In this house, it's my wife who's in charge of buying things. This should surprise no one who knows us well at all. My wife is the practical, down-to-earth, well-reasoned, wicked smart, and generally wonderful sort of person who can be trusted with important purchases.


I, on the other hand, am the blithering, addled, pants-on-backwards sort of moron who shouldn't be allowed to operate an electric toothbrush without adult supervision. But sometimes I get to help. I like to help.


Take, for instance, our most recent grocery list, which can be seen here [LINK].


This is one of my wife's typical grocery shopping lists. Note the responsible choices she makes on our behalf. Nutritious foods, like 'yogurt', 'fruit', and 'asparagus'. Necessities, such as 'milk' and 'dishwasher detergent'.


Even her penmanship is commendable. A handwriting analyst would look at this list, noting her bold strokes and elegant loops, the curvature of her 'c' and the strong confidence oozing from her 's', and say:


'Now here's an impressive young woman who appears to have it all figured out. Watch out for her!'


Typically, I leave the grocery planning in her more than capable hands. Getting involved in the process would only muck things up, and we'd end up with nothing but three weeks' worth of HoHo's and prune juice to eat. Again.


Once in a while, though, I make a small request. I'll notice that we're out of, say, Jiffy Pop or jalepeno bean dip, and I'll mention it to the missus. Her response, invariably, is this:


'Okay, put it on the list.'


She says this to test me, of course. She realizes that under most conditions, I'm not going to actually touch the list. Remember, I'm like Garey Busey at a free vodka giveaway -- no good can possibly come from getting me involved.


Besides, my wife will pick up anything important that we need. She eats most of the same foods I do, so she's all over it when we're low on the basics -- bread, OJ, salsa, cold cuts, and the like.


(And beer. Did you notice that, on the list? Beer! I didn't tell her; she listed it all by herself.


God, do I love that woman.)


This week, though, we were out of pickles. Sammich pickles -- and my wife doesn't make sammiches at home. She prefers hot meals, made on the stove or in the microwave. I'm not allowed to play with 'burny things', so I make sammiches instead. With pickles.


So I told her we were out of pickles. She said, 'Put it on the list!' So, finally, I did. As you can see. [LINK]


See how I don't exude 'responsible adult' so much? I imagine that same handwriting expert as above, examining my wobbly 'P' and misshapen 'K' and proclaiming:


'Now here's a four-year-old child who appears to be mildly retarded. Watch out for him!'


*sigh* The barbs I endure for my kosher dill slices.


Having already sullied the list once, I decided to scour the kitchen, looking for other low supplies the missus might miss. Mostly, we were okay -- popcorn, check. Microwave burritos, check. Lik-M-Aid, with emergency supply of Stix, check. Only... hey, that bag of Chips Ahoy in the pantry is looking a little light, isn't it?


Yes. Yes, it is. [LINK]


See? I told you I liked to help. I'm not about to actually go into the store, of course -- and she'll probably strap me to a chair and feed me prune juice when she sees the new list -- but at least I can feel as though I'm part of the process.


And I'll be able to make a decent sammich, with dessert to boot. Grocery shopping is fun!

Some guys think it's embarrassing to walk into a store and buy 'feminine products' for their wife or girlfriend.


Nonsense.


Just the act of purchasing tampons or maxipads tells the world that you have a wife or girlfriend. Sure, she obviously wears the pants in the relationship, since it's you trekking out to track down her toiletries. But you've got someone, and that's what counts. You might even be getting lucky with her soon.


But not that soon. That's the Megapack of Tampax 'Wingmasters' on the counter there, bud. You'll be cooling those jets for a few days more.


Other guys are shy about stopping by a drugstore to buy condoms.


Hogwash.


Look, I could understand it, if you're buying 'LifeStyles Minis' or 'Junior Trojans'. But even at that, who's going to see you buying them? The store manager? The checkout lady with the lazy eye? The drunk old guy by the magazine rack pretending he's not sneaking a look at the Juggs on the top shelf? So what?


Screw those people. If you're buying rubbers, you're having a way better night than any of those losers. Big ones, small ones, papaya-flavored purple ones -- it doesn't matter in the least. Let the cashier jockey price check you, over the loudspeakers if he wants. That's the sweet tinny sound of jealousy, my friend.


I know of other guys that say buying porno mags in a store is the most embarrassing.


Well... maybe.


Personally, I have no idea. I've never bought a pornographic publication from a drugstore or newsstand. Honestly, in this day and age, why the hell would you?


The internet is right there, and it's just brimming with porn of every shape, size, and species. Why buy the proverbial cow, when you can see three hookers and an albino midget perform unspeakable acts on a real cow any hour of the day or night? It just doesn't make sense. It may keep me from eating beef for the next few months, certainly, but it doesn't make any sense.


