The Great Grocery Escape: How I Tricked My Husband Into Paying the Bill
Every time we reach the checkout line, Jason’s phone conveniently rings. “Oh, babe, I gotta take this!” And just like that—poof!—he vanishes, leaving me to pay for the groceries.
But not this time.
This time, I had a plan. And by the time I was done, Jason would wish he had just swiped his card like a normal person.
The Mystery of the Perfectly Timed Phone Calls
My husband, Jason, is a great guy—hardworking, hilarious, and the kind of man who actually remembers our anniversary without a phone reminder. But he has one habit that drives me absolutely crazy.
Every. Single. Time. we go grocery shopping together, the second the cashier starts scanning our items, his phone rings. And not just any call—oh no, it’s always a “super important work call” that he has to take.
“Oh, babe, I gotta take this!” he says, already backing away. And just like that, I’m left standing there with a cart full of food and a bill that’s way too high.
At first, I didn’t think much of it. Marriage is about teamwork, right?
But after the tenth time in a row, I started noticing the pattern.
“Who was that?” I asked one day as he magically reappeared—just in time to help me load the groceries into the car.
“Oh, just work stuff,” he said, waving his hand like it was nothing. “Thanks for handling checkout. I’ll get it next time.”
Spoiler alert: He never did.
The Final Straw
Last Saturday was different.
We needed everything—groceries, cleaning supplies, and of course, that ridiculously expensive coffee he loves. As we rolled up to the checkout, I started counting down in my head.
Three… two… one…
RING. RING.
Jason’s hand shot into his pocket so fast, you’d think his phone was on fire.
“Jason…” I started, but he was already talking over me.
“Oh, babe, I gotta take this—it’s work.”
And just like that, he was gone, strolling toward the store entrance, nodding seriously like he was negotiating a million-dollar deal. Meanwhile, I was left unloading our mountain of groceries onto the belt.
The cashier—a sweet older woman with sharp eyes—glanced from me to Jason and back again. Then she gave me the look.
You know the one. The “Girl, I see what he’s doing” look.
My face burned with embarrassment. Had everyone noticed his little trick?
The total flashed on the screen: $347.92.
The cashier handed me the receipt with a sympathetic smile.
That night, I couldn’t sleep.
The more I thought about it, the more my irritation turned into determination. Jason was snoring peacefully beside me, completely unaware that his days of dodging the grocery bill were about to end.
Operation: Bank Fraud Department
While Jason slept, I grabbed his phone.
I wasn’t snooping—we trust each other. No, I had a different mission.
I went to his contacts, found my name, and with a few quick taps, changed it to:
“BANK FRAUD DEPARTMENT.”
Then I set his phone back exactly where I found it and slipped into bed, grinning like a villain in a heist movie.
The trap was set.
The Moment of Truth
The next morning, we went through our usual Saturday routine—sleeping in, breakfast, then off to the store.
We filled the cart with essentials (and, of course, three different kinds of chips because, according to Jason, “They all serve different purposes!”).
As we approached the checkout, I could feel the tension. Jason’s hand inched toward his pocket.
It was time.
I tapped my smartwatch—and instantly:
RING. RING.
Jason’s face lit up with relief. “Oh, babe, one sec, I gotta—”
Then he froze.
His eyes locked onto the caller ID: “BANK FRAUD DEPARTMENT.”
All the color drained from his face.
“Aren’t you going to answer it?” I asked, blinking innocently. “It looks really important.”
He hesitated, glancing from the phone to me to the line of impatient shoppers behind us. Everyone was watching.
“Lauren, this…” He held up the screen, his hand shaking.
“Just answer it,” I said, reaching over and hitting the ACCEPT button for him.
I had recorded a message earlier and set up an app to call his phone when I tapped my watch.
What I hadn’t planned for was how perfect his reaction would be.
A robotic voice blared from his phone:
“Hello, Jason. We’ve detected suspicious activity 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. His face turned the same shade as the tomatoes in our cart.
The cashier coughed—poorly hiding a laugh.
The couple behind us burst into giggles.
I crossed my arms, savoring every second.
“Well?” I said sweetly. “That sounded like an important call.”
The cashier didn’t even try to hide her laugh this time.
Jason couldn’t look at me. “Let’s just… finish checking out.”
And for the first time in months, Jason pulled out his wallet and paid.
$389.76.
The cashier—the same one from before—gave me a very obvious thumbs-up.
“Need help with the bags, sir?” she asked Jason, her voice dripping with fake sweetness.
“No, I got it,” he muttered, grabbing as many bags as he could carry.
The Aftermath
The car ride home was silent. Jason gripped the steering wheel like he was trying to crush it. I stared out the window, biting my lip to keep from laughing.
Finally, as we pulled into the driveway, he spoke.
“That was low, Lauren.”
I turned to him, all innocence. “Oh? You mean lower than disappearing every time it’s your turn to pay?”
He opened his mouth—then closed it.
What could he say? He’d been caught.
“How long have you been planning this?” he asked as we unloaded the groceries.
“Not as long as you’ve been planning your fake phone calls,” I shot back.
“I don’t plan them!” he protested. “They just… happen.”
I raised an eyebrow. “Every. Single. Time?”
He sighed. “Okay, fine. Maybe I’ve been avoiding it a little.”
“A *little?” I laughed. “Jason, you turned grocery-dodging into an *Olympic sport!“
He actually looked ashamed. “I didn’t think about it like that. It was stupid.”
“Yes, it was,” I agreed. But seeing his guilty face, I softened. “But I’ll admit—it was also kind of impressive.”
“Not as impressive as your Bank Fraud Department trick,” he grumbled, putting away the milk. “That was evil.“
“Thank you,” I said, bowing dramatically. “I learned from the best.”
We both laughed, and for the first time in a while, it felt like we were a team again.
Then, suddenly, he got serious. “I’m sorry. It was a jerk move.”
I shrugged. “We all have our quirks. Just maybe next time, pick one that doesn’t leave your wife holding the bag. Literally.“
The Happy Ending (For Me, At Least)
Since that day?
Jason’s “magical disappearing act” has vanished.
Now, he insists on paying every time. Sometimes, he even puts his phone on the counter—like he’s daring it to ring.
And me?
I keep my smartwatch fully charged.
Just in case.
