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.