He calls me at work to tell me he's home from the grocery (nevermind the fourteen phone calls beforehand, asking me what kind of Tampax is the right one).
Him: I'm home from the grocery store.
Me: Did you get everything on the list I left for you?
Him: All of it.
Me: Are you sure? How much did you spend? Did you use all the coupons I left for you?
Him: I dunno. But I bought a chicken.
I can hear him chomping away. Immediately, I am worried that he's bought perishable items and they are sitting on the counter, growing all kinds of bacteria, as he stands there - yes, stands there - eating a supermarket chicken right out of the container.
Me: You bought a whole chicken?
Him (in his Otis voice, from Superman): It's a little bitty thing. A little bitty chicken.
Me: Okay, enjoy it.
I am clearly defeated in the training of the husband.
Then, out of the blue, he shouts out: Pollito!
Not only can I not train my husband, he makes fun of me constantly.