no-kissing-zone-cpr I'm sure you've all read or heard or seen the news reports about the 12-years-old boy who was arrested and taken away from school in handcuffs for kissing a 13-years-old girl. On a dare. He probably should have been pistol-whipped every step of the way to the police car, and there should have been an armed escort to the police station. The cad!

Sounds like adolescent humor. No harm, no foul.

On the other hand, unwanted was his advance. The girl was not pleased, flattered, or otherwise made happy. She was offended. She did not like it. She protested. Good for her. But I'm wondering if perhaps a less drastic resolution could have been had under the circumstances. Maybe she could have slapped him, or punched him out. My daughters would have. So would have my wife at that age. I know of a female to whom I am close who, when she was in junior high and a boy snapped her bra strap, she turned around and punched him. Hard. That took care of it. Self-reliance is cool.

But arrested? And handcuffed?

When I was in 6th grade a girl kissed me, without my asking. It was at her birthday party. The kiss was nice, and I floated as I journeyed the dozen blocks or so to my house. And I forgot to take her to court for sexual assault. Her name was JoAnne.

Not my kind of suds...

Shampoo Aisle After decades of dormancy, it emerged again, fangs and claws ripping into my memory, long dormant. "It" is shampoo.What's scary about shampoo? Here's the history.

A while back, when our daughters were teenagers, I was sent to the supermarket to pick up a few things, one of which was shampoo. Fine. But once I got to the supermarket, and sauntered down the aisle marked "SHAMPOO," panic began to well up in me. My girls had not told me what kind of shampoo they wanted, and I didn't have a cell phone to find out. So, up and down I went, learning about shampoo. There was beer shampoo, wheat shampoo, honey shampoo and wheat germ shampoo. I had never before thought of shampoo as food.

Finally I just stood there, staring, a bit of spittle beginning to slide down my chin. After about an hour, maybe two, I took a deep breath and made a choice. I mean, shampoo is shampoo, right? How could I go wrong?

Back home, I presented the shampoo to the girls. "You got us Flintstones Shampoo!" they wailed in unison, that followed by a long, drawn-out "Daaaaaaad!"

Since then, I have always asked for specifics when I do the shopping. What kind of flour? How many eggs? How many baking potatoes? But three days ago I grabbed the grocery list without checking with Lisa, and off I went. I picked up the things I needed, methodically checking items off the list. Milk, almonds in the little round can with the red plastic lid, marshmallows for Roxie the Wonder Dog, frozen pizza, and vegetable broth. And then I came to the one word that sent chilled earthworms through my innards. "Shampoo."

I quickly recovered from the shock, selected a very expensive shampoo, and took it home. Lisa was pleased. If she had said, "But I prefer Flintstones," a discussion might have ensued.