I have this fear that my obit is going to say that someday. You see, my husband, he was raised on a ranch in the good old days. You know - back when women did everything for their men around the house. I, however was not raised in such a time and place. And so the conversations around our house often follow along these lines.
DC: Will I like this homogenized whole milk?
Me: All milk is homogenized.
DC: Well, we're out of milk, so I guess I'll have to.
Me: Yup, I guess so.
DC: Think you could pick up some more milk in town today?
Me: Aren't you going in to town? To gossip at the tractor store? And talk about football at the Ford dealer?
DC: Yeah, but...I won't have time. And also, I'm not sure where they keep the milk at.
Me: It's on the list. 10-4 good buddy.
So I made up that last part about not knowing where the milk's at. Trying to instill a love of grocery shopping in this guy - not gonna' happen.
But hey, with a face like this -- could you really expect him to walk into a grocery store? He should be out fixing fence. Or herding cattle. Or gossiping.
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