Apparently shitting in supermarkets is now a thing.

I don’t mean in the bathrooms. I mean, hiking your skirt up, squatting next to the frozen food section and dropping a deuce right there in the middle of the aisle.

Grown ass women and a few grown ass men are doing this.

Like this woman:

Now, I’m the first to admit that dropping a public chalupa requires a certain amount of chutzpah, but placing 100% of the blame on the doo-doer seems a bit unfair. After all, it’s one thing to be annoyed at the shitty check-out service, and another to literally shit at the check-out. What could be driving women to such extremes? I’m glad you asked.

I think this whole trend is capturing the zeitgeist of our generation. Our kids are permanently wedged in our buttcracks, and when we lose our proverbial shit at our spouses because we want just five damn minutes of peace and quiet, they bundle us off to the grocery store. We climb into our cars, squeal out of the driveway and countdown the minutes until we go through those sliding doors and expect to enter a motherfucking oasis.

And do we find an oasis? Are there scantily clad men with washboard abs feeding us grapes as we wander the aisles? Is our every wish sitting right at our fingertips?

No. No it is not. Not at all.

We do our best to get into the relaxation zone. We rip into one of those boxes of donuts or iced cookies that are perpetually blocking the entrance. We shove fistfuls of over-priced, artificially flavored sugar into our pieholes and try to lamaze breathe the frustrations of motherhood out of our systems. 

But then, it starts to get to us. We begin checking items off our list and our cart rage grows. Supermarkets nowadays are the size of a god damned football field and the management insists on changing up the layout once a month. As usual, the mouth breathing, shelf stocking, pimply teenagers who work there never know where anything is. Our fitbits tick over into the thousands and we’ve only got three items in our cart. 

Finding the correct aisle is only the beginning. Then we’ve got to comb through 75 different types of extra sugary cereal to find the single cartoon-covered box that our children will eat. We go cross-eyed trying to read the fine print on the tiny shelf labels and by the time we finally give in and put on our bifocals, we’ve done half a dozen lunges and two sets of squats only to discover that the cereal is out of stock. We’re staring down the barrel of a milk-covered apocalypse and all we can hear is Wilson Philips telling us to Hold On For One More Day. Hold on to what, 80’s pop band? Our lukewarm coffee? That one sock that is perpetually missing it’s mate? OUR SANITY?!?!?! Too.Late.

8000 steps later we make it to the dairy aisle and practically fall on our knees when we see a free sample table. Is it a frappucino? Cheese and crackers? A spoonful of butter?


If we’re extra lucky, it’s a shot glass of Activia and an individually wrapped prune. We take it anyway.

Carts overloaded, we shuffle our weary souls towards the check out lines. They are so long that we have a spider web on our wallet by the time we make it to the belt. Right after we unload our 85 items, we realise the person in front of us is clutching a wad of coupons. Valid coupons, expired coupons, discounts from other stores and pennies off items they didn’t even buy. Doesn’t matter. We know that they’re going to spend the next 15 minutes arguing with the sweaty, menopausal woman manning the register. 

As we stand there, trying to hold ourselves back from offering the person $15 cash if they will shut up about the coupons and move on with their lives, our stomachs start to turn. The rage combines with the donuts, the powdered sugar, the workout, the Activia and the extra prune we snuck from the table. It turns, churns, burns. We can’t go forward. We don’t dare go back. The grocery bathroom was last cleaned in 1972. Only one option is left.

“Can you watch my cart for a minute? I forgot to pick up a bag of frozen french fries.”

We open the door to the freezer, let the cold air waft over our anger-heated bodies, unbutton our pants and let ourselves go.

So yeah, I guess shitting in supermarkets is now a thing. 


Lynn Morrison is a smart-ass American raising two prim princesses with her obnoxiously skinny Italian husband in Oxford, England. If you've ever hidden pizza boxes at the bottom of the trash or worn maternity pants when not pregnant, chances are you'll like the Nomad Mom Diary. Catch up with her daily on Facebook and Twitter.

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