Bitches Be Shoppin'

Fan Column Contribution Week: Suzy Blacks

Whoever came up with the idea that bitches love shopping certainly wasn’t talking about me. Now, I’m not your normal girl by any means. I’m a tomboy, I love sports, I booze, I don’t do chick flicks. But don’t get me wrong - I love a girls night out, getting all decked out in my heels and skirt and killin’ it on the dance floor. After all, I do run with the hottest bitches in the DC suburbs.

But shopping FUCKING sucks.

I can think of about 100 things I would rather do than go to the mall. Oh hey, here’s a good idea! Let’s go walk around for hours, in and out of countless stores, spend money I know DAMN well I should be saving, and indulge in my addictive habits. And if there’s a shoe sale? Well, you can just fucking forget it. I might as well hand over my credit card.


At least I know better, right?   My fiancé is a whole different story.  He would rather go to the mall and blow his paycheck on fresh kicks, New Era hats and Seven jeans.  Me? I will happily take my little ass to Target and find some sweet dresses for $20 apiece, as opposed to dropping big loot on some designer brand shit that will fall apart just as quickly.


I’m not thrifty by any means. I go to happy hours (and by hours, I mean not getting home til midnight) all the time, I’m a Starbucks fiend, I love going to ball games, vacations and what not. I am definitely doing my part in stimulating the economy; just not so much in a materialistic way.

So while clearly shopping at the mall ain’t for me,  there’s another place I despise probably more than anything.

The fucking grocery store. I could list probably a thousand reasons why I hate this hellhole, but I won’t bore you with all that. My biggest pet peeve about going is that I always have a game plan and it never works out. I put together a list of things we need, head up the street and march in, ready to get in and out as quick as possible. I am the most impatient fuck in the world, and any task that takes me more than 20 minutes pretty much makes me want to rip my hair out.

So I mosey my way through the aisles, pick up this and that, grab the things I need, head to the line. Check my phone, YES!  14 minutes, a new record.

And then it comes. That point where you debate in your head which line to get in.

You must understand folks: no matter which line you choose, IT WILL BE THE WRONG ONE.

You will get the fucking re-re bitch working the register. Oh you know, the one who keeps chatting up the bama in front of you (who by the way, is making sure to give a coupon for every other item on the runner), asking what she’s doing this weekend. What’s that, now you need an authorization from your manager because you rang the wrong thing in too many times? I guess the fact you’ve worked here for nearly ten years and only have a middle school education doesn’t speak much for your stellar attention to detail, now does it? Then you get the manager who comes over with his bulging belly hanging over his flat and sloppy ass, with pit stains and no signs of a shower in the past day or six. He enters some code for homegirl, and boom. Back to the process. Back to the chatting. Back to you hating your life.

So you finally get up to the register, avoid all eye contact and frivolous chit chat, bag and pay, and fully prepare to haul ass out of this fortress of doom. “YES!! I MADE IT!!” you say to yourself. You unload into the car and head home, breathing a sigh of relief feeling accomplished.

Then you get home and start putting your shit away. And it hits you.

I forgot the paper towels. THE ENTIRE FUCKING REASON I WENT TO THE STORE IN THE FIRST PLACE.

Fuck. My. Life.