My wife sometimes (but not often) gives me way more credit
for being clever than I deserve. And when this happens, chaos enters our lives.
I’m not talking about the kind of major chaos that ends with tear gas and
rubber bullets, but rather the kind that ends with me being thoroughly confused
and scratching my head until a small bald spot appears.
Every weekend my wife and I create a shopping list of the groceries our family will need for the upcoming week. We use a template we have honed over the years, that categorizes the groceries by aisle. This is necessary since I’m the one who usually does the actual shopping and I need all the help I can get to figure out exactly where the items are that I need to purchase.
This week, however, we did not use our shopping template. The kids finished school on Thursday and I took PTO for a couple of days, so I guess our normal life rhythm was a bit off and it led to us spontaneously creating a shopping list on a small yellow notepad, rather than sticking to our trusty template. It was pandemonium.
On a normal shopping day I go through the list carefully before leaving the house, in case there is anything I’m not sure about, like the amount of cucumbers we need, or the brand of tortilla chips we want, or what in the heck “Swiss chard” is. (Is that a cheese or a vegetable?) Even though we mostly create the list together, my wife will sometimes jot items down when I’m not in the room, so it’s good for me to review before heading to the store. But this past weekend, with our life rhythm off and the non-templated list in hand, I forgot to review before exiting the house. Mistake.
At first, everything was going swimmingly. I understood that “M&C Cups” meant Mac & Cheese cups and I correctly deduced that “Frozen Corn” likely referred to corn kernels rather than corn cobs; but suddenly, I hit a roadblock. In between “Plasticware” and “Lemons” was “M.O.’s – 4.” Hmmm…what are “M.O.’s,” I wondered. On the one hand, it was not something that came to me instantly, on the other, it must be something we get regularly, since my wife thought the abbreviation would make it obvious to a simpleton like me.
Normally, in a situation like this, I would just call and ask what this item was, but right before I left the house, my wife said she was going to take a nap. While I couldn’t be certain she was still asleep, I didn’t want to wake her if she was, so I decided to text rather than call. I figured a phone call would obnoxiously wake her, while the quick “ding” of a text would just get her attention if she were awake but not really rouse her if she were asleep. (She’s a heavy sleeper.)
So I texted, “I don’t know what M.O.’s are.” I stood for about 30 seconds in front of the pickles and got no response, so I figured she was asleep. But I wasn’t going to give up. I was determined to figure out what M.O.’s were and purchase four of them before I left. My plan was to walk up and down the aisles while I did the rest of the shopping and keep my eyes peeled for some M.O.’s, while also holding out some hope that my wife would wake up and text me back before I checked out.
Standing as I was, in front of the pickles, I happened to be next to the olives, which seemed promising. My wife loves olives and I can’t stand them, so maybe it was some sort of olive that I don’t eat. The first thing that entered my head was “maraschino olives,” but then I realized that “maraschino” is a type of cherry, not an olive. I know that “Greek olives” are a thing, so I wondered if “Mexican olives” might also be a thing. I scanned the entire olive section jar by jar, but no Mexican olives surfaced. It probably wasn’t olives.
My next thought was onions. We use onions a lot and it’s not unreasonable to think we might need four of them for a recipe, so I wondered if “M.O.” meant “mild onions.” But I don’t know if I ever saw an onion described as “mild” on one of our shopping lists. Usually we identify onions by their color—red, white, or yellow; never by their disposition—mild, jaunty, or aggressive. So I ruled out onions.
While I was contemplating produce, I considered oranges. But within the context of oranges, what could the “M” mean? As with olives, I considered the possibility of “Mexican oranges.” Living as we do in Arizona, there is a good chance that some of our oranges are imported from Mexico, but I don’t know that my wife would refer to a fruit by its country of origin. “Can you pick us up some of those Chilean bananas?” has never come out of my wife’s mouth before, so I dismissed the idea of “Mexican oranges.”
