Every time the cashier totals their groceries, Jason’s phone rings right on cue. “Oh, babe, I gotta take this!” And poof — he’s gone, leaving Lauren to pay. But not this time. She’s got a plan that’ll make Jason wish he’d just swiped his card instead.
My husband, Jason, is hardworking, funny, and remembers our anniversary without phone reminders. But he has this one habit that’s been driving me absolutely insane.
Every time we go grocery shopping together, my husband Jason suddenly gets a “very important work call” the second we hit checkout. Like clockwork. It’s almost impressive how consistent it is.
“Oh, babe, I gotta take this,” he says, leaving me alone with a full cart and a hefty total.
The first few times, I barely noticed. Marriage is about give and take, right?
But after the tenth consecutive call coinciding perfectly with checkout time, I started to see the pattern.
“Who was that?” I asked one day after he reappeared precisely when I was pushing our loaded cart toward the car.
“Oh, just work stuff,” he said vaguely. “Thanks for handling checkout. I’ll get it next time.”
Spoiler alert: He never got it next time.
Last Saturday was the final straw.
We needed to stock up on basically everything: cleaning supplies, food for the week, that fancy coffee he insisted on.
As we approached the checkout, I started counting down in my head. Three… two… one…
RING. RING.
Jason’s hand flew to his pocket so fast you’d think someone had shocked him.
“Jason…” I started, but he spoke right over me.
“Oh, babe, I gotta take this — it’s work.”
I watched him stroll to the store entrance, nodding along like he was handling some critical business negotiation. Meanwhile, I started unloading our mountain of groceries onto the belt.
The cashier, an older woman with kind eyes, glanced from me to Jason, and gave me the look — you know, the “girl, I see what he’s doing” kind of look.
Was it that obvious? Had she been watching this pathetic routine play out week after week?
My face burned with embarrassment, but that quickly turned to outrage when I saw the $347.92 total.
The cashier gave me a sympathetic smile as she handed me the receipt.
That night, I couldn’t sleep.
The more I thought about Jason’s behavior, the more my irritation turned into determination. Jason snored peacefully beside me, completely unaware of the gears turning in my head.
So, I came up with a brilliant plan to stop this once and for all.
The night before our next shopping trip, while Jason was fast asleep, I grabbed his phone.
I wasn’t interested in snooping. We trust each other, despite his checkout shenanigans. No, I had a different mission.
I navigated to his contacts and found my name.
With a few taps, I changed it to “Bank Fraud Department.”
Then I set his phone back exactly where it had been. I crawled back into bed with a smile playing on my lips.
The trap was set, and Jason was soon going to learn a lesson he’d never forget!
The next morning, we went through our usual routine: Saturday morning lie-in, breakfast, then get ready for the weekly grocery shop.
We went through the store picking out essentials and some nice-to-have items like snacks, ice cream, and wholewheat pasta.
The cart filled up quickly, and soon we were heading toward the checkout.
“Do we really need three different kinds of chips?” I asked, trying to act normal while my heart raced with anticipation.
“Absolutely,” Jason replied seriously. “They all serve different purposes. These are for movie night, these are for lunch sandwiches, and these are for when I get hungry at midnight.”
I rolled my eyes, but couldn’t help smiling. This was part of why I loved him, despite his annoying checkout dodge.
“Whatever you say, chip expert.”
We approached the checkout line, and I waited until Jason’s hand edged toward the phone in his pocket.
It was time to spring my trap. I casually tapped a button on my smartwatch and immediately:
RING. RING.
Jason’s eyes lit up with that familiar relief at the sound of his ringtone. He instantly pulled out his phone and edged out of the queue.
“Oh, babe, one sec, I gotta—” but he broke off when he looked at the “Bank Fraud Department” caller ID.
I watched as all the color drained from his face. His eyes widened in panic.
“Aren’t you going to answer it?” I asked innocently. “It looks important.”
