The idea that “poison is a woman’s weapon” is an old, made-up sawhorse. The concept has been invoked in works like Game of Thrones and Sherlock Holmes (not the Cumberbatch version, you didn’t miss anything), and bolstered by popular fiction: the terrifying grandmother from Flowers in the Attic, the adorable little old ladies from Arsenic and Old Lace, very nearly Marie from Breaking Bad, and the evil queen/gnarled old witch from Snow White. It’s a classic conceit: the femme fatale slipping a mickey into a glass of rye, the psychotic nana sprinkling arsenic on her grandchildren’s donuts, the jealous older woman offing her young competitionr, the cherubic nurse [...]
From the BBC:
A 14-year-old girl in the northern Nigerian state of Kano has confessed to killing the man she was forced to marry, police say. Wasilu Umar admitted killing her husband, who was more than twice her age, by concealing rat poison in his food, the police in Kano said. Three other people also died and 10 were taken to hospital apparently after eating the same food.
[...]The girl's father had forced her to marry the 35-year-old man, police said.
Daffodils are poisonous — do not eat them or mistake their bulbs for onions. But if you Google "daffodil recipes" to see if anyone's ever consumed them on purpose and lived to write about it on the internet (doesn't look like it), you find variations on the following:
None of which is particularly interesting or includes any actual daffodil, but that last one does come with an eerily fairy-tale-ish unanswered request: "The neighbors have alot of daffodils in their yard and [...]
I fell in love because of butt-rock.
Allow me to tell the tale of how I stopped giving a damn about everyone's beard-strokey, sophisticated tastes in music and found the man of my dreams thanks to Def Leppard and Skid Row and Poison and Mötley Crüe (superfluous umlauts and all); also, Guns-N-Roses, Great White, Damn Yankees, Warrant, Bon Jovi, Cinderella, Slaughter, Queensrÿche (there's that umlaut again), Scorpions and Metallica.
I'm in love. On a glory night. Where the children of tomorrow share their dreams. With you and me. And nothing else matters.
To rewind a bit: I met my boyfriend on assignment for an alt-weekly Portland newspaper. The idea [...]
I hate to be alarmist — just ask my husband ("What does your wife hate to be?" "Well, alarmist, cold, scared or late.") — but it seems your couch has figured out another way to kill you: by releasing carcinogenic flame retardent particles into your house. Don't bother Googling "what year PBDE invented?" or "began using PBDE in furniture?" because you won't find what you're looking for. Supposedly vacuuming will help, but that sounds like a lot of work and also not true, right?
This is the second installment of "Lady Killers," a new series. Read Chapter 1 here.
Poison fits easily into the home. It's subtle, secretive, tidy. It doesn't leave blood on the floor or holes in the wall. Dropping a bit of colorless liquid into food or drink is a total breeze. And who, historically, stirs the batter, serves the wine, and is exceptionally invested in keeping the floor clean? Women, of course.
Paris in the second half of the 17th century oozed with poison and the fear of poison and, by extension, the fear of women: divineresses who dabbled in arsenic, spells, and abortions, and the rich young [...]