A guy’s trip to the store should include buying only manly stuff
Glenwood Springs, CO Colorado
“I’m off to the store. … You need anything?” Husband-Head asked as he headed out the door.
It didn’t sound like a loaded question, but I knew what he really meant.
“If I get you something from the store, is there any chance we might have sex later on?”
Actually, I really did need something from the store.
“Yeah, I do,” I replied to his question. “But you probably won’t know where it is.”
Husband-Head’s eyes got real big.
“No, no, no … PLEASE don’t make me get that feminine stuff again,” he begged. “I HATE that. I’d rather pick up dog turds. I’ll even change the cat’s litter box. Just don’t make me do that!”
I had to laugh because that wasn’t what I wanted at all.
“Can you just get me some granola?” I said, trying to keep a straight face.
“Yeah, right,” Husband-Head said with a sigh of relief. “Since when do we eat granola?”
Since I said so.
“I need it for a recipe I’m making,” I informed him. “It’s a yogurt, berry and granola parfait.”
“What the HELL is a par-FAY?” Husband-Head demanded to know. “Is that like the quiche Lorraine or the little crustless cucumber sandwiches you try to make me eat? Or is it some dirty french sex act?”
I assured him that the granola in the parfait was simply my attempt to make his daily ration of fruits and berries a little more delectable.
“I’d prefer it if you could make it taste like a bratwurst or a beer,” Husband-Head grumbled.
A while later, Husband-Head returned from the grocery store and seemed a little irritated.
“That was some kind of fun,” he said, throwing down a box on the kitchen counter. “There were FOUR of us wandering all over the store looking for your friggin’ granola. It was quite embarrassing!”
I bit my lip so as not to laugh.
“In fact, one of the floor managers made a comment wondering what was going on with you between the yoga and now the granola,” Husband-Head reported. “I think people think you’re starting to get really weird.”
Nope. Not until I start wearing Birkenstocks …
A couple of days later, I went to the store myself.
Apparently, someone alerted the same customer relations manager, Donna, who had participated in the granola hunt, that I was in the building.
Donna has always been tickled to death that my name, “Heidi Rice,” sounds very similar to “Heidi Fleiss,” the name of the former Hollywood madam. Donna never ceases to take the opportunity to scream “Hello MRS. FLEISS!” across the room whenever she sees me.
And this time she took full advantage.
I was wandering down an aisle when I heard a booming voice over the store intercom.
“MRS. FLEISS … in case you’re wondering, the granola is located on aisle FIVE with the cereal,” the voice instructed and repeated. “Mrs. FLEISS… the granola is located on aisle FIVE with the cereal.”
I burst out laughing and knew immediately who the voice was.
“At least now we all know where the friggin’ granola IS!” I yelled to Donna as I headed to one of the registers.
And apparently every employee in the store was well aware of the granola incident.
“Did you find everything OK?” The nice clerk asked as he bagged my groceries. “Or is there anything that you need FOUR of us to help you find?”
The guy in line behind me just started to laugh, although I’m not sure he realized why they were giving me so much crap.
When I got home, I recounted my grocery store experience to Husband-Head.
“Yeah, well that doesn’t surprise me,” he admitted. “It’s pretty common knowledge that you’re a pain in the butt.”
Maybe so, but for the record, let’s just say that I can make one helluva mean parfait. …
Heidi Rice is a columnist for the Citizen Telegram and the Post Independent. Her column appears every Thursday in the CT and on Friday in the PI. Visit her website at http://www.heidirice.com to see more columns or buy her book collection, “Skully Says SHUT IT!” Or e-mail her at firstname.lastname@example.org.
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