When I get sick, I act like a big baby. I understand this about myself. But when The Princess gets sick, it’s much, much worse. Because when she gets sick, the whole system breaks down.

This “broken system” is the reason why on Sunday evening, I had to go to Bath and Body Works. Shopping for things that “smell nice” or “feel good” is strictly a girlfriend-only errand. I’m more of a shopping for things that “sound cool” or “look awesome” kind of guy. But with The Princess incapacitated by a bad case of the tummy ache, the onus of buying presents for these two middle school kids we sponsored for Christmas fell on me.

We had to buy each of them — a boy and a girl — a $25 present. This meant that I had to venture out — alone — to Bath and Body Works, a girly mecca of lotions and fragrances to buy a gift basket for a 13-year-old girl I knew nothing about. As a result, I had the funniest experience I’ve ever had at Bath and Body.

(I should say “funny” rather than “funniest” since that implies I have had enough funny experiences there for me to rank them.)

I walked into the store in the Prince George’s Plaza and instantly felt terrified. Female shoppers were everywhere, rummaging through a variety of mutli-colored bath stuff and perfume-scented products that do nothing more than attack all my senses at once, and not in a good way.

When I perform my all-American duty of consumer shopping, typically the most annoying five words I hear are the following:

“Can I help you, sir?”

Fuck no! I often think to myself. I consider myself an independent shopper who doesn’t need the assistance of someone who would rather not be talking to me. But this time, I walked right up to the first Bath and Body employee I saw and asked for her help. I explained that I needed a $25 gift basket for a teenage girl and that I would buy whatever she considered appropriate.

She showed me one that had three bottles of vanilla-scented crap and something called a loofah. I pointed to a different one that had a candle in it and said that looked nice. She advised against it. Repeatedly.

Employee: “No, you shouldn’t get that one, it has a candle.”

Arjewtino: “But it looks like a better gift, I think.”

Employee: “No, it’s more for adults, let her stay a kid a bit longer.”

Arjewtino: “Why? Is a candle an adult thing?”

Employee: “What’s a 13-year-old girl going to do with a candle?”

Arjewtino: “I don’t know, what’s a grown woman going to do with a candle?”

For the next five seconds, I thought she was going to slap me upside the head. She stared at me as if to say, “You ignorant motherfucker.” I laughed awkwardly to break the silence and added, “Then again, I’ve never been a 13-year-old girl. Heh. Heh.” I’m a social genius.

I asked to see more gift baskets and she showed me some at a different table. We looked around and finally agreed on a basket that had some sort of “Sweet Pea” theme and a penguin hand scrubber thing. She finally asked me who I was shopping for and I told her about the middle school kids.

Arjewtino: “After this, I’m going to Target to buy something for the boy.”

Employee: “What are you getting him?”

Arjewtino: “I have no idea, I’m trying to think of what I would have liked when I was 13.”

Employee: “Well, what did you like?”

Arjewtino: “Girls.”

Employee: “You could always get him a girl.”

Arjewtino: “But then I’d be his pimp.”

Proud of my ability to shop for a teenage girl, I took my basket of stuff and penguin to the register. The checkout chick, a young, attractive woman with an outgoing personality, asked if she could interest me in some last-minute impulse buys. I shot down each of her offers.

Checkout chick: “You sure you don’t want anything else?”

Arjewtino: “No thanks, I’m good.”

Checkout chick:“You just wanted to see me smile.”

I laughed and felt flattered at what I realized was her flirting with me. I know how hot I can look when I’m holding moisturizers. Then again, maybe she was just trying to sell me more stuff I didn’t need, like a stripper who makes you feel special but then asks you to buy her a drink.

At the end of the transaction, she asked me for my home number.

Arjewtino: “My what?”

Checkout chick:“Your telephone number.”

Why did she want this? I thought. I wasn’t buying batteries in Radio Shack and the purchase was already complete.

Arjewtino: “Why do you need my phone number?”

Checkout chick:“We send out special discount coupons.”

Over the phone? I thought. How is that possible? Whatever. I gave her my number. Then, she leaned closer to me.

Checkout chick:“Also, it’s how I meet men.”

I laughed.

Arjewtino: “Ok, but if you call and my girlfriend picks up, hang up.”

Checkout chick:“Don’t worry, I’ll call late.”

See what I mean? The whole system broke down.

The best way to make your girlfriend’s ovaries jump is to hold a baby.

There is something that happens to the typical woman’s brain when she sees her man (sometimes any man) embracing a helpless newborn. While men are thinking, “Don’t drop this thing, don’t drop this thing, hey, it’s like holding a football!”, women are soaking their panties with the visual of us nurturing an organism too feeble to take care of itself.

I know I’m generalizing and that some of you feel little-to-nothing when it comes to babies. If that’s the case, try looking at this photo and telling me you don’t want me to be your baby’s daddy:

This little bundle of adorable vulnerability is Alexander the Great, the newborn son of my friends Greenie and Pross. The Princess and I met him this past weekend during a “baby brunch” that featured so much good lox and mimosas that I nearly forgot we were celebrating the birth of a newborn.

“Come meet the baby,” Greenie told me while I scarfed down my bagel in the living room, “Pross is feeding him.”

“Oh, no, that’s ok, I’ll wait,” I replied.

“No, really, it’s fine.”

“I don’t want to see your wife’s boobies right now.”

“She won’t mind, it’s ok, just…”

“No.”

I eventually met the infant (nicknamed Edward R. Furrow by Greenie because of his proclivity for brow-furrowing). I looked at him and thought, “Yup, that’s a baby all right. I wonder if I could eat a second helping of lox without coming off as a pig?” when Pross asked if I wanted to hold him.

My first inclination when a mom asks me to hold her child is a tentative one. I remember when I was 7 being allowed to hold my baby brother ONLY when I was sitting on the couch and under strict supervision. One time, I picked him up and carried him into the kitchen to show my parents that I could hold him like an adult.

My mom screamed and I dropped him on the linoleum floor, which explains quite a lot.

(Just kidding, I didn’t drop him; Hermanito turned out that way for different reasons.)

I told Prosser that I would love to hold her son and tried to remember how to take a handoff from a quarterback. I cradled the little guy in my arms, careful to watch for charging linemen, and made sure his head didn’t go bobbing up and down like a yo-yo.

Pross called me a “natural” and every woman in the room beamed at my pseudo-display of fatherhood. The little guy slept peacefully without vomiting or vacating his bowels, which made him instantly likable in my book.

The Princess watched me caress Alexander’s soft head, smiling and cooing with the baby as I hoped not to touch his exposed brain. Seriously, did you guys know that a baby’s cranium doesn’t fully form for months after childbirth? Why doesn’t anyone ever tell you this stuff? It’s like when I found out baby boys often pee on you while you change their diaper. I swear they’re aiming.

As we walked out of the house a little while later, I thought to myself, “Maybe I could do this. I could have a baby and be a good dad. If I can hold 10 pounds of selfish snot and poop without spiking him for a touchdown, I could, some day, have one of my own.”

As I thought this, a woman and her child were walking up the steps to the house. I turned to the kid and said, “There’s an open bar in the back.”

Then again…