i'm glad i'm a guy

With my girlfriend stuck in bed with a miserable cold this past weekend, circumstances dictated I accomplish tasks that normally fall outside the scope of my guy-related responsibilities.

First came a trip to the dreaded Target.

As a matter of principle, I generally stay away from any store that induces vomit. And that's exactly what happens when I hear girls call this particular establishment "Tar-shay." It's as if they are deluding themselves into thinking they are shopping at an upscale French boutique instead of a crappy discount outfit.

On Friday, however, there were several items I needed to purchase in a limited timespan. Since one of these giant, cookie-cutter boxes sits a quarter-mile from our apartment, it was time to take the training wheels off and make my first solo voyage to Target.

I immediately notice I am an outsider. Upon arriving in the parking lot, I observe no less than five women loading purchases and children into their respective SUVs -- it is apparent the minivan is an extinct form of vehicular transportation for the suburban housewife.

Once inside, my minority status becomes clear. I am the lone male customer in a sea of moms with snot-nosed urchins in tow. Whiny kids demand treats and attention from their mothers in every aisle.

As with any shopping experience, I decide my best course of action is to grab what I need and get the hell out.

I had the remarkable luck to be standing near the "hot cereal" section of the grocery area when I arrived, so finding the oatmeal was simple enough. With wanderlust in my eye, I next set out in search of greeting cards.

After five minutes of futile roaming, an employee must have spotted the bewildered look upon my grill. He asked me, "Can I help you find anything?" Naturally, I responded, "I'm fine" with a tone of mock annoyance.

Then I proceeded to scour the store for another five minutes searching for greeting cards.

It took a while, but I finally compiled the oatmeal, milk, greeting cards, batteries and humidifier filter on the shopping list and arrived in the express line, where the teenage employee had far more interest in her cell-phone conversation than assisting me with my consumer-related needs.

I reached my car, cranked up the volume on the Marah occupying the tape deck, and started to breathe normally again.

My second experience in foreign territory came Monday when I briefly sat down with my girlfriend on the couch. She was watching "Oprah."

Look, I could sit here at the keyboard and write reams of copy on the digustingness of this show and its host, about the time "O" took credit for buying poor people cars when the cars were really donated by auto companies, about her embarrassing-yet-successful book club, about any number of social blunders committed in the name of television ratings.

I'm not going to do that. At least not today. For now, let's just say Oprah is geared toward a certain female, brain-washed demographic I clearly do not fit.

What I will rip her for is the inane conversation she had with Monday's guest, Reese Witherspoon, the once-talented actress.

Reese and O enjoyed a spirited discussion about the plight of young women in today's world. Reese lamented how young girls today feel pressured to dumb themselves down, how smart women are regarded as outsiders or bitches, how the media sets poor role models and equates stupidity with popularity.

All of these are valid points.

But I'm listening to her say all this and cannot help but think, "Aren't you the one who made the cinematic atrocity "Legally Blonde," a film that makes the very traits you purport to abhor the central personality components of the character you played, you stupid, hypocritical twit?"

Thankfully, my girlfriend is feeling better these days, which means my exposure to future mindlessness will be limited.