Saturday, March 21, 2009

Ladies, Don't Let Your Husbands Go Out With You Shopping

Do you think I could get Willie Nelson to write me a song with that title? It's no worse than that Mommas, Don't Let Your Babies Grow Up To Be Cowboys monstrosity.

Seriously. I have had it with the tag-a-longs at The Devil's Playground. First of all, they don't even push the cart. What do you need them for, anyway? To keep them alive by telling them to breathe in, breathe out? They traipse along, lagging 3-4 feet behind the cart. While you are looking at a label, Lady, the husband in temporarily suspended in NoMan'sLand. Meaning, he is right in the way of what I want to get off the shelf. If I can force myself to be polite, and say, "Excuse me" without an attitude, he scurries away like a tenement roach when the bare light bulb hanging from the wire in the broken-linoleum kitchen is flicked on.

Men. They are so simple. They have to be coddled day and night. They can't be left home alone while the wife does the shopping. They might get hungry. Or lonely. Or forget to breathe in, breathe out.

Secondly, also like tenement roaches, when you see one husband, you know there are 100 more that you can't see. Until you get to the next aisle. And there they are. All 100 of them. OK, maybe three or four of them. But they seem like more. They join up with other ladies' husbands and chat in pairs. Which really wreaks havoc with a woman on a mission and her shopping list.

The Devil's Playground needs to put in a bar. Or a Hooters. That Papa John's Pizza just doesn't cut it. Husbands need a place to be watched while the ladies shop. Kind of like a Toddler Town, where they can be out of the way, but not in any danger to themselves. Like a Kennelwood Village, but for husbands, not for dogs. They could all romp together in a fenced yard, play tug-o-war with power tools, take a nap on a rug in front of a TV, have a snack of meat byproducts, and bound to greet you when your shopping is done.

What a scathingly brilliant idea! Ow! I just hurt my shoulder by patting myself on the back.

1 comment:

Chickadee said...

LOL! OMG you need to pitch this idea.

I hate it when the dudes are standing right in front of the door dialing their cell phone, picking their nose or whatever. MOVE! Common sense man.

That's what they lack. Common sense.