Oh you sad, sad man.

Everyone has a Sunday morning routine, something special they do to kick off the last day of their weekend. Some people go to church; others have Sunday morning brunch at a local diner with their family or just sit at home sipping coffee while doing the New York Times crossword. Me? I go grocery shopping. It became a ritual for me quite a while ago (after a shaky break-up) to get up early on Sunday morning and get my groceries for the week. This little tradition of waking up early, tuning in NPR on the car radio and grabbing some pastry on the way to the market gives me a sense of inner peace. That is, until I reach the store.

I can take the runaway carts or playing chicken with the Hummer driving “Real Housewives” for a free parking space close to the store. But what I can NOT handle are the droves of pitiful deer-caught-in-headlights husbands roaming the aisles like they’re part of the road company of “Shaun of the Dead.” Ladies I ask you, why do you repeatedly send these poor clueless men into the store unprepared? These unfortunate ignorant males are wandering around the market looking at lists that are apparently written in Mandarin while parking their cart across the entire aisle blocking the path of the more experienced shoppers, namely me! By nature these guys are NOT equipped for this kind of work. This is a creature who thinks plaids and stripes work well together and you entrust them to pick out a ripe tomato? I find myself weaving in between these unarmed husbands standing as if they lost all power in their legs while they stare hopelessly at a wall of toilet paper not knowing which one to pick. Of course these hapless guys don’t know to move on to the next item on the list so they end up staring for one, two, TEN hours at the multitude of options to choose from (which by the way all look the same to them.) Eventually the men do the only things they know how it do in these situations. They call the wife.

Once these usually intelligent men have reached the ends of their ropes they reluctantly go to their last resort. Like E. T. they phone home. This is a one sided conversation which usually ends with the man saying, “Fine! I’ll find it myself but don’t blame me if it’s not what you want!” This discussion will take place three or four more times before he reaches the parking lot to go home; where he will be asked to return to the store the get the items he should have known to get in the first place! But I have a solution to this ongoing problem which will make save the husband a lot of grief and make the wife extremely happy, a G.P.S. (Gay Personal Shopper.)

Think about it? Ladies, with a G.P.S. you will always get EXACTLY what you asked for from the store (including a couple of items you didn’t even know you needed.) Not to mention a new BFF. Gentlemen more than likely when you go out shopping with the G.P.S. you’ll be asked to sit quietly in the car. While your “Gay Personal Shopper” runs into the market you can sip your Starbucks and listen to your favorite sports show on the radio which is all you wanted to do in the first place. This is a no lose situation for everyone involved! I should really patent these ideas.