I sent my husband, Tom, to the store for nursing pads and he came home with brownies instead.
If you don’t know what nursing pads are because you’ve never milked yourself after birthing a baby, or you’re my husband, they’re absorbent pads that women stuff into their bra to keep their lactating breasts from squirting passersby in the eye—kinda like maxi pads for boobs. That’s why, when I ran out, I chopped a panty liner in half and stuffed it in my bra. It was brilliant. Until I realized, Ew…there’s a maxi pad stuck to my boob.
So I sent Tom to the store for nursing pads. It was the least he could do given that I had just spent nine months creating life—like god. Yes, god! Tom isn’t god. Not unless god created man, three tons of dirty drawers and a pile of beard trimmings in my sink.
The whole thing made me wonder how “nursing pads” could have possibly translated to “brownies.” Maybe…
- The label on the brownie box said “Goes great with milk.”
- In his mind, “Get nursing pads,” was code for, “You know what really gets me hot? Stuffing my nursing bra with a dozen store made brownies.”
- It was a simple miscommunication because “Get nursing pads” clearly sounds like “I could really go for some double chocolate fudge brownies.”
- “Nursing pad,” reminded him of his bachelor pad where I imagine he spent countless hours eating brownies and watching Wings reruns while he waited for me to walk into his life.
- He’s fat.
A few days later I sent him to the store for diapers and he came home with hot fudge sundaes instead. And suddenly, I had my answer. He was indirectly calling me fat! Holy shit! (I can say that now because, you know, I’m god.) So I told him it wasn’t cool to call god fat and that’s when he called me irrational.
Can you believe it? All I did was ask for nursing pads and he called me a crazy, fat bitch. What a dick!
He’s lucky those brownies were so delicious. And the sundaes weren’t bad either. (Though they could have used some peanut butter sauce.)