Are We There Yet?
It’s best to keep mum
about most purchases
A woman learns a lot as she walks the path of life. For instance, I’ve learned that it’s not wise to polish my fingernails before I style my hair. I’ve also learned that while a large glass of water adorned with a wedge of lemon may be quite refreshing, it should never be consumed over the computer keyboard.
See how smart I’ve become?
Most importantly, I’ve learned that I don’t have to run each and every purchase past my adoring husband. It’s not that I’m ashamed of what I’ve procured, you understand; I’m just concerned about his well-being.
Purchases are hard on the poor soul. He cringes when I tell him how much coffee has gone up in price. He suffers angina when I spend too much on name-brand cheese. He doubles over in pain as I explain how much new box springs and mattresses are going to set us back. And he certainly wasn’t happy when I told him that I’d spilled a large glass of lemon water and that I was heading out to buy another computer keyboard.
Therefore – totally out of love – I keep the bulk of my purchases to myself.
After all, if a man can’t see it, smell it, or trip over it on his way to the bathroom, then he doesn’t have to know when you bought it, why you purchased it, or where the money came from to acquire it.
As far as the female of the species is concerned, the need to shop is primal. Like ugly on a monkey, shopping is at the very core of a woman’s existence. In fact, you show me a man who says, “My wife never shops. She’s a great gal who likes to conserve our cash,” and I’ll show you a woman with a loaded trunk who is counting down the minutes until he leaves the house.
Take my good friend, Bernadette, for instance. Bernadette counts her pennies just the same as the rest of us. She goes with generic mustard, makes her own tea bags, and you’d be hard-pressed to find a woman who takes more time to get her coupons in order before she hits a white sale. And the furniture and housewares that she stocked up on last Saturday were not her fault. Who knew she would run across such great stuff at bargain basement prices?
Loaded to the hilt with enough goods to redecorate her residence, her yard and the White House lawn, Bernadette and I turned into her driveway. We were smiling to ourselves, eager with anticipation, and we couldn’t help feeling confident that by day’s end, Bernadette could distribute her purchases about her abode, while her husband was none the wiser.
The first wave of nausea hit us the second we saw Ike’s truck in the drive, indicating that her spouse was not out and about as he should have been. “Isn’t that just like a man?” Bernadette asked as we paused in the driveway.
Without speaking, we simultaneously turned to look at the back of the Suburban. Most of the items were too big to hide. Nearly all still sported pricey tags, and no matter what explanation we could come up with, her beloved spouse would never begin to understand the necessity of her new and oversized dresser.
Men just don’t get that kind of thing.
We had to think fast. It would only be a matter of time before one of her kids looked out the door and shouted, “Hey, mom’s back!” Followed by inquiries, requests and the ever-loving “What’d ya get us?”
“What’s your garage look like?” Bernadette asked in desperation.
“It ain’t pretty,” I replied. “I’ve got the bounty from last week’s sale at Target stashed in the potting shed, a surplus of toiletries in the boys’ basketball box and a large supply of knick-knacks in a tub marked ‘Maternity Clothes.’ “
“Couldn’t you at least stash the dresser behind your deep freeze?”
“I could, but then whatever would I do with the armoire that I can’t sneak in until next Tuesday?”
Hiding her dresser in my garage wasn’t easy, but with a few oil cans, a couple of large totes and the old computer keyboard, we were able to make it look as if it had always been there. And now that it’s safely housed, I have to admit that a small part of me hopes that Bernadette will never be able to get it into her house undetected.
That dresser is darn cute. I could haul it in, adorn it with some wares from a recent close-out sale, and make my husband the happiest man alive.
Assuming, of course, that he never notices that it’s there.
Lori Clinch is the mother of four sons and the author of the book “Are We There Yet?” You can reach her at www.loriclinch.com.


