10 Excuses for the Dental Hygenist

Steve has a dental appointment this AM. (He's such an ADULT, taking care of his health and all. We've been married nearly 13 years, and the man is still a mystery to me.)

Now, my Steve doesn't floss daily. I don't floss daily. You don't floss daily. Let's be honest: NO ONE flosses daily (except my perfect sister, and this flossing thing is just one of the reasons I really can't stand her) (see her thoroughly flossed chops, below). Some of us -- I'm not naming names -- don't floss EVER, except the day of the appointment, and then we floss like
mad people sawing wood. This, of course, causes the telltale GUM BLEEDING (okay, more like hemorrhaging) that we just KNOW all the hygenists are gabbing about after we leave -- as they gnaw on raw celery and other useless sugar-free crap: "I had another last-minute flosser today. Don't they know they're not fooling anybody? Gross."

Now, Steve doesn't care what the hygenist thinks (it's all part of that ADULT thing). But I care passionately. I want Pat the hygenist to like me. What's more, I want her to approve of me. Maybe even to be inspired by my dental prowess. Does this motivate me to floss? Well, no. So then, there I am, like a six-year-old:

Do you floss?

Yes. (Nice delivery. Direct. Confident. Chipper. Likeable.)

How often?

Ummmm... (should I lie? Should I lie? No. I can't! She'll know. They always KNOW. Damn them! Damn them all to hell!) ...Well, not very often, to be honest. Pat.

Why not-ot-ot-ot-ot...

(I need not rack my brain for an answer because I have composed the following list of perfectly acceptable Floss Failure excuses. One need only choose among them.)

1. Dog ate floss. Now poops links.

2. Shrink advised against flossing. Brings back childhood mouth-propped-open-interminably-by-pool-ball-stuck-inside memories. (Excuse delivery strengthened considerably by sobbing uncontrollably at this juncture.)

3. No time to floss; am neurosurgeon during week and rocket scientist on weekends. Am saving world, one... space neuro-thingy at a time.

4. "I don't think that's any of your business, Pat. Flossing is a private matter. How often do you have sex? Hmmmm?"

5. Hands injured in freak 2002 Winter Olympics curling accident. Can't grasp floss. Don't want to talk about it.

6. Actually, I floss every day. Religiously. With my perfect sister. We floss together. And if my teeth don't look like I floss every day to you then that's your problem, isn't it?

7. Flossing is against my religion. Disturbs the soul--which resides in its physical form between the first and second bicuspids. And 6 billion beautiful people, including Tom Cruise, can't be wrong.

8. Let's take this outside, Pat.

9. I don't want to hurt you, Pat.

10. Last time I flossed, the floss was wound tightly, like you showed me, and it cut off ciculation to my fingertip, which is scheduled for amputation next Tuesday. Thanks a lot, Pat. You'll be hearing from my lawyer. Now just clean the teeth, would ya'?

Shhhh... Don't Tell My Best Friend

I hope every new at-home mom has a friend like Treacy (same name, I know...we did it on purpose). We were mere acquantances when we started jogging together to lose baby fat. Our firstborns were about 18 months old at the time, coveting each other's cheerios and sippies from the buckets of their repsective super-sporty jogging strollers.

Treacy was funny. It was nice to laugh -- and to talk to a grown-up. The kids -- her Luke and my Taylor -- hit it off immediately. "Jogging" quickly became "jogging with a playdate afterwards." That became "why don't you just stay for lunch?" Which grew into "leave your kid here, and go get some time to yourself." Then, it was, "I gotta paint the powder room; wanna help?" Or "If I don't wash this ketchup-smeared (insert ridiculously expensive Gymboree clothing item) now it'll stain. Can I use your washer, and do you have other stuff I can wash for you while I'm at it?" Then, "I'm re-doing your fridge. This top shelf is too crowded, the drawers are all wrong, and something is growing on your ham."

We had gone completely tribal. We didn't have two homes anymore; we had one home with two locations. We didn't each have a daily existence; we were in nearly every day together. And best of all, Taylor and Luke each had a spare mommy. (Later, when Carly was about 5 months old and did a face-plant while leaning forward in her "bouncy seat," she reached for Treacy through her tears! I felt so good about that (even though Treacy chose to calm my baby by explaining to her all about how it was her mommy's fault that she fell...))

The spare mommy thing was especially natural for us because Treacy and I had similar parenting styles. After all, hadn't we forged them together from nothing? I mean, when we started together, we actually believed we could lose that baby fat! Clearly, we knew NOTHING about motherhood. So, we figured it all out together and ended up a matched set. No matter where they turned, the children got the same answer. Even the dads were on the same page; it was "no popsicles before breakfast" all the way around. Poor kids.

