While I am on the subject of the commissary, I have just one more little thing to say. My husband has started tagging along with me when I go grocery shopping. Yes, I can hear the groans from here. Actually, I like his company. He pushes the cart for me and doesn’t add to much to the grocery cart that we don’t need. He also doesn’t complain when I spend a lot of time matching up coupons with sales prices. It is kind of nice to have a companion.
The thing is that we can’t get five feet in the store without him running into someone he knows. Usually shy and reserved, he comes out of his little cocoon and gets chatty with anyone he might know or may have been stationed with in the past. Take this last time for instance. I had three things in my cart, and he was already reliving the glory days aboard the USS Camden (now mothballed) with a guy in produce. What is up with that? I brought you along to push the cart, buddy. No, I don’t really mind. I am glad that he gets to chat with people he knows. Except when he leaves me in the chip aisle talking to myself because he saw someone that he wanted to catch.
Yes, he did that. I was going on and on about how obnoxious the new Sun Chip bag is when I turn around and discover that I was talking only to myself. Looking around, he is nowhere to be found. It was like the starship Enterprise beamed him up when I had my back turned. I didn’t even bother to try and find him. I had a hunch. I was just mildly irriated that he left me there to have a conversation with myself. What if someone had overheard me? I pray that no one did. They may have seen the crazy lady talking to herself and decided to skip that aisle. Who knows? I hope not. He finds me now half way down the next aisle and tells me that he saw someone that he served with on the Kennedy (also now decommissioned) and he wanted to say hi. There’s a shocker.
It goes both ways. We could be happily discussing pasta sauce when out of nowhere I hear, “Hey, man! What are you doing these days?” It goes without saying that they aren’t talking to me. Pasta sauce is discarded, and I am left to push the cart and decide on my own. You’d better believe I get the cheap one whether he likes it or not. You snooze you lose, buddy.
I told him after this last trip that I wasn’t bringing him to the commissary with me anymore. He laughed. How could he possibly know that I am bluffing? Pushing the cart. He knows that I hate pushing the cart.