Then there are those guys who blush and giggle when they buy their personal grooming products.


Ninnies.


Hey, we all have our problems. Some of those problems relate to various grooming issues, and that's unfortunate. But if you're standing there in the store, with your dandruff shampoo in one hand, a nose hair trimmer in the other, and a cart full of Beano and Dr. Scholls, at least that lets people know you're doing something about it.


Honestly, wouldn't it be more embarrassing to be walking around shedding flakes and floating air biscuits, with nostrils like porcupines and stinky cheese feet? If I see someone buying that stuff, I give them a nod and feel good that they're trying to better themselves.


I give them a wide berth in the checkout line, of course -- just in case they only decided today to start bettering themselves. Still. They're fighting the good fight. What's not to like?


Personally, I think the most embarrassing item a guy can buy at the store is a frying pan.


Why a frying pan?


Because the frying pan purchase signals to the world that not only does the guy not have someone to help with the cooking and the frying of delicious meats and meat-like substances -- he also has no prospects of any such help in the near future. Otherwise, he'd wait it out, to see how the shared fryware situation shakes out.


If said gentleman is over the age of twenty-two or so, it's even worse. At 'college graduate' age, you could make the case that the fellow has a genuine interest in the culinary arts, and honestly enjoys using his own frying pan. Alone. Probably for SPAM, in the kitchenette of his dingy bachelor pad, over by the dive bars and liquor stores on the sketchy side of town.


(Hey, I said you could make a 'case'. I never said it would be a good case.)


Once a guy reaches twenty-five or so without a frying pan, though, there's only one reasonable explanation as to why -- the man doesn't want a damned frying pan. He'd much prefer to be out buying Kotex pads and bikini tweezers for a lady friend willing to fry things for him, and he's no longer able to afford the local fast food joints that will, for a fee, deliver pre-cooked and re-warmed fried delectables to him. The actual buying of a frying pan for personal use is, for these men, rock solid bottom. It's 'twelve-step program' territory, is what it is.


I should know. When I got married, I owned no less than three frying pans. At least one was a gift, and none were used for anything other than prepping bologna slices for sandwiches. But when you walk into your lonely man-kitchen and see a choice of frying pans on the wall or in the cupboard -- or, more likely, festering in the filthy sink -- you know that your life has somewhere gone terribly, terribly wrong. Such is the curse of the single male frying pan. Fear it!

It's that time again. The season of rabid and unbridled Christmas shopping is upon us. For many people, this time of year involves long hours standing in register lines, wandering through mall aisles, and beating the hell out of old ladies hoping to buy the game console you've been eyeballing.


Well, not me. The only lines I'm waiting in are at the bar, and my wandering is limited to finding where the hell I parked my car. As for beating old ladies -- well, a guy's got to get some exercise.


What am I going to do, run on a treadmill? I don't think so.


As for Christmas shopping, I'm firmly committed to doing all of my gift grabbing online. I'll get my consumer freak on at Amazon and Woot.com, or I won't get it on at all. I'm not above giving pocket lint as Christmas presents. It'd beat those Michael Bolton CDs and 'All I Ever Needed to Know...' books I used to give as a kid, at least.


Barring an unfortunate internet outage or sudden crippling carpal tunnel syndrome, though, it shouldn't come to that. There's still plenty of time to order trinkets and doodads that nobody wants, and have them delivered before Christmas. With a little luck -- and two bucks a pop -- I can probably even get them pre-wrapped.


Of course, they won't be wrapped properly. I'll have to rip the corners and wrinkle up the bottoms a little bit. And if there are hand-tied bows -- forget about it. Those are coming off. If the things are wrapped too perfectly, people will know I had nothing to do with them. They'll get suspicious. They might call the bomb squad. Again. Not so festive.


I suppose there are downsides to shopping online. The merchandise might arrive damaged or broken -- even more broken than if I'd dragged it home from the mall myself. And the pants I buy for my Aunt Rhonda might not fit. But at least I don't have to wander the mall looking for an eggplant-shaped woman to try them on for size. I walked into the dressing room too early one year, and it took years off my life. Honestly, that's time I can never have back.


So it's all-online, all the time for me. If I order all the random Christmas crap I need to give out by the weekend, it'll be here in plenty of time for the big day. And I won't have to step foot in a mall, or a parking lot -- or heaven forbid, a dressing room -- for the rest of the year. And frankly, that's the best damned present I could ever get.

