Hubby went to the grocery store for me. I KNOW he has done this before—when he was a divorced single and had to forage for his own food. I KNOW he’s walked the isles of several of our local markets—is familiar with the layout—has learned where the meat and beer is located. He should be fine. Right?
I hand him a short list: cream, lettuce, coffee, skim milk.
His first text to me: hand cream, face cream, coffee creamer?
This led to a flurry of texts about flavored creamer—which he has NEVER EVER seen in
my our refrigerator.
“Cream! Cream! I pour it in my coffee everyday—you watch me do this everyday!”
“Whipping cream or heavy cream?”
Aaaggghhh!!! The skim milk was another fiasco—my fault—because it’s no longer called “skim” anymore.
A half hour later, bag-toting Hubby tells me to relax; he will put away the groceries for me. What a great guy!
Flash forward 2 days!
I’m making dinner. Searching high and low for the lettuce. It’s not in the crisper, not on the shelves—not in the garage refrigerator which holds bottled water, Costco overflow, & unidentifiable leftovers.
I SAW the lettuce in the bag. I KNOW he bought it, so I ask him. “Where’s the lettuce?”
“It’s in the freezer,” he replies while flipping through our
his 100 ESPN channels. “I wanted the lettuce to stay fresh—you’re always complaining how fast it goes bad.”
I burst out laughing, and he can’t figure out why. I show the frozen lettuce wad to him—explain that lettuce doesn’t defrost back to its original state.
He stares into the freezer and points. “You’ve got bags of frozen fruit and frozen veggies. Lettuce is a vegetable!”