Bug spray doesn’t interest my husband.

He followed me around Target, slouch-backed and glaze-eyed, while I snatched up items for our upcoming camping trip. Band-aids. Check. Batteries. Check. Travel-sized toothpaste. Check. Bug spray. Check.

It was a minor miracle he hadn’t slipped into a coma by the time we got to the check-out.

Turned out all I needed to snap him out of the haze was a sharp blade on a long handle.

We’d gone to the sporting goods store for sleeping bags. But sleeping bags are rarely used as weapons. The odds of accidently chopping off your right hand with a sleeping bag are slim. And therefore they hold little sway over the male.

Me: Which sleeping bag do you want?

Him: Look! (eyes as big as saucers) Hatchets!

Me: (studiously reading the tag on each sleeping bag) I’m going to get the green one, but I think you should get the longer one.

Him: Do we need a hatchet?

Me: No. (comparing labels) The orange bag is nice, but it doesn’t have the waterproofing.

Him: Are you sure? I think we might need a hatchet.

Me: We’re going to Yosemite. They have a food court and a swimming pool. We don’t need a hatchet. (holding up a sleeping bag) What do you think of the red one?

Him: We might need it for the bears.

Me: The bears can buy their own sleeping bags.

Him: I mean the hatchet.

Me: No hatchets. Where’s a sales person? I want to see if they have the red bag in stock.

Him: (holding the hatchet fondly) What if we just got the little one?

Somebody please tell the park rangers not to worry. I’ll be searching his backpack before we leave.