A few minutes later I walked into the cereal aisle and spent a good amount of time contemplating “milled oats,” which is an actual thing. We have occasionally purchased oatmeal and maybe even oats once or twice throughout our almost 19 years of wedded bliss, but were those oats, in fact, milled? And really, even if they were milled, why would my wife assume I would understand “M.O.” meant “milled oats,” since it may have been half a dozen years since the last time we purchased anything like this. I stared deeply into the eyes of the Quaker Oats man, with his fancy dark blue hat and long, billowy white hair. “Does my wife want milled oats?” I asked shaking the container. Then I realized this wasn’t a Magic 8-Ball, so I put it back on the shelf and left the aisle.
Several aisles later, I found myself in front of the cookies and had a eureka moment. “Mini Oreos!” I shouted, much to the dismay of the old woman across from me snagging a box of Lorna Doones. I thought I was onto something here. While the product is technically called “Oreo Minis,” in our house we commonly refer to them as “Mini Oreos” and we purchase them on a regular basis. But my initial euphoria began to subside as I thought about this purchase more deeply. There were two main challenges to this being the solution to the “M.O.’s – 4” conundrum: 1) I knew for a fact, we had a mostly full package of these cookies at home; and 2) We never, EVER have purchased four packages of Oreo Minis at once. Why would we possibly start now? As much as I wanted this to be correct, in my heart of hearts, I knew that it was not.
I moved on dejectedly, and was nearing the end of the shopping list without one, let alone four, “M.O.’s” in my cart. I decided to stop by the bakery aisle and get my wife a slice of white cake (her favorite) to ease the pain of her husband’s failure in the “M.O.” department. As I headed to the checkout line, I continued to wrack my brain for an answer.
Minced oregano? No.
Marinated oysters? No.
Mauve orchids? No.
Maximum Overdrive? No.
Michael O’Keefe? No.
I got to the checkout line and knew that at this point there was no turning back. I started placing my products on the conveyor belt and as I put my last item down, I felt my phone buzz inside my pocket. I had just received a text. I grabbed my phone and looked at the two words on the screen—“Mandarin oranges.” Ah, yes—my wife eats those things like they’re going out of style. But that night she settled for cake instead.
Next week, we’re going back to the shopping template.
Every weekend my wife and I create a shopping list of the groceries our family will need for the upcoming week. We use a template we have honed over the years, that categorizes the groceries by aisle. This is necessary since I’m the one who usually does the actual shopping and I need all the help I can get to figure out exactly where the items are that I need to purchase.
This week, however, we did not use our shopping template. The kids finished school on Thursday and I took PTO for a couple of days, so I guess our normal life rhythm was a bit off and it led to us spontaneously creating a shopping list on a small yellow notepad, rather than sticking to our trusty template. It was pandemonium.
On a normal shopping day I go through the list carefully before leaving the house, in case there is anything I’m not sure about, like the amount of cucumbers we need, or the brand of tortilla chips we want, or what in the heck “Swiss chard” is. (Is that a cheese or a vegetable?) Even though we mostly create the list together, my wife will sometimes jot items down when I’m not in the room, so it’s good for me to review before heading to the store. But this past weekend, with our life rhythm off and the non-templated list in hand, I forgot to review before exiting the house. Mistake.
At first, everything was going swimmingly. I understood that “M&C Cups” meant Mac & Cheese cups and I correctly deduced that “Frozen Corn” likely referred to corn kernels rather than corn cobs; but suddenly, I hit a roadblock. In between “Plasticware” and “Lemons” was “M.O.’s – 4.” Hmmm…what are “M.O.’s,” I wondered. On the one hand, it was not something that came to me instantly, on the other, it must be something we get regularly, since my wife thought the abbreviation would make it obvious to a simpleton like me.
Normally, in a situation like this, I would just call and ask what this item was, but right before I left the house, my wife said she was going to take a nap. While I couldn’t be certain she was still asleep, I didn’t want to wake her if she was, so I decided to text rather than call. I figured a phone call would obnoxiously wake her, while the quick “ding” of a text would just get her attention if she were awake but not really rouse her if she were asleep. (She’s a heavy sleeper.)
