Originally posted in Janurary, 2009
My Husband, the Potato Chip Runner
Once again, this week's post doesn't quite fall under non-maternal. Or maybe it does. What do I know? I'm just some crazy pregnant lady. But I warn you, don't mess with the pregnant lady.
If you have ever been pregnant, or hormonal, or menstrual, or, well, just a girl, then you know what it's like to crave potato chips. I don't know any girl who doesn't like potato chips. And if you are a girl and you don't like them, then you are probably really a man.
So yesterday, around dinner time, I WANTED potato chips. And I wanted them NOW (imagine Fat Bastard as he looks at his fried chicken, "Get in my belly!" Except that I didn't have any potato chips to threaten). So I unbuttoned a few of the buttons on my polo turned on my most pathetic and whiny voice and said, "I really want potato chips."
Hubs responded to my declaration, "I can go on a potato chip run." {ain't he the greatest?}
"Are you sure? You don't have to if you don't want to." {lying}
"Honey, I'm sure. What kind - Ruffles, Conn's, or Lay's?" {WOW, this guy is good!}
"Ruffles or Lay's," I responded excitedly.
"Okay, I'll be right back." {we live only a few blocks from a convenience store - it makes for a very convenient nine months}
5 minutes later
Hubs walks in the door, "I hope you like my selection."
He shows me a bag of Wavy Conn's potato chips.
I look at him, I look at the bag, and then I look at him, "I said Ruffles or Lay's."
He looks confused. "I thought you said Conn's."
"No, I hate Conn's." {I really don't care for them - they taste like old socks, whatever that tastes like}
"But, these are from Zanesville. I really thought you said Conn's." {okay, you just heard Conn's because you wanted Conn's. I don't care if you grew up near Zanesville. I'm pregnant, and I WANT RUFFLES OR LAY'S!}
And that's when my hormones exploded. I really tried to suppress them. But they weren't listening to me. It seems that the fig-sized being growing deep within my womb spits out hormones at cosmic force.
And then I throw a fit. You know, the usual girly game of, "No, don't go back out just for chips," "Okay, I really want chips," "No, I'll be fine," "Okay, I want Ruffles, please."
My potato chip runner then leaves for the second time that evening. But this time he's not back right away. It's at least fifteen minutes before he returns. {and don't think for a minute that this hungry preggo wasn't starting to really jones}
As it turns out, the convenient store down the street was out of Ruffles. So my I-better-get-it-right-this-time hubby drove all the way to the next nearest convenient store just to find the perfect potato chip.
He scored. {thank you, Jesus!}
And since he is all about staying out of trouble making me happy, he picked up a bag of Skittles and Sour Patch Kids while he was there.
Except that I was now craving Gummi Bears.