He hesitated, looking from the phone to me to the checkout line behind us. Everyone was watching now.
“Lauren, this…” he held up his phone, his hand trembling as he showed me the screen.
“Just answer it,” I said, leaning over to swipe the button on his phone to accept the incoming call.
Earlier that morning, I’d recorded a message and set up an app on my phone that would call Jason when I tapped a specific button on my smartwatch.
I’d planned for everything, except how much I’d regret not recording his expression as my pre-recorded message blared out of his phone.
“Hello, Jason. We’ve detected suspicious behavior on your account. Specifically, you pretending to get a phone call every time it’s YOUR turn to pay at checkout.”
Jason’s jaw dropped, and his face turned the exact shade of the tomatoes in our cart.
The cashier coughed awkwardly.
The couple behind us started giggling.
I crossed my arms, savoring every second of his discomfort.
“That was an important call, possibly the most important one yet,” I remarked.
The cashier didn’t quite manage to disguise her laugh as a cough this time around.
Jason couldn’t meet my eyes. “Let’s just… finish checking out.”
And for the first time in months, Jason pulled out his wallet and paid for our groceries. $389.76. I couldn’t help but notice how the cashier (the same one from before) gave me a subtle thumbs-up.
“Did you need help with the bags, sir?” she asked Jason, her voice dripping with fake sweetness.
“No, I got it,” he mumbled, grabbing as many bags as he could carry.
The car ride home was awkwardly silent. Jason gripped the steering wheel so tight his knuckles turned white. I stared out the window, trying not to laugh.
Finally, as we pulled into our driveway, he spoke. “That was low, Lauren.”
I turned to him, all sugary sweetness. “Oh? You mean lower than disappearing every time it’s your turn to pay?”
Jason opened his mouth, then closed it again.
What could he say? He’d been caught red-handed.
“How long have you been planning this?” he finally asked as we unloaded groceries.
“Not as long as you’ve been planning your convenient phone calls,” I replied.
“I don’t plan them,” he protested weakly. “They just… happen.”
I raised an eyebrow. “Every time? At checkout? Like clockwork?”
He had the decency to look embarrassed. “Okay, maybe I’ve been avoiding it a bit.”
“A bit?” I laughed. “Jason, you’ve turned avoiding the grocery bill into an Olympic sport.”
Jason had the grace to look ashamed.
“I didn’t think about it that way. I just… I don’t know, Lauren. It was stupid.”
“Yes, it was,” I agreed, but softened at his genuinely remorseful expression. “But pretty clever too, I have to admit.”
“Not as clever as your Bank Fraud Department trick,” he said, pulling out a gallon of milk. “That was diabolical. How did you even think of that?”
“I couldn’t bear having the cashiers giving me those sympathetic looks anymore, like you were some leech who’d tricked me into footing your bills.”
Jason winced. “You mean the whole store knows?”
“We’ve been shopping at the same store for how many years now? And you’ve been pulling this stunt for months… of course, they noticed, Jason.” I set the bananas down on the kitchen counter. “It’s not like you were subtle about it.”
“Well, fine. You got me. No more fake calls.” He held up his hands in surrender. “But I gotta say, you changing your contact name to ‘Bank Fraud Department’ was pretty genius.”
“Thank you,” I said, bowing dramatically. “I learned from the best con artist.”
We laughed as we finished putting away the groceries together. For a moment, it felt like we were a team again.
“I’m sorry,” he said suddenly, more seriously. “It really was a jerk move. I don’t even know why I kept doing it.”
I shrugged. “We all have our weird quirks. Just, maybe next time, pick one that doesn’t leave your wife holding the bag. Literally.”
And you know what? Since that day, Jason’s magical disappearing act has vanished completely.
In fact, he’s been insisting on paying every time we go shopping. Sometimes he even takes his phone out and puts it on the counter while we check out, like he’s proving a point.
I keep my smartwatch charged, though. Just in case.
