Because, my friends, I’m nothing if not rational and there’s little I love more than teaching a good lesson.

Yesterday I participated in one of MamaKat’s pretty much world-famous writer’s workshop, and one of the prompts (that I didn’t do) was write an open letter to a man. One of the many bloggers who followed this prompt DeanaBo brought up the fact that when you send a man to the store they often come back with something similar to what you asked for, but not exactly what you asked for, and that prompted one of those light bulb above the head moments for me.

I cannot count the number of conversations I’ve had over the years with countless women about this very subject. Just a few weeks ago, in Houston, one evening my mom was positively hysterical (and not in a oh, she’s so funny way) because she sent her husband to the store for “some garlic” and he came home with a gigantic tub of peeled garlic. My mom hardly ever uses garlic. Seriously, they haven’t been married that long, but it has been three years, what on this green earth did he think she was going to do with a tub of garlic, ward off a vampire invasion??

I don’t get it. There are times when I ask The Husband for a couple of lemons and he comes home with exactly two lemons (really? does he think that warrants a trip to the store?) at other times, to the same request, he responds by returning with an exaggerated amount of lemons. What goes on in their heads?

No, it’s not a rhetorical question. I really want to know what the hell they are thinking when they go to the grocery store. The Husband is perfectly rational in other aspects of his life (well… he does seem to have a flashlight fetish, he can’t walk by flashlights at the store without buying one, but that’s pretty minor, right?) what can possibly be going on in their brains when they enter a grocery store that turns them into complete morons.

A few years back, when I was pregnant with The Girl I couldn’t eat meat. I don’t know what happens to me when I’m pregnant, any other time in my life if you present me with a steak and any other food, whether it be pasta or cake or cookies or pizza or any other delicacy, whatever time of day, I’ll pick the steak. When I’m pregnant I can’t even look at cows.

But for some reason, with the girl I could eat cheeseburgers, probably cause they were so loaded with stuff that I couldn’t see the meat. Anyway, I get a craving for cheeseburgers and I send him off to the butcher to get the meat so he could grill them for me, and remember now, I was pregnant, so this wasn’t an oh I kind of feel like a cheeseburger marijuana induced craving, this was a full on I will massacre you with my bare hands until you are but a bloody, pulpy mess on the kitchen floor if I don’t get a damn burger craving.

He comes home with chicken breast.

Yes, you read that right. I mean, it’s not even in the same category. What the hell am I saying? It’s not even in the same universe as a cheeseburger. What was he thinking?? I never got the chance to find out because the sheer volume, the actual decibel level, of my shrieking was so loud that dogs for miles around our house covered their ears and cowered in fear. Obviously, he went back to the butchers and came back with hamburger meat. But, honestly, wouldn’t it have been easier to just get it the first time around?

Next time, just for fun, when he asks me to buy him something specific I’m going to buy something similar, but not exactly what he wants. I can’t wait to see his reaction to a tube of say, hair removal cream, when he asks for razors…. Then maybe he’ll understand, and learn… I mean seriously… Chicken breasts. Sheesh!