Tales From the Fatherhood: The trip to Target

Tales From the Fatherhood: The trip to Target

If I could get out of the house just one time with a succinct and clearly defined department store mission plan, I could finally die a happy man. But no! As any red blooded married American male will readily attest, that ain’t never gonna happen. Because our lovely wives, whose very reason for being is to see that we don’t enjoy a single second of contentment, will invariably complicate that prospect to the point where death would be a welcome relief.

Why oh why do I feel an irresistible compulsion to let my wife in on the fact that I’m about to pay Target a visit?

Forget Homer! I’m bettin’ it was some hapless Greek husband who came up with those mythological Sirens. All he wanted to do was pick up a six-pack. But despite past experience, he couldn’t resist saying, “Honey! I’m heading out to the agora,” and she immediately came up with 33 more items for him to acquire.

Unlike Jason, I don’t have a crew of Argonauts to tie me to that basement pillar. I suppose I always could get my sons do it, but then I wouldn’t be able to go to Target, now, would I.

alwaysOn the other hand, perhaps it’s some sort of vestigial hunter-gatherer thing. Since we can no longer prove we’re worthy of her amorous attentions by hunting down and slaying a mastodon, we have to locate and procure some of the most strange and bizarre department store shit you could ever imagine instead.

Here’s how the conversation typically goes (my thoughts are in parentheses because I wouldn’t dare say them out loud!):

Me: “Honey! I’m heading out to Target.” (Bleep! Why did I just let her know that!)

Her: (As I try to scurry out the door before she can respond.) “Oh good! I need some yak hair.”

Me: “Yak hair?”

Her: “Yes! I know Target has it, but it has to be the white kind from that family of Himalayan albino yaks that live at the top of K2. Please don’t get me the black kind.”

Me: “Where the hell does Target keep yak hair?”

Her: “I think it’s somewhere in the back.”

Me: “Alright! I’ll get you some WHITE yak hair.”

So the trip will take ten times longer because all I wanted to get was a Lego Imperial Star Destroyer, but now, in order to prove that I’m every bit the alpha male that Grogg the Neanderthal was, I have to hunt down her yak hair.

I suppose I could always ask an “associate” exactly where it is, but since I can’t imagine a caveman asking a young lady to point him in the direction of the mastodons, I’ll blindly forge ahead on my own.

Of course, what I really want to do is ask her why the bleep she needs yak hair in the first place, but if I make that silly mistake, she might just remember she needs something far more heinous like feminine hygiene products.

It isn’t as if they’re all that difficult to find, but holy shit, who thought it was a good idea to give women that many options? It musta been another woman intent on getting back at her ex!

Here’s how that conversation typically goes:

Me: “Honey! I’m heading out to Target.” (Bleep! Why did I just let her know that!)

Her: (As I try to scurry out the door before she can respond.) “Oh good! I need some more feminine hygiene products.”

Me: (Wondering why I’ve earned such relentlessly bad karma as I look for an open second floor window to jump out of.) “Auugggghhh! You know I hate getting that stuff.”

Her: “But I really need it!”

Me: “Alright! Whaddaya want me get you?”

Her: “OK! I need the Always regular – not long – super thin – not ultra thin – pads with the ultra – not the super – absorbent lining with the medium size flexi-wings on the sides. Please don’t get me the overnight or heavy flow or odorlock ones. And I really don’t like the maxis!”

Her: (As if this will somehow simplify that utterly unintelligible series of instructions she just relayed, in a bubbly voice she’ll add:) “They come in a teal package!”

Me: “What the bleep color is teal?”

Her: (Completely fed up.) Fine! I’ll write it down!

And let me tell you, there’s nothing quite like having to recruit a twenty-something female Target staffer to discuss the most intimate details of your feminine hygiene “list” just so you don’t, God forbid, buy the wrong kind of pad.

So that’s it! The next time I feel a sudden urge to tell her I’m going to Target, instead, I’m gonna yell, “Honey! I’m going out to get some hookers and blow!” Because whatever retribution that sentence might bring down upon me, it will be nothing compared to the torment of, once again, allowing my wife to edit my shopping list.

Either that or perhaps being tied to the pillar in the basement wouldn’t be such a bad fate after all.

0 thoughts on “Tales From the Fatherhood: The trip to Target

  1. I have sent my husband with the actual plastic packaging so that he can either look for it or show it to an associate to help him find the correct one!
    And when you guys have to deal with the blood, the smell, the bloating, the headaches, and the general exhaustion from losing a pint of blood in the space of a couple of days, then go ahead and complain when your spouse asks you to just pick up one small package of the type of pad/tampon she likes and trusts to get her through this rough time…
    Oh, and after 20+ years of marriage, you would THINK you men would know what pads we use! Its not like we hide them in the back of the linen closet only to be snuck out in the dead of night.

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