Every single time we go grocery shopping, my husband Jason pulls the same stunt. The moment we get to the checkout line and the cashier starts scanning our items, his phone rings like magic.
“Oh, babe, I gotta take this!” he says, acting all serious before walking off toward the entrance. And just like that—poof!—he disappears, leaving me to pay.
But this time? Oh, this time, I had a plan. A plan so brilliant that Jason would wish he had just swiped his card like a responsible adult.
The Annoying Habit
Let me be clear: Jason is a great husband. He works hard, he makes me laugh, and he even remembers our anniversary without needing reminders. But this one habit of his? It’s been driving me insane.
At first, I didn’t think much of it. Marriage is about teamwork, after all. But after the tenth—yes, tenth—conveniently timed phone call happening precisely at checkout, I started noticing the pattern.
“Who was that?” I asked one day as he strolled back just as I was pushing our fully loaded cart toward the car.
“Oh, just work stuff,” he said casually. “Thanks for handling checkout. I’ll get it next time.”
Spoiler alert: He never got it next time.
The Final Straw
Last Saturday, we had a big grocery run. We needed cleaning supplies, food for the week, and that ridiculously expensive coffee Jason insists on having.
As we approached the checkout, I counted down in my head. Three… two… one…
RING. RING.
Jason’s hand darted into his pocket so fast he could’ve been in the Wild West.
“Jason…” I started, but he cut me off.
“Oh, babe, I gotta take this—it’s work.” He was already walking away, phone pressed to his ear like he was making the deal of the century.
Meanwhile, I was left unloading our cart, my frustration growing with every beep of the scanner.
The cashier, an older woman with kind eyes, gave me a knowing look—the kind that screamed, Girl, I see what he’s doing.
By the time she handed me the $347.92 receipt, my embarrassment had turned into pure, fiery determination.
That night, as Jason snored beside me, I stared at the ceiling, formulating the perfect plan. And oh, it was going to be glorious.
Setting the Trap
While Jason was deep in dreamland, I grabbed his phone. I wasn’t snooping—no, we trust each other. I had a different mission.
I went straight to his contacts and found my name.
With a few taps, I changed it to “Bank Fraud Department.”
Then, I set up an app on my own phone that would call him when I tapped a specific button on my smartwatch.
Satisfied, I placed his phone back where it was and went to sleep with a wicked smile.
Tomorrow, Jason was in for a surprise.
Game On
The next morning, we followed our usual Saturday routine—lazy morning, breakfast, then off to the store. We went aisle by aisle, loading up our cart with everything we needed (and things we didn’t—like three different kinds of chips Jason swore were all necessary).
Finally, we reached the checkout line. I watched as Jason’s hand inched toward his phone.
It was go time.
Casually, I tapped my smartwatch.
RING. RING.
Right on cue, Jason’s eyes lit up in relief. He pulled out his phone and started edging away.
“Oh, babe, one sec, I gotta—” He froze.
His screen displayed: INCOMING CALL: BANK FRAUD DEPARTMENT.
All color drained from his face. His fingers trembled.
I tilted my head. “Aren’t you going to answer? It looks important.”
Jason gulped. He looked at me, then at the cashier, then at the couple behind us who were now very interested in our drama.
Before he could react, I leaned over and swiped to accept the call.
From his phone, my pre-recorded message blasted out:
“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.”
The cashier coughed awkwardly.
The couple behind us burst into laughter.
Jason’s face turned the same shade as the tomatoes in our cart.
I crossed my arms, enjoying the absolute masterpiece I had created.
“Well,” I said sweetly, “that was an important call. Possibly the most important one yet.”
The cashier had to turn away, but I saw the shake of her shoulders as she tried (and failed) to hold in her laughter.
Defeated, Jason sighed and reached for his wallet. Finally.
For the first time in months, he paid. $389.76.
As the cashier handed him the receipt, she smiled brightly. “Did you need help with the bags, sir?”
“No, I got it,” Jason muttered, grabbing as many as he could carry.
The Aftermath
The car ride home was silent. Jason’s hands gripped the steering wheel like it had personally betrayed him. I stared out the window, trying so hard not to laugh.
Finally, as we pulled into our driveway, he spoke.
“That was low, Lauren.”
I turned to him with a saccharine smile. “Oh? Lower than disappearing every time it’s your turn to pay?”
Jason opened his mouth, then closed it. What could he say? He was caught red-handed.
As we unloaded the groceries, he sighed. “How long have you been planning this?”
“Not as long as you’ve been planning your ‘emergency calls,’” I shot back.
“I don’t plan them,” he mumbled. “They just… happen.”
I raised an eyebrow. “Every time? At checkout? Like clockwork?”
Jason rubbed the back of his neck. “Okay, maybe I was avoiding it a little.“
I snorted. “Jason, you turned skipping the grocery bill into an Olympic sport.”
He winced. “I didn’t think about it that way. I just… I don’t know. It was dumb.”
“Yep,” I agreed. “But clever, I’ll give you that.”
Jason smirked. “Not as clever as you changing my contact name to ‘Bank Fraud Department.’ That was diabolical.“
“Thank you,” I said, taking a dramatic bow. “I learned from the best.”
We laughed as we put away the groceries together. For a moment, it felt like we were a team again.
Then, Jason looked at me seriously. “I’m sorry. It really was a jerk move. I don’t even know why I kept doing it.”
I shrugged. “We all have our quirks. Just, next time, pick one that doesn’t leave me holding the bag. Literally.”
And you know what? Since that day, Jason’s magical disappearing act has completely vanished.
In fact, now he insists on paying. Sometimes, he even takes out his phone and places it on the counter dramatically—just to prove a point.
But I keep my smartwatch charged.
Just in case.
