Grocery Shopping With My Husband a.k.a. Just Stab Me In the Neck With the Pen From My Checkbook.

Published January 18, 2012 by gettejumpsoffabridge

I love my husband. Kurt really is a great guy and I love spending time with him… Just not in the grocery store.

I’m not one of those people who believe in “male and female roles”, except in our house I go to the grocery store. Alone. (I also load the dishwasher, but that’s just because everyone else does it wrong.) There’s a reason I do the shopping alone, because although my husband is a kind, and wonderful man, he turns into an inflamed boil on my inner thigh the MINUTE we step inside Kroger.

Part 1. The Cart:  Now, I am VERY particular when it come to my shopping cart. This is in a large part due to the fact that I’m a touch neurotic. I don’t want squeaky wheels or sticky wheels or any weirdness to the wheels at all. It must have an unbroken plastic kiddie-seat flap, and the plastic on the hand bar must also be unbroken. Once I find the mythical cart, I also carry sanitizing wipes in my purse to wipe down the hand bar and kiddie seat, because God knows how many herpes or SARS or leprosy ridden individuals may have come into contact with that shit before me. Now, I don’t think any of that is uncalled for, but Kurt bitches the ENTIRE TIME. “Just pick a cart already.”, “What was wrong with that one?”, “Seriously? A handy wipe now?” Shut up and let me do my thing, man! I don’t stand there and question your ass when you’re stacking charcoal briquettes! This shit’s an art too!

Part 2. The List: Yes, I make out a  shopping list, but in Woman-World a shopping list is more of a suggestive guide. Kurt, however, was in the Army for 9 years, so to him a list is a FUCKING LIST. To him, you get what’s on the list, then get the fuck out. So, when I pull out a list that has items listed in vague terms like, “cheese” or “pop”, Kurt goes absolutely bananas. For Kurt a list needs to be exact. “Cheddar cheese slices, shredded mild cheddar, diet cherry cola 12 pack.”… Not me. I’m a woman. I already know what kind of cheese and pop I want, why the hell do I need to write it down? So I pull out the list today, and apparently I was standing in some other woman’s way. Kurt freaks! “Gette!” And he guides me and the cart out-of-the-way. Like I’m a kid. Both the other woman and I look at him like he’s nuts. Why? Because we women have grocery store code. It’s called the “throat clear”. She clears her throat, I say “Sorry” and move without even looking up. It’s how the grocery store works, and men just don’t get it.

Part 3. The Forgotten Item:  It’s what we do. “We”, being women. We slowly make our ways through every aisle, whether we need anything from that aisle or not (Suggestive Guide), and by the time we hit the last aisle we remember we forgot something that’s all the way at the other end of the store. When I go by myself, this is fine. I go get the item. Maybe I stand and look at something else, then head to the registers. When Kurt’s with, The Forgotten Item is like the end of the fucking world. He really acts put out by this. Really? It’s a grocery store. You play league softball for fun with other middle-aged men in the summer, if you can do that, I don’t think walking across Kroger twice in a day is going to hurt you. This is my sport. Fucking deal with it.

Part 4. Coupons:  BAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!!!!!!!!!!! I don’t know which look I enjoy more, the look of pure hatred on the cashier’s face or the look of utter confusion on Kurt’s face when I pull the coupon folder out of my purse. “Yeah, I have a Kroger card AND I have some coupons.” I just say, “some coupons” instead of “a whole shit-ton of coupons” because I just love the look of shock and awe when the three-inch high pile gets handed across the register. Kurt just always looks confused, but he doesn’t bitch when the cashier hands me the receipt and says, “You saved $42.30 today.” Checkmate.

Part 5. Bagging of The Groceries: This generally doesn’t concern most other people, they’re more than happy to let the bagger toss everything all willy-nilly into their bags and then they leave. Not me. I HAVE to bag my own groceries. I HAVE to. I know. I’m a freak, but it has to be done my way, or it’s not done right and it will make me lose my fucking mind. This bothers Kurt to the point that he feels the need to apologize for me. Like the baggers and cashiers at Kroger don’t already know that I’m the fucking crazy coupon lady who bags her own groceries? Believe me, they know. The baggers don’t even come over to the counter I’m at anymore. They fucking know. Why Kurt insists on apologizing is beyond me. I’m making the bagger’s job easier. Shit.

Oh, I make his ass carry all the bullshit in the house, though. That’s what he gets for coming with.


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