, it just sits there and it won't get eaten until tomorrow morning when she'll remember it's there when she considers making breakfast (used to make breakfast on sunday every week) and she'll probably ask me if I want watermelon at which point I'll say, "Well I didn't buy it so no, I'm not wanting it. Thanks anyhow." This upsets her, giving her an excuse not to make breakfast, giving her more time to read the newspaper and ignore me.

The amount of food we've thrown away in 8 years because she thought she might want to eat it could have fed a stadium of Katrina victims for a day. The idea of planning our meals is like her way of watching tv: the more there is to choose from the less she has to think about it. Really, both should be a huge buffet that washes over her when she gets home from work. Her daughter, now 23, would sit on the sofa and channel surf watching 2 or 3 or 4 shows at a time, making me want to pass out, vomit and scream all at once. If you added an enourmous lazy susan that circled the living room that they could pick from while watching David Bowie's tv sets from The Man Who Fell To Earth, well, it'd be wife heaven.