My Husband is Trying to Kill Me

I joke you not. I want you to watch for me and if a day or two passes without a new blog entry, I want you to contact the authorities. Fast.
I am not delusional, I have proof.
Today while frantically searching for the JC Penney card that I last saw in his hands when he was paying bills, I came upon a chilling discovery--- in my pajama drawer.
Why was I looking for a credit card in my pajama drawer? It's my stash-everything-in-here-quick-someone's-coming-over-drawer, and don't pretend you don't have one (or a closet, trunk, shower stall that you shove everything into when the doorbell rings).
And yes, people DO come into my bedroom. For some reason, everyone who graces our front step will ask for a tour of the house-- including the engineer who hooked up my hob and cooker (stove for you American-types). It could be because this place is massive. People will stand in our kitchen and look out the french doors across the courtyard, with the two ponds and connecting stream and ask, "Is that (pointing to the two-story bedroom side of the house) part of yours as well?"
One man who came to fetch J1 for a party we had shown up to without him (grumpy teenager, I didn't mind that he wanted to stay behind), returned to the festivities and all he could say was, "They live in the flippin' Pentagon!"

We were tremendously lucky in finding this place, but that's NOT what concerns me now. What I have thought about all day was what I found in my drawer.
In addition to a Pokemon ball, and a Creative Memories catalog, there's a box of German Truffles in a lovely gold box with a shiny blue ribbon. A gift from my husband when he returned from his vaca--I mean deployment. There's also a huge bar of some imported 70% cocoa, a monster Galaxy bar, and some British licorice mix. All brought to me at various times by my husband. My pancreas is screaming just thinking about it.
Out of curiosity, I went to my bedside table--yep, the sweets had found their way there as well.

Women who are swooning over such a thoughtful husband, please enlighten me. I don't think I have a romantic bone in my body (I might have had once, but all of my bones are tired these days and I can't make out which ones do what), I see it as his way of slowly poisoning me to get me out of the way so that he can have all of these kids (the crying, puking, peeing, pooping, mucous factories that they are) all to himself! I know it, and I fear for my life.
I'm afraid it won't be long now, he just came home from work and he brought me a life-sized Tootsie Roll! Help.