So I texted, “I don’t know what M.O.’s are.” I stood for about 30 seconds in front of the pickles and got no response, so I figured she was asleep. But I wasn’t going to give up. I was determined to figure out what M.O.’s were and purchase four of them before I left. My plan was to walk up and down the aisles while I did the rest of the shopping and keep my eyes peeled for some M.O.’s, while also holding out some hope that my wife would wake up and text me back before I checked out.
Standing as I was, in front of the pickles, I happened to be next to the olives, which seemed promising. My wife loves olives and I can’t stand them, so maybe it was some sort of olive that I don’t eat. The first thing that entered my head was “maraschino olives,” but then I realized that “maraschino” is a type of cherry, not an olive. I know that “Greek olives” are a thing, so I wondered if “Mexican olives” might also be a thing. I scanned the entire olive section jar by jar, but no Mexican olives surfaced. It probably wasn’t olives.
My next thought was onions. We use onions a lot and it’s not unreasonable to think we might need four of them for a recipe, so I wondered if “M.O.” meant “mild onions.” But I don’t know if I ever saw an onion described as “mild” on one of our shopping lists. Usually we identify onions by their color—red, white, or yellow; never by their disposition—mild, jaunty, or aggressive. So I ruled out onions.
While I was contemplating produce, I considered oranges. But within the context of oranges, what could the “M” mean? As with olives, I considered the possibility of “Mexican oranges.” Living as we do in Arizona, there is a good chance that some of our oranges are imported from Mexico, but I don’t know that my wife would refer to a fruit by its country of origin. “Can you pick us up some of those Chilean bananas?” has never come out of my wife’s mouth before, so I dismissed the idea of “Mexican oranges.”
A few minutes later I walked into the cereal aisle and spent a good amount of time contemplating “milled oats,” which is an actual thing. We have occasionally purchased oatmeal and maybe even oats once or twice throughout our almost 19 years of wedded bliss, but were those oats, in fact, milled? And really, even if they were milled, why would my wife assume I would understand “M.O.” meant “milled oats,” since it may have been half a dozen years since the last time we purchased anything like this. I stared deeply into the eyes of the Quaker Oats man, with his fancy dark blue hat and long, billowy white hair. “Does my wife want milled oats?” I asked shaking the container. Then I realized this wasn’t a Magic 8-Ball, so I put it back on the shelf and left the aisle.
Several aisles later, I found myself in front of the cookies and had a eureka moment. “Mini Oreos!” I shouted, much to the dismay of the old woman across from me snagging a box of Lorna Doones. I thought I was onto something here. While the product is technically called “Oreo Minis,” in our house we commonly refer to them as “Mini Oreos” and we purchase them on a regular basis. But my initial euphoria began to subside as I thought about this purchase more deeply. There were two main challenges to this being the solution to the “M.O.’s – 4” conundrum: 1) I knew for a fact, we had a mostly full package of these cookies at home; and 2) We never, EVER have purchased four packages of Oreo Minis at once. Why would we possibly start now? As much as I wanted this to be correct, in my heart of hearts, I knew that it was not.
I moved on dejectedly, and was nearing the end of the shopping list without one, let alone four, “M.O.’s” in my cart. I decided to stop by the bakery aisle and get my wife a slice of white cake (her favorite) to ease the pain of her husband’s failure in the “M.O.” department. As I headed to the checkout line, I continued to wrack my brain for an answer.
Minced oregano? No.
Marinated oysters? No.
Mauve orchids? No.
Maximum Overdrive? No.
Michael O’Keefe? No.
I got to the checkout line and knew that at this point there was no turning back. I started placing my products on the conveyor belt and as I put my last item down, I felt my phone buzz inside my pocket. I had just received a text. I grabbed my phone and looked at the two words on the screen—“Mandarin oranges.” Ah, yes—my wife eats those things like they’re going out of style. But that night she settled for cake instead.
Next week, we’re going back to the shopping template.
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