We have two HEB grocery stores to pick from near our house. The HEB at the corner of highway 183 and Farm-to-Market 1431 is closer and older than the one at Parmer and FM1431. We affectionately call it the “ghetto HEB” after hearing some nearby friends refer to it as such.
Tonight we stopped by to grab some necessities, such as ice cream and pizza.
As we drove through the parking lot to find a spot, I jokingly told the truck passing us in the opposite direction to “move along, ghetto truck.” Jodi fired back with “hey, just because we’re at the ghetto HEB, doesn’t mean everyone is ghetto.” Immediately, we spotted the woody station wagon, much like the Family Truckster. I pointed out that no station wagon of this caliber should be denied the moniker of “ghetto.”
Then I had a revelation. I pointed out to Jodi that we had stopped at HEB to get pizza and ice cream, and other necessities, with a bike, a large cardboard box, and a vacuum cleaner in the back of the tailgate-free truck. The dog is in the back seat with a 30-gallon trash can, and pregnant, barefoot, white tank-top-wearin Jodi is in the front holding several wine glasses.
This is our HEB.