I had heard them fussing at each other in the produce section. I didn't mean to listen to their squabbling, but I was caught behind them waiting to see how many different kinds of potato salad there could possibly be for the cookout SigOth and I were having together. These two--probably in their 80s--were shouting at each other about a party they were hosting, and their bickering was first-class. These two were no newlyweds; they had been perfecting the fine art of irritating the piss out of each other for 60 years.
Him: How much potato salad do we need?
Her: I don't know, it depends on how much people eat!
Him: Well, how do I know how much anyone will eat?
Her: It always depends. Might be that it's really good potato salad. And then there'll be people who don't eat none. You have to figure that, too.
Him: That's just complicating things. Why did you bring that up?
Her: I'm just saying that it's true. Some people don't like potato salad and they won't eat it.
Him: How am I supposed to know who is going to eat potato salad and who don't like it?
He gets an idea. He decides to attack the problem from another angle.
Him (holding up a half gallon container of potato salad): So how many people will eat out of this?
Her (not even turning to look at what he's holding up): They ain't a-gonna eat out of that. They're going to dish it out and put it on their plates!
He stood there looking completely perplexed for a good 20 seconds, and then he slammed the potato salad in the bottom of the cart. She had doddered off by this time. I heard him mutter, "goddamnit" before he wheeled the cart in her direction.
I stepped up to the counter, very happy that they didn't even notice there were three different kinds of potato salad.
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