Here's a tip for the younger gents out there, still finding their way on the rocky and treacherous road to love. This is from personal experience, mind you, so pay attention -- I hardly ever get kicked in the crotch at company picnics and fancy dinner parties any more, so I must have learned something along the way.


(Actually, I just never get invited to company outings anymore. Or any event involving cutlery, for my own protection. I still wear the protective cup to the dinner table, though. Old habits die hard.)


Anyway, here's a small piece of advice for you guys who find yourselves in the heady early days of a budding romantic relationship. It's a sure-fire way to avoid icky obligations, get out of (mild) trouble, and win a point once in a while without a chest-thumping, hair-pulling, finger-waggling fight.


(Unless that's the kind of fight you prefer. Most people like to save their chest-thumping and finger-waggling for the make-up sex. But I can't tell you how to live.)


Let's set the scene -- say you're sitting on the couch, resting comfortably in your favorite assdentation with a nice beer, watching a baseball game. And suppose your special girl breezes into the room -- radiant and glowing like a perky little angel, no doubt -- and says:


'Do you want to come to the mall with me, honey pie?'


Men, be warned. This is a trap. Most of you are way ahead of me here, but for the dumb jocks in the crowd, I'll spell it out:


There's nothing for you at the mall. Yes, there's a sporting goods store, and a place to buy CDs, and staring at the lingerie mannequins is a lot of fun. But those are not luxuries afforded to you while 'shopping with the woman'. She's asking you to be her personal bag-carrier for the next three hours. One of those bags might even be her purse. Fear the purse-holding nightmare! Fear it!


(Also, be warned that the 'sweeter' the invitation to hit the mall sounds, the more horrific the torture she's planned. 'Honey pie' is three hours of shoe shopping. 'Baby doll' involves dresses, and possibly waiting while she gets a manicure.


And if she ever calls you 'lovey sweetiekins', run. You're either in for a makeover, a castration, or she's planning to cut out a kidney and leave you in a bathtub full of ice. And you do not want a makeover.)


Clearly, you have to say 'no'. But you can't just say 'no'. Then you're the bad guy. You, who only wanted to spend a Sunday afternoon getting loaded and re-calculating David Ortiz' on-base percentage after every at-bat, would somehow be at fault for refusing to carry six Macy's bags and a pair of kicky black heels all over a godforsaken parking lot in the middle of suburban fricking nowhere. It hardly seems fair.


And indeed, it isn't fair, men. But what can we do? The deck is stacked against us. The women hold all the breasts in these negotiations; we've got very little ground to stand on. That's where the 'butiloveyou' trick comes in. Someday you'll thank me for this.


Here's what you do: look up at your lady friend. Gaze deep into her limpid pools.


(Hey, hey -- that means her eyes, sparky. Up there. If she catches you sneaking a cleavage peek, this is never going to fly. Work with me here.)


Look deep into your lover's eyes; give her your full attention. I know, I know -- Derek Jeter's up with two men out; it's very exciting. This is an investment we're making here. One at-bat, in exchange for an afternoon free of questions like, 'Do these sandals make my ankles look fat?' Focus. You can do this.


As you meet your cheery lady's gaze, try to look a little desperate. Not upset, not exasperated -- you're shooting for 'deer in headlights' here. Imagine yourself sitting in Ann Taylor with fourteen skirts and a smoking credit card. That ought to do it.


Then, just as she's about to speak, to explain the wonderful, magical treasures that await you at your local mall, look sad -- just a little sad -- and say:


'But... I love you.'


The emphasis here is very important. Hesitation, hopelessness on the 'but'. Deep, intense feeling and sincerity on the 'love'. Heavy emphasis on 'you' -- pleading, but not whiny. It's a delicate balance. But delivered correctly, it's devastating. A spontaneous, passionate, and obviously heartfelt expression of love and tenderness that your love will treasure forever. It's beautiful.


Plus, you might not have to go to the shopping mall. So it's really beautiful.


You have to be careful, though. This technique only works two, maybe three times, max. Try 'butiloveyou' after that, and you'll hear:


'Yeah, whatever, chumpy. Take my purse and warm up the car. Those Old Navy sweaters aren't gonna try themselves on.'


Also remember, 'butiloveyou' only works for little things, like trips to the mall or taking out the trash. Choose your moment. This is not going to get you out of hot water if you've blown the rent money on Lotto tickets, or accidentally mooned her grandmother.


(Yes, it's possible that an 'accidental mooning' could happen. And I've got the hung jury to prove it.)


Above all, for the love of god, don't forget who you're talking to when a 'butiloveyou' moment comes around. You never want to have this conversation at the office:


Boss: Hey, Ted's out today, so I need you to deliver his report.
You: But... I love you.

Boss: ...
You: I mean, um... *ahem*, 'report', sir?

