Some people get married for love and companionship. Others, for money and security. There are those who marry to fulfill societal expectations, or to stifle the ticking of her biological clock.
I got married for one reason and one reason only: I needed someone to run my errands.
I’m not talking about your typical, run-of-the-mill, grab-me-a-gallon-of-milk kind of errand. The tasks I assign Doug are reminiscent of cavewomen sending their mates out to gather fig leaves for makeshift sanitary napkins. Our purpose: no, boys, we don’t just happen to “run out.” We aim solely to trap you in a lifelong spectrum of mild discomfort to utter humiliation.
I’ll admit it—at times I fall privy to cliché and send him on Mission Maxi. With each operation complete, he tosses my merchandize on the counter with the same look of disgust and announces, “Here’s your tampons with wings and propellers. And they’d better be the right kind, cause I ain’t taking them back.”
He’ll never understand that tampons don’t come with wings, and I’ve stopped trying to explain it to him. I’d get the same result if I spun him around three times and released him into the feminine hygiene aisle blindfolded. Besides, his confusion makes for good entertainment. It’s enough to make the menses feel like a day at Fenway Park.
It doesn’t matter that I have enough feminine products in my bathroom closet to cover myself and the next three generations. My husband will be searching for tampons with wings long after menopause sets in.
As variety is the spice of life, I’m usually more creative. Most recently, I sent him to Stop & Shop with but one item on my list: shiitake mushrooms. My reasons, beyond the obvious horror of a refrigerator devoid of shiitake mushrooms, were threefold: (1) They are located in an elusive corner of the produce department; (2) I knew exactly how he’d pronounce the word “shiitake”; and (3) The girl who usually works in the produce aisle is really, really cute.
When he came home, he flung my fungi on the counter and stammered, “She couldn’t stop laughing at me!” I thanked him graciously, issued a consolatory pat on the head and tossed them in a drawer full of portabella.
There are certain household items that have multi-uses, and as a natural consequence, I just can’t live without them. Take, for instance, your common douchebag. It contains just the right degree of acidity to kill weeds and fertilize your azaleas at the same time. I don’t garden, nor can I tell an azalea from a dandelion. But a nagging voice in my head urges me to build up a supply for the bunker—just in case doomsday comes and goes, and all that’s left are cockroaches, Ozzy Osbourne and a bed of azaleas.
Did you know the same stuff that relieves hemorrhoidal itch also works wonders for puffiness under the eyes? And wouldn’t you know it—I always run fresh out just as Doug is heading off to Walmart to restock his ammo. It’s the ol’ bullet and hemorrhoid cream combo. How’s that for a conversation piece at the register?
After ten years, he still hasn’t questioned my ulterior motives, and sometimes I feel bad about it. Maybe I should be deriving my entertainment from posting recipes on Pinterest or gathering coupons from “Women Get It Free.” Then again, my closest of friends who know the history of our marriage will tell you my actions are justified. Scoring a couple tubes of Preparation H is the least he can do.
All that aside, it’s crossed my mind that someday I’ll take the high road and run my own errands. But then I get distracted by the sound of my dog, Rosie, shaking her head and licking her paws. Seems she has a yeast infection in both ears and between her toes. The cure, short of another $200 vet bill? You guessed it. Monistat 7.
I think Doug mentioned he needed a new battery and spark plug for his motorcycle. Surely he can fit one more item on his list.