For Every Mushroom I Find, I Shall Kill You

I am on a diet to lose all those pounds I packed on when I was eating all those cookies in college pregnant. As a part of that diet I bring a low-fat frozen meal to work for my lunch. If you, too, subsist on those teeny, tiny frozen portions DO NOT send your husband to the grocery store to buy them for you. He will not buy the right ones.

This is not a diatribe against men. There are four or five brands and eleventy thousand different varieties and no one but you will find the ones you like. Particularly if your husband is like my husband. To fully understand the horror of what you are about to read, you have to know that I HATE mushrooms.

I put spaghetti with meatballs on the grocery list and he bought me spaghetti with meat sauce and mushrooms. *shudder*

Why did he do this? Because my husband is an efficient reader. Well, he says efficient. I say lazy.

He has taught his brain to process words based on past frequency. If, for example, he reads the word "brick" a lot, anytime a word starts with "bri-" he will skip the last letters and assume it says "brick." Nine times out of ten, he was right and there's no problem. But that tenth time? The time I text him and ask him to pick up some brillo pads? I just might get a brick then, too.

OK, to be fair, he's never bought something that glaringly weird. But he did have the nerve to buy me mushrooms.