It's really a judgement call. I'll let you decide.
So I was running to the grocery store to pick up taco supplies, because it's Taco Tuesday, after all.
As I head to the produce section to grab some lettuce, this young couple is standing in front of the Organic shelves, (We're a small town. We have a very limited amount of organics sold in our store. So little in fact, they can all be housed on a couple of small shelves.) which happens to be directly above the lettuce I need for my tacos. I wait patiently, while the girl explains that the organic bananas cost three times the amount as the "regular" bananas. The boy then tells the girl that "his mom said that if it goes in HIS body it should be organic". The girl shrugs and places the bunch of organic bananas in the basket and I reach for my head of not-so-organic-lettuce.
I meet this couple again in the meat section, always in front of where I need to be, and always debating why the higher priced item is the one they should get.
The dairy section has them picking the Velveeta brand of shredded cheese, even though there are other brands of cheese that are on sale for over a dollar less.
At this point, the girl is bemoaning the fact that they won't be able to afford the rest of the food on their list and I'm getting sick of waiting for them to finish their debates. I'm also REALLY sick of listening to the boy's holier-than-thou diatribes about what his mother would buy and say and do.
At this point I only have one item left on my list, which happens to be behind this couple's cart,
"Why can't we just get the one that's on sale," she pleads.
"Look. If you're not going to make it from homemade, like my mom does, then at least buy the kind she uses," he says indignantly.
And that's when my head explodes.
I pass closely to the girl and say quietly, "If his mom uses a bottle than it's not homemade."
A light burns brightly in the girl's eyes, that I hadn't noticed before. "Yeah! That's right," she says and quickly deposits the "bargain" sauce into the basket. I smirk and proceed to the check out, with a bounce in my step.
"Hey! You're a BITCH," the boy calls after me.
I turn. "Yes," I reply, "but I'm a bitch that doesn't pay $8 for a bottle of spaghetti sauce."