This morning while washing my hair, I discovered something written on the bottom of my shampoo bottle. It has an expiration date!
And it’s soon.
It’s shampoo, for Pete’s sake. It’s basically soap, just fancy liquid soap that smells like oranges or lemons or gardenias or something. This is troubling. Shampoo manufacturers have already hypnotized us with the ridiculous command to “Wash, rinse, repeat.” We use twice as much of the stuff than we really need and now they want us to throw the rest of it away and buy more.
A few months ago, my children and grandchildren recoiled when offered an unopened bottle of French’s yellow mustard I had just retrieved from my basement pantry.
“Euwwwwww. Gramma!” my grandson said, holding it with forefinger and thumb at the end of an outstretched arm. “This expired a year and a half ago!”
I don’t like yellow mustard. I use Grey Poupon or Dijon or the course-ground country-style stuff. I keep a yellow plastic squeeze bottle of Classic French’s on hand in case a grandchild or a guest prefers it.
“It’s unopened,” I said. “Mustard doesn’t spoil. Mustard won’t make you sick if you eat it after the date stamped on the bottom.”
He threw it out.
(I retrieved it after he went home.)
2. Speaking of expiration dates . . .
People say it all the time. I’ve said it often.
“If I die . . .”
“If I die, you can have my tickets to Hamilton.”
“If I die before you be sure I’m cremated, not buried.”
“If I die, I want Barbour’s Adagio for Strings played at my funeral.”
Just a freaking minute here. I didn’t know I had a choice. I think I should be saying, “WHEN I die.” Not, “IF I die.”
I wonder what my expiration date is?
3. A Christmas wish
I would like to see more nativity scenes like the one on my church’s Website this last Christmas season. It featured the traditional trio of characters: Mary, Joseph and Jesus. No shepherds. No wise men. No angels. No sheep, even.
Mary is curled up under a blanket on a bed of hay, taking a nap. Joseph is seated nearby, cradling the baby on his lap. The baby looks like he’s crying or fussing, but Joseph is rocking and soothing the little guy. No visitors are visible. It’s quiet time for the new family, a well-deserved rest for the new mother and some father-son bonding. I like this.
It reminds me of a Christmas joke that’s been going around for years:
If the three wise men had been three wise women, they would not have showed up with gifts of gold, frankincense and myrrh. They’d have arrived carrying a casserole, a stack of freshly laundered diapers, and some pails and sponges and brooms to clean the stable.
I appreciate feedback about how well I’m doing or not doing. But when I order something on the Internet, businesses are letting this feedback thing get out of hand. Every purchase I make brings a deluge of surveys about how much I liked it or didn’t like it.
How well did I understand the Website description? Did I see all the choices? Did I read the return policy? Was the item delivered when promised? Would I shop at this store again? Would I recommend this store to my friends?
Some surveys take as long as 15 or 20 minutes to fill out.
How much feedback can I give about a pair of socks?
They fit. Nice color. Done.