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If you ever see me at the grocery store, then things HAVE to be bad at home.

I hate going to the grocery store more than anything. And I especially hate going to the local Super-Duper Mega Mart.  I'd rather go to work, mow the yard, change the oil in my cars, or arrange and re-arrange my garage than to go to the Super-Duper Mega Mart. But sometimes, when it's a Saturday and the yard has been mowed, the oil has been changed, the garage arranged and re-arranged, and things are getting bad inside the house, there's nothing else for me to do than to go to the store.

And what, pray tell, would make a man suffer hours at the local Super-Duper Mega Mart?  Many things, but especially a wife, a daughter and a house full of little girls having a fashion show, makeup and accessories party.

"Honey," I say in an urgent voice, "I think I need some more shaving cream. I'm off to the store."

Of course I can never clear the door quick enough before being caught by my beloved and given a list of "just a few things we need, since you're going to be there anyway.  Oh, and by the way, could you pick up some more fake eyelashes? We're running out."

I was just going to get some shaving cream, and now I have a grocery list for the next week; butter, whole wheat bread, two percent milk, a dozen eggs, cereal for the kids, frozen veggies, bananas, apples, potatoes, unsalted crackers, flour tortillas, a can of cream of chicken soup, and fake eyelashes. 

Of course, I really don't mind shopping for the week because that means I will be out of the house just that much longer, and if I time it just right, I can eat a whole meal of samples at the store and never have to spend a dime.

"Hi Trace, you out shopping again for your wife?"

That's Mrs. Evelyn Danbury. She's the church secretary and local busybody. I seem to always see her at the Mega Mart, but I never hide from her fast enough before being spotted.

"I wish my husband would go shopping for me," Mrs. Danbury says. "You are such a wonderful husband. Some women are just so lucky. Does she ask you to go or do you volunteer?"

"I usually volunteer," I inform her.

"What a lovely man you are. If more men were like you there would be peace in this world. Well, I've got to get on with it," she says. "Phil will be wondering what took me so long. See you at church."

Not if I see you first, I think to myself.

When I'm at the Mega Mart, I usually like just taking my time. No rush, no hurry, not a care in the world, no one to tell me to move faster, or to slow down, or to get this brand and not that brand. In other words, I have no problem being at peace in a crowded store.  But there is one thing that thoroughly depresses me -- seeing a fellow member of the male species, a gender brother, pushing a shopping cart for his wife, blindly following her like a zombie.

Those kind of wives are all the same -- agitated, jittery, looking for the best bargain, picking up this can of soup, comparing it with that can of soup, finally putting both cans of soup in the cart, telling her husband to speed up, to slow down, to grab that box of cake mix, "No! Not that one, the store brand because it's cheaper."

And of course, sadly, the zombie men are all the same -- hunched over the shopping cart, shuffling feet, always looking down into the cart hoping to avoid the eyes of their male brothers, mumbling "Yes dear," and "Whatever you say, dear," and "Yes, they look fresh to me, dear," when what they REALLY want to say is "I don't give a rip, just put it in the cart and let's get out of here before someone I know sees me."

Sometimes, when the zombie men accidentally look up, I see in their eyes a wish for someone to put a bullet between their eyes to end their sufferings. But I have to look away; there is nothing I can do for them. When I go shopping, I leave my pistol at home.

But, when it is all is said and done, after all the store samples are put away; after I've thoroughly perused every aisle; after I've rifled through every magazine on the shelf; after I've squeezed every tomato; and after I've checked every egg for cracks, I know it's time to head back home and face the music.

With the groceries placed in my car, I take my time to find the best classic rock radio station, wait until the air conditioner has made the interior comfy, and then head out of the parking lot. It’s really not a long drive to my house, but I know how to make it last for an eternity.

When I finally get home, I pull up to the front of the house, listen to the last verse of whatever is playing, then let out a deep sigh. I turn off the car and open the door knowing full well that I "accidentally" forgot to buy something on the list -- in this case, the fake eyelashes.  What a wonderful excuse for getting out of the house again to enjoy a little more peace and quiet at a crowded Super-Duper Mega Mart.

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