Not so poor, come to think of it. Treacy and I brought out the very best in each other on the motherhood score. We believed in noise, adventures, squabbles, and messes. God, I loved that woman the day she babysat Taylor and let her wallow in mud to the magnificent extent that we subsequently had to hose the children down and throw the clothes out. The best meal we ever prepared for the kids was chocolate fondue. Nothing else, just the chocolate, the stuff to dip in it, and an afternoon when giggles reigned and time stood still. Luke often wore pink fuzzy slippers and dresses, and Taylor was naked much of the time. We taught them archery and finger-knitting. Together, we learned to let the children BE and to let them BECOME. And we loved the stuffing out of them. It was great, this tribal stuff -- the only way to do the at-home-parent thing, in my opinion. She was there for me in my darkest new-mommy hours, like:

Me: Taylor just threw a truck at my face and ran upstairs. Quick, what do I do?

Treacy: That depends; are we still not beating them? Seriously, you need a break. Bring her over and I'll take them to feed the ducks.

Gotta love being tribal.

When Taylor and Luke were three, Steve said he wanted to move for a job opportunity. I thought about leaving him and marrying Treacy, but decided, in the end, to stick with my guy. But those were some thoroughly yucky times. I hated telling Treacy, and when I broke the news to little Taylor, she cried and cried. Yuck-o-rama.

Treacy and I are still tribal on select weekends when someone packs up the minivan and declares a road-trip. Luke and Taylor are still best friends, and now Carly and Rylee (Treacy's little girl) are an uncommonly close tutu-clad and sticky-faced duo. They certainly add a whole new spice to the tribe.

And we are WAY tribal on the phone, still expecting the best of each other, still accepting the worst, and still not beating anyone.

Now that the kids are in school, I don't know if I need a local tribe. At-home-mommying is not nearly as relentless now. The urge to drink at noon has dissipated significantly. Still, something along the tribal lines would be nice, and (don't tell Treacy...) I have had a recent glimpse of it with friends Kathy and John. They offered me a carpool deal (like a recording contract or a publisher's advance, only much, MUCH better...) a while back, so now, they drive mine in, and I drive theirs out -- mostly. These folks pack lunches for my girls when I leave our lunchboxes sitting on the kitchen counter (where I'm quite sure they do nothing good for anybody all day long). They hand over breakfast bars when my child, who couldn't eat another bite 10 minutes ago is now on the verge of utter starvation. They take Carly for playdates so I can go on loving her like I do. Here's the kicker: how to put this?... ummm, well, to state it plainly, SH%T HAPPENED on their carpet once (my child was sick, she was SICK and don't you be judgin'), and Kathy and I scrubbed that carpet like it was no big deal, like it was... well, like it was not my child's SH%T on their white carpet. (Same child blithely and consciously peed on Treacy's couch once when she was definitely NOT sick, but that's another story involving another beating that might have happened but didn't because we tribal mommies really have it on the ball.)

Last weekend, since Steve was away, Kathy invited us for a drink-without-having-to-drive sleepover and boy, did that invitation feel tribal. And the other night, the girls and I invited ourselves for dinner, picked out a recipe for their vegetarian household, and then prepared and brought the dinner with us. That was tribal, too. But there was no chocolate, and we didn't cut each other's hair, so even if you slip and tell Treacy, I think she'll be okay with it.

Shirking and Shrieking

Bless me, Internet, for I have shirked. It has been nearly a week since my last post. This is merely due to my foolish decision to go to bed at a reasonable hour while Steve was away on business. I had high hopes this practice would keep Mommy-I-Don't-Want-To-Be at bay. Hmmm...well...sleep helped. But MIDWTB still showed up every now and then just to urge the children to GET. DRESSSSSSSSED! and to PUT. THAT. STUFF. AWAAAAAAY! and to please, for the love of Betsy (or similar) STOPITSTOPITSTOPITSTOPIT! Note to self: frantically scanning parenting books following insane shrieking episodes does not undo freakish childhood children have already suffered and in fact serves only to inspire guilt and deep self-loathing. In future, must read said books before said shrieking. Therefore, must set aside time at 5 AM to read "being a good mommy" books before daily insatiable urge to shriek commences. Suggested topic for tomorrow morning's study... Your 5-Year-Old's Wardrobe: Loving and Healthy Alternatives to the Straightjacket.

Disney's Missing Mommies

Well, Taylor (7) got over her chickenpox and we were all healthy again.

For about five minutes.

