Honey-do...

What is it about men and grocery stores?  This is one of the world's greatest mysteries for me.  For the sake of plausability, I'm going to use my husband as an example - but in general I find these stories to hold true for my brothers, my friends' husbands and for countless single men across the land.

Typically, when we are in need of some sort of food item, I run by Wegman's.  There is one up the street from us in fact; less than two miles away.  I can go, get a gallon of milk and be back home in the span of about 15 minutes.  Grocery shopping for our family of five is done primarily on a bi-weekly basis (outside of sporadic trips back to get additional milk and produce).  I can plan our grocery list, get to the store, purchase about $300 in food and will be back home in about an hour and 30 minutes, give or take five.

This time is my serenity.  I leave my lovely children at home.  I relish the moments by myself with nothing but an aisle full of shampoo and my grocery cart.  I dawdle.  I look.  I read labels.  And I do it all in less than an hour (remember, I still have to be checked out, loaded and drive home with my remaining 30 minutes).

My husband however, has reason for concern.  His trip to the store for a gallon of milk takes about an hour.  He comes back with his hair mussed, his shirt slightly askew, dirt smudges on his face, sweating and slightly panic stricken.  In his hands are a dozen eggs, some orange tic-tacs and silly putty.  In a terrified voice, he beseeches me to never send him back to that hell on earth.

I'm left to stare bewildered and very confused.  How on earth could he have been gone so long?  What in God's name was he actually doing?  Should I make sure he gets his vision tested - you DO realize the cartons of milk are right inside the door, practically accosting you before you can peruse the rest of their seemingly hazardous confines???  I think I must have mumbled countless things about him cheating on me and covering it up with eggs and candy of all things...Upset, with hands covered in remnants of tonight's meat loaf mixture, I grab my keys and storm out the door to pick up the initially requested milk.

Driving to the store, I take stock of myself and have to laugh.  My hands still have raw meat particles on them.  I'm sure I look pissed off enough to kill a water buffalo and I have to wonder - Is it really that stupefying, or is he merely an evil genius?