Circe’s Table: When Your Beloved Eats Like a Pig

Mr. Crackpot was almost Mr. See-Ya-Later

Sometimes I wish I could show you pictures of Mister Crackpot.

We’ve been together almost twenty years and that man still gives me butterflies—he’s truly beautiful in my eyes. Your Betty has many friends that want to know how I’ve remained faithful to one man while also maintaining a deep and abiding love for my partner in all things.

Just the other day my colleague Amelia Heartburn said, “Betty, how do you do it? How do you stay attracted to one person over time?”  I’ll let you in on one of my tricks as I did for Ms. Heartburn, my darling readers.  It’s not always easy to implement, but it sure as shit works:


I’ll never forget a 4th of July some 15 years ago. I can assure you that the Mister and I had plenty of fireworks to celebrate—wink-wink.  First, though, we had to host what would become our annual 4th of July Bash.

It feels like yesterday—many of our friends were strewn about the yard, our picnic was in full gear. The children were splashing in the pool and Mister Crackpot was busy at the barbecue. When he was at last able to take a moment to eat, I patted the ground next to me. He proceeded to fill his plate and join me along with about ten of our friends.

And then it happened. I was staring at him in complete admiration and love as he finished commenting on the general conversation. I was truly counting my blessings. But then I witnessed him do something completely unholy to a hotdog.

It was a mix between an inhalation and a gulp. I remember there was the semblance of a bite, but I can’t be sure. Within a fraction of a second the entire bun and dog were gone. I’m sure I saw its shape outlined in Mr.Crackpot’s throat. Time froze. I was experiencing a revulsion that is too painful to relay. Dear readers, I wasn’t able to unfix my eyes from his throat until Mr. Crackpot nudged me and asked, “Why, Betty? Are you okay?”

What Would Betty Do?
What Would Betty Do?

Oh, my darlings, I didn’t know where to set my eyes—I forced my gaze upon my guests. Had they observed what I had? Did the summer heat cause me to have a vision? I looked at his plate. Nope. The hot dog had clearly been consumed. I was in a trance of disgust.

Later I noted, against my will, how my man eats corn. It was disgusting enough for me to consider a trial separation. I also won’t deny that I did in fact witness him talk with his mouth open and observe chip crumbs fly like weeds being whacked. Oh, Lord—did we have a row that evening. I believe it began when I stated in my sweetest fashion,

“Why, Mister Crackpot, you eat like a fucking pig.

“Betty!” he exclaimed, “Why now? We’ve been together for quite some time.”

And I realized, dear readers, Mr. Crackpot was right. Why I never managed to notice his filthy methods of ingestion is beyond me. Perhaps it was the pressure of a crowd. Perhaps it was that our extended honeymoon period had come to an end. Regardless, it was difficult to stare at him directly and not envision a snout where his distinguished nose had been. And then it dawned on me, dear readers: if I wanted to keep all that was working, and all that was so beautifully intact in our relationship, I would have to learn to look around, thru, over and beyond him anytime we ate together. Forever.

Look Away During Dinner, Though
Look Away During Dinner, Though

The good news, my lovelies, is that finding various focal points when sitting across a table is not too difficult. I use my flirtatious powers too—eyes down while he chews, batting my lashes as he takes a drink—one of the only non-disgusting things he does at a table.

Either he’s wise to my tricks and keeps silent, or I’ve really learned how to avert my eyes from his piggish ways and thereby saved our relationship. In all fairness, dearests, I will admit to having dropped various food items down my shirt only to discover them hours later nesting in my bra. Somehow, though, this doesn’t have the same nauseating effect as the deep-throated hot dog from so many years ago.

Please take my advice to heart—and do share your tales of table witchery with me.

Yours Till the Timer Dings,

Betty Crackpot

0 thoughts on “Circe’s Table: When Your Beloved Eats Like a Pig

  1. I need some sort of white noise on when my darling Mr. Kunt eats because otherwise I will lose myself in a fit of giggles over the baby piglet noises he makes. They are adorable and horrifying. Horrifadorable.

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