And then, someone upstairs got the news that Steve was headed out for a business trip. This put into effect the now-familiar cosmic law which states: one of my children or the other must be reduced to a whining puddle of boogies and phlegm just as soon as Mr. I'll-Be-There-Thru-Thick-And-Thin has fastened his seatbelt and returned his tray table to its full, upright and locked position. Happens every time. Once, before Carly was born, Steve was away, and Taylor was so sick and miserable that I finally gave up and just brought her to bed with me. As we cuddled there, I hummed a lullabye and gently stroked her forehead. Then she announced that she was going to throw up. O-KAY! My heartfelt thanks for the heads up, and let me introduce you to your father's side of the bed. I know, it's not his fault he has to travel on occasion, and it's very hard on him, too, and blah, blah, blah. But STILL. We're talking boogies and phlegm. Usually fever. Sometimes dia-you-know-what-a.

So this time, it's Carly (5). I swear, that child was hale and hearty when I tucked her in. But Steve leaves town and BOOM. 2:30 AM, she's at my bedside, coughing, stuffed up and...puddle-like. Poor little thing.

After a very long night, I looked forward to a day of TV for the sick girl today so I could lie down and die for maybe just a minute. She and Steve had finished reading Bambi together last week, so I thought the Disney version on DVD was a good idea. She had never seen it before. We had avoided it because Bambi's mom gets, you know, s-h-o-t. But now that she's "read" the book, I figured she was somewhat prepared. Still, she wanted me to hold her hand when the hunting scene came, and BLAM! It hate it when Bambi's mom dies. Always did. "Why?" I always wondered, "Why did Bambi's mom have to die?"

And come to think of it...why indeed? Why can't Bambi keep his mom? And why can't Jasmine in Aladdin have a mom? Why can't the Little Mermaid have a mom? Why can't Belle have a mom? Gee...was it something we said?

Obviously, Disney didn't kill Bambi's mom, or Ariel's, or Belle's. These stories were around long before Disney. But Disney PICKED 'em.

...And Cinderalla, where both parents die, but the mom dies FIRST. And Pinocchio, where puppet boy just gets Guiseppe. Heck, Peter Pan is a vertiable Ode to Momlessness. I've only seen bits and pieces of The Sword and the Stone, but I didn't see a mom anywhere, did you? The Great Mouse Detective: Papa Mouse gets kidnapped, leaving daughter mouse...completely alone. Snow White had unsurpassed beauty, but no mom. Glenn Close steps in and adopts the ape boy in Tarzan, but Jane just has...Daddy. Perhaps Pocohontas was delivered to her father, the chief, by an Eagle, because in that movie there's no mom in sight. There's a brother in Brother Bear, but the mom is killed by hunters. Finding Nemo opens with the mom as shark bait (my friend, Pete, says Nemo wasn't Disney, but who asked him? I'm on a roll here). Chicken Little: new movie, old approach -- NO MOM. Was Ice Age Disney? Whatever. The mom drowns in the first 10 minutes. Guess what happens at the beginning of Hunchback of Notre Dame? Yep. Dead mommy.

And there may be more. Did I forget any?



So Disney celebrates the non-traditional family. Who knew? In a way, I can dig that. But how about a film (or twenty) where the mom is not only NOT DEAD, but is raising the kid by herself (which is like, FOUR TIMES more likely than a solo dad in this country, anyway...)? Or, if that's too much to ask, could the mom just please survive the experience once in a while? I mean, moms do some handy things around the home. They're useful for...oh, I don't know...EVERYTHING. And I've got another great idea. If one dad in a Disney flick is so darn good, how about TWO? (-:

As for Carly, I'm sure she'll be all better soon; Steve's due back later this week. Until then, HER MOMMY IS HERE.

DWI: Dieting While Intoxicated

Invited Kate and Jeff (and kids) over for chili and football (and, apparently, 6 bottles of wine) last night. (Here are some fun things to say to a football fan during the game: 1. Can we just switch over to ABC real quick? Michelle Kwon is about to take the ice. 2. I vote we turn this off and play Pictionary. Anyone with me? 3. I'm putting in a movie for the kids -- but we'll TAPE the game, and you can take it home with you!)

Anyway, those guys came over. Knowing I would want to join in the food and libations at least to some extent, I saved up for the event all day. 8:30 AM: Had a small bowl of dirt (low-carb, high fiber cereal) for breakfast with barely enough milk to dampen the dirt, thus concocting yummy early morning MUD. 11 AM: Had a tiny "taster" of new Stouffer's Lean Cuisine cheesesteak sandwich at the grocery store -- but that was only because the taster pusher (lady in white coat and hair net with nametag reading "Dorothy") was so cute and forlorn-looking. (Note to self: discuss grocery store taster table episode with Life Coach...may be a key to several pesky neuroses.) 1 PM: Stopped everything and made a salad for lunch.

