Grocery Shopping 101

As my husband was leaving to go to the supermarket, I looked at his list and offered to rewrite it because there were so many things already crossed off. What concerned me was that he would come home with things I already bought, but he took it to mean I was calling him an idiot. "You know I only use that word when referring to Kamala Harris," I replied. 

That calmed him down, but he was still miffed. Our exchange reminded me of a column I wrote 28 years ago for Utah's Deseret News. I post it below, shaking my head in disbelief that little has changed: 

I consider myself a liberated woman, despite the fact that I go by Mrs. and not Ms. So I was somewhat shocked when I had the following conversation with my 9-year-old son the other day:

"Honey, would you like to come to the supermarket with me this afternoon?"

"No way."

"Why not?"

"It's boring."

"You know, when I was little I liked going shopping for food with my mom. I thought it was fun."

He was silent for about 15 seconds, then he said, "Yeah, but you were practicing. I don't need to."

Swerving to avoid a head-on collision with a FedEx truck, I wondered where I had gone wrong. Studiously avoiding sexual stereotyping from day one, I painted Zack's nursery yellow. Risking divorce, or at least a bad night, I boldly dressed him in pink when he was a baby. (OK, it was rare, but it happened.) I didn't freak out if he chose to play with dolls when he was a toddler, and I never bought him guns or war toys. And now this!

I was stunned. But then, out of the darkness came light. That must be why my husband can't go grocery shopping -- not enough practice! When I asked him if he ever accompanied his mother to the market as a child, he replied, apparently confused, "Why would I?"

He should have. It's a skill that could come in handy on those difficult days, like when I'm in a body cast or delirious with 104-degree fever. In all fairness, I'll admit that on days like that, my husband cheerfully volunteers to pick up a few things at the market.When he does, unloading his grocery bags is like entering the Twilight Zone: everything is normal, yet nothing looks familiar. He refuses to buy the brands we commonly use. I ask why and he says it's more interesting.

"We're in a rut with this Grey Poupon, so I got this instead."

"But we like Grey Poupon," I replied. (Okay, I whined.)

"You're in a rut! Life is too short to have Grey Poupon all the time."

"My point exactly - my life is too short not to have it. And my life is shorter than yours since I'm older. What if I die before we have it again? A jar of mustard is around for quite a while -- anything could happen between jars."

Mitch makes the point that he might have been killed on the way home from the store, and I might at this moment be down at the morgue or at least the emergency room, so I should quit complaining and count my lucky stars.

Our arguments often escalate into discussions of existential proportions, dwarfing the issue of who buys what. It's a basic tactic he uses to make me forget the problem at hand, which is how I am supposed to make a meal out of this stuff.

He brings home vegetables that defy identification. I can't even figure out how to cut into them, let alone what to do once I've achieved that. There's usually some dangerous-looking fruit with spikes, two or three canned foods with names I can't pronounce, and the biggest offender, whole milk instead of skim.

"I asked for skim."

"Oh, lighten up."

"That's what I'm trying to do!"

I keep foraging. I asked for Saran Wrap, he got Handiwrap.

"So what?" 

"Handiwrap doesn't tear off clean. I have to spend about 15 minutes looking for the start of the roll."

"You know, I wondered what you do all day."

A few weeks ago, I gave him this list: skim milk, eggs, broccoli, apples, bread, mayonnaise, juice, turkey. He came home with whole milk, jalapeno peppers, WD-40, star fruit, egg rolls, a bag of sour gummy worms, hot garlic stir fry sauce, Diet Snapple and batteries.

"What is this? Where are all the things on the list?"

"Oh, I left the list in the car. When's dinner?"

"I think what's dinner is more the question."

For the welfare of my future daughter-in-law, I devised a plan. Now when my husband goes to the market, I insist that he take our son with him for practice. And it's working. Today they brought home skim milk, ground beef, spaghetti sauce, broccoli and orange juice. Just what I wanted! Still, my son was apologetic. "Sorry we forgot the WD-40, Mom."

He's learning.