It's Just a Little Ole' Modifier

I was backing out of the driveway, on my way to the drugstore, when my wife stepped onto the porch and shouted.
“Honey, would you pick me up some brown eye shadow?”
“Sure!” I yelled back. “No problem!”

At the local drugstore, I walked quickly down the isles, picking up the few items I wanted, then strolled toward the cosmetics counter.
The saleslady greeted me with one of those cold, toothy smiles that show little or no warmth in the eyes.
“Can I help you?”
“Yes,” I said, “I’m looking for some brown eye shadow.”
She looked at my eyes and grinned.
“For my wife,” I said, grinning back. “For my wife.”
“Ah,” she said, “of course.”
She held out a palette of colors.
“So, does she use midnight brown?”
“I don’t know,” I said, staring at the colors.
She held the pallet in front of me, then pointed to one brown after another.
“Maybe dessert brown? Chocolate brown? Sandal brown? Sunset bro—“

“Mam,” I said, making a stop sign with my hand. “You got me here. Let me call my wife, okay?”
I walked around the store, looking for a payphone, but found none. The clerk at the entrance apparently sensed my frustration and asked, “Can I help you, sir?”
When I told him I was looking for a payphone he pointed to a booth in front of the store.
“Ah!” I said, “Thank you,”
Ten minutes later I walked back into the store and back to the cosmetics counter. The saleslady had gone but reappeared.
“Okay,” I said, “it’s sandal brown.”

The lady nodded, pointed to sandal brown on the palette, and smiled that smile again.
“Now, would you like that in light, medium, or heavy?”
I could feel a furrow beginning to form on my brow as I gently bit my lip. The lady pointed again to the palette.

“Would you like that in a light, med—“
“I heard you,” I said. “I don’t know. I’ll have to call my wife again.”
Outside, I was greeted with another busy signal, then another and another. Fifteen minutes later I walked back in and once again stood at the cosmetics counter.
“Medium,” I said, glancing at my watch.

The clerk smiled and said, “Fine, now I just have one more question.”

Sure,” I said. trying to remain playful. “I assume you’re going to ask me if I plan to murder my wife!”
“No sir,” she said, smiling that really silly smile again. “That wasn’t what I was going to ask.”
I could feel my blood beginning to pick up speed.
“Then go ahead,” I said. “ASK!”

“Will that be talc, cream, or liquid?”
I took a deep breath, looked down at the floor, then up at the ceiling.
“Tell ya what,” I said, my teeth clenched. “Give me one of each, okay, just give me one of all the stupid things!”
“Of course, sir, is there anything else I can show you today?”

For a moment I just stood there, staring at her, trying not to scream.
I threw my money on the counter, grabbed the bag, waved off the receipt, and turned to walk out. Then, somehow knowing exactly what she was going to say, I heard her voice fade softly behind me.

“You know, sir, there is a moral to this story."

"Yaa," I said. "I know. Don't forget your modifiers and get'em right or something like that.”

Weeks later, on a bright, happy Saturday morning, as my wife was backing out of the driveway, I stepped onto the porch and shouted.

“Honey, will you stop by the hardware store and pick me up a wrench?”
Watching her just smile and nod, I knew my revenge would be sweet. I walked back into the house and sat down by the phone, a wide, satisfying grin on my face.

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