Steps in making salad:
1. wash and tear lettuce
2. chop carrots and celery
3. wash raspberries
4. sprinkle sunflower seeds with spectacular restraint
5. sprinkle 2% milk shredded cheddar that tastes like nothing with even MORE restraint
6. Measure out 1.5 tablespoons of vinagrette (how does one spell that?) while fantasizing about chugging full balance of dressing straight from bottle
7. Sit down
8. Chew thoroghly

Steps in eating 3 or 4 slices of cold, leftover pizza over the sink:
1. CHOW DOWN!!

Now aren't you just SO proud of me for eating that salad? Yeah. So was I. Too bad about what happened next.

Well, it started out okay. I opted for fresh fruit as the hors d'oeuvres, knowing that I always eat every hors freaking d'oeuvre within a 50 mile radius when at social gatherings. When Kate and Jeff brought chicken wings, I had to have ONE so as not to appear rude. Then, I had to have TWO MORE so as not to rip my face off and run screaming from the house.

I had consciously decided to allow myself a glass of wine. The dirt and salad would make up for it.

As far as I can remember, here's what I consumed after that:

• another glass of wine
• all of the fruit and also most of the goldfish (which were the KIDS' hor d'oeuvres)
• some water (good for me, good for me!)
• just one more wing -- it's protein
• small portion of rice and chili with just a smidge of tasteless cheese on top -- wasn't really hungry anymore
• another glass of wine
• one homemade, gobs-of-butter cookie (which I had previously EXPRESSLY forbidden myself but by then I had consumed approximately 4,000 calories already, so there was a little change of plans)
• someone filled my wineglass -- was that my fault?
• four more cookies
• dug out the bag of goldfish from the cupboard and polished it off
• two more cookies -- in small bites, though!
• another wing -- now cold and chewy, but it CALLED to me
• went to cupboard for goldfish, vaguely remembered having eaten them already, ate half a bag of stale marshmellows instead
• uh...more wine, I think
• polished off the cookies
• JOY! There was some shredded tasteless cheese leftover! Tipped the bag right into my mouth. God, it was like HEAVEN.
• (By now, guests had long-since left, so I could pick at the cold and clumpy pasta remnants of the kids' plates with impunity.)

So now, the next morning, is it any wonder that I feel the way I do? (Fat and shitty.) (AND the Redskins lost AND I didn't get to see Michelle Kwon skate AND there are no cookies for the kids -- after they did all the dumping and stirring (bad, bad, fat Mommy.)) But we had a great time with Kate and Jeff and kids. Next time they come, I'm drinking lemonade.

Pox R Us

Chicken Pox, Baby! We got 'em. Come and get 'em. My 7-year-old, Taylor, told me her ear itched. Well, lots of people's ears itch from time to time, don't they? I mean, is it written in the Good Mommy handbook that you have to drop everything every time one of your kids has an ITCH? Lord, when I THINK of all the things that have itched around here...

So, her ear itched. I didn't think much of it. Next day, it still itched. I looked at it. It was red. I slathered stuff on it. Next day, the other ear itched. "What we have here," I announced, "Is an allergic reaction to some new shampoo, soap, or hat." Taylor gently reminded me that we didn't have new shampoo, new soap, or a new hat. But since the alternative theory was that my ear-scratchin' daughter had fleas, some part of me chose the allergy theory; it had a nice, clean ring to it. Slathered stuff on the offending ears -- with love. And, ummm... sent her to school. (Oh, stuff it -- like YOU never made a mistake in YOUR life!)

I did actually plan to pick her up early from school and take her in to the doctor that afternoon, but the doctor's office put me on hold, and I couldn't go into Target without losing the connection, so... I hung up on the doctor and chose Target. Hey! I was on hold for a long time, Sister! I was on hold so long that by the time I got the appointment, I bet school would have been over anyway. I mean, rashes come and rashes go, but those end-of-season sales are a get-'em-while-supplies-last kind of a thing. Wrapping paper, 99 cents. See my position?

Next day, ears itching, neck and face itching, doctor can see us at 11:45.

Here's the problem with doctors today: they make so much money, you can't even BRIBE them anymore. I mean, I offered that doctor $50 NOT to tell me it was chicken pox and she LAUGHED at me! Very funny. And what about your nice VACCINE, Doc...HMMMM? What the heck happened? And by the way, I'm no expert, but those don't even LOOK like Chicken Pox to me. Don't you think it could be some sort of allergic reaction...maybe to a...hat?