Boss: Did you just...?
You: No. No, sir, I didn't.

Boss: Because it sounded like you did.
You: Nope. Not me.

Boss: Because that would have been very sweet.
You: Well, in that case--

Boss: And astoundingly creepy.
You: Ah. I see. Ted's report, then?

Boss: Right here. Ten am sharp. And don't call me 'snookums' in the staff meeting. People will talk.


It's powerful mojo, you see. Use it wisely, kids.

So. eBay.


Until very recently, I'd resisted the shrill siren call of the world's largest, grungiest, and often frighteninglest swap meet. Oh, sure -- the wife sold a couple of our electronic trinkets that way a while back. And we got a nice deal on a dog crate back when our pooch was still a feisty little pup. But I'd never seriously given 'the big E' a good once-over.


Why not? I can't say, really, but I suspect my reluctance involved a number of factors. First, there's really very little merchandise that I'm interested in buying. I'm a simple man, with simple needs that can largely be met with an internet connection, a trip to the beer aisle of my local grocery store, and a small, shiny object to play with. Or a ball of string, perhaps. Even a good, strong rubber band will do. I'm not picky.


Then there are the pitfalls involved with online bartering. Shipping costs. Scam auctions. Identity theft. Not knowing where the thing you're buying has been, what's been done to it, or who might've been bent over it in the middle of some unspeakable act involving pencil shavings, bundt pans, and an industrial belt sander. These are considerations you must take into account, if you're considering an eBay purchase. Or, for that matter, a table at your local Burger King. But I digress.


Mostly, though, I think it came down to two factors. First, I'm what you call an 'instant gratification' sort of guy. If I want something, I want it NOW, dammit, and I'll pout my lip and stamp my little feet until I've got it. With eBay users selling -- and shipping -- from Europe and Japan and Australia and Arkansas and all sorts of other strange, faraway places, items could take a week or more to get here. That's a hell of a lot of pouty-lipped foot stamping. I don't know if I have the stamina for that at my age any more, frankly.


Secondly -- and more importantly -- I avoided eBay because their commercials are pretty stupid. Honestly, with the jingles? And the fat guy in the elevator singing, and women wearing 'IT' dresses, and the jumbled-up, technicolor logo... what are you, eBay? Virtual Old Navy? Get a damned grip on yourself. Tsk.


Finally, though, I decided to test the shark-infested, jingle-happy online auction waters. I need a cassette deck. A decent one, with the little RCA pluggy things in the back to hook to an amplifier. Otherwise, how will I ever hear my old tapes by the Waxing Poetics and the Rave-Ups and the Screaming Blue Messiahs and the Royal Court of China, and other bands you've never heard of in your life?


Whazzat? Buy 'em again on CD?


Honky, please. Most of these bands came and went before you could say, 'one-hit wonder'. Obscure, old, and short-lived -- there's no way I'd find these things on CD, even if they ever existed, which they probably didn't. Honestly, most of these bands -- not only have you never heard of 'em, you've never even heard of the people who have heard of 'em. Trust me; I asked around.


Besides, why buy a couple of dozen CDs or vinyl records at 'rare and antique!' prices -- through eBay, no doubt, since that's the only chance I'd have to find the one guy left alive who knows who Not Shakespeare was -- when I can pay thirty bucks for a cassette player, and rip 'em all to MP3 myself? If I'm going to put off 'instant gratification', the least I can do is save some dough, fer crissakes.


So, I've jumped into the fray. I've bid on three auctions so far -- all for cassette players. Aaaaand lost each one. At the very last minute, by less than a dollar.


It seems I was unprepared for the competitive nature of full-time eBay-ers, who I now imagine sit at their computers nonstop, clad in grimy housecoats and bunny slippers, gnurled hands clutching the mouse and waiting for the 'Ten seconds left in auction!' signal to swoop in and bid the farm on the latest tchotchke up for auction. Where in my case 'tchotchke' is a fricking cassette player that I can plug in to record my Beat Farmers tapes. And 'the farm' is twelve cents more than whatever my last bid happened to be. Fricking vultures. Cut me some slack, stingydrawers!


So, long story short, I don't have a cassette player. Three times I've bid, and three times I've lost the five-knuckle mouse shuffle to some hairy-palmed git in Kalamazoo or somewhere, who's probably piling their eBay shit next to the mounds of QVC swag and waiting for their turn to die. Now I know why it took so long for me to get involved in this nonsense -- because I knew it'd turn into a game of cat-and-retard with these people, and I am not going to be the one left holding the drool cup and the safety helmet, dammit.


Game on, you compulsive-clicking eBitches. Game. On.