The problem with doctors today is they think they're some sort of EXPERT.

It's never a good sign when they fumigate the exam room after you leave and tape that yellow CAUTION stuff over the door.

So, it turns out that everyone on the PLANET but me knows that innoculated kids can still get the Pox. A watered-down version, though. Remember when WE had it? You know what the average number of lesions was? 300 to 400. Holy avian itchies! I can still smell the Calamine. Taylor only has 20 or so. She's still very uncomfortable and I still feel bad for her, but I have to fight like hell not to say, "You call that the CHICKEN POX?! Hah! That's nothing. I SPIT on your chicken pox! When I had it, I was so itchy, Nana wrapped my hands with duct tape and chained me to the bed to keep me from scratching! And we didn't have your Cherry Flavored Benedryl, either. No! We didn't need no stinkin' Benedryl. It was hell. I still have the scars. Wanna see them?"

So, here we are. Kid feels fine except for the itchin', yet she's contageous as all hell and I guess as a responsible adult, I'm supposed to make that MY problem and keep her home from school all week. That's what the doctor said (despite a SECOND generous offer of cold hard cash). If you ask me, this is why the vaccine was developed in the first place: to save us from having to stay home with our infected kids. And here's the rub (or the scratch) -- we are really just stuck with each other, she and I. No playdates. No restaurants. No errands. No Blockbuster. No trips to the liquor store to get mommy some good stiff stuff. No, little miss Typhoid Taylor is quarrantined and therefore, pass the Ben and Jerry's, so am I.

Actually, this shouldn't be a problem! Super Pox Girl has a crunchy, lefty, Waldorf school and natural fibers mommy who almost never lets her watch TV (I tell her it rots her brain while I count the hours until I can plop my widening ass and fully rotted brain in front of this week's Project Runway.) Anyway, she is MAJORLY tv-deprived, so all I have to do is declare open season, and that Partridge Family lunchbox on ebay could be MINE before I hear from her again.

EXCEPT... by Tuesday, she was TV cranky, and by Wednesday, she was done...D-O-N-E... with tv, computer, playing in the street, etc. Now, this kid is wonderful. She's a joy. She listens and behaves and all that other stuff which will no doubt contribute to her body-piercing, pot smoking REBELLION later on. So, I like having her around. The problem is she doesn't really like having ME around. Well, that's not quite right. She likes me. I'm her Mommy. I smear stuff on her Pox and make her grilled cheese -- AGAIN. But she's, like, REALLY SMART (not enough TV), and keeping her occupied means having to be able to...you know... THINK and stuff. Who wants to do THAT day in and day out?

I tried. I really did. I got her some new...what do you call those things?...BOOKS. I broke out a new LEGO set I had been saving for that someone-has-an-oozing-communicable-virus kind of a day. These new LEGOs, by the way! SO COOL! There are all sorts of tiny two-way hinges and ORANGE pieces and eyes and WINGS. Love 'em. We played with those until we hated them. We looked up ATOMS and MOLECULES on the internet because she wanted to know if atoms were really moving around in our Silestone counter top. And really...WHO THE HELL KNOWS? I mean, I GUESS so. Atoms are the building blocks of life -- or the circle of life (no, that's Disney)...or the building blocks of matter...or of manmade kitchen surfaces, I suppose. It broke my heart to see her give up on her mommy's lame-ass explanation and resort to staring at the countertop, hoping to catch an atom moving. We made Jell-o. We took the dog for a walk and squinted against the sun as we felt it warming our now-pasty skin. But eventually, I just ran out of steam. I didn't know what to do, and she didn't know what to do, and we pretty much hit bottom when my poxed petunia sat crumpled on the family room floor wailing: "Oh WHY CAN'T I CRY?? I WANT TO CRY!! BUT I CAN'T!"

That's it. Big gun time. Yesterday, I announced, "Taylor, we are going to decorate the treehouse." We got out of our jammies and put on those CLOTHES thingies. Loaded up the wagon with whatever seemed cool-treehouse-ish. I got out the power tools (and let me tell you -- it takes A LOT for me to do that). Hooked up three extension cords and headed out to the world's greatest treehouse (built mainly by my dad and surely visible from space).


Here's Taylor's cool "ancient" treasure map showing treehouse and treasure.

God, we had fun. We put peacock feathers in a flower pot. Hung a big orange-framed print on the wall. Suspended those plastic dudes with the tangled parachutes from the ceiling. Made pegs from twigs and hung canteens on 'em. Installed a xylophone and a bell shaped like a pegasus. Fashioned a perch for a stuffed parrot I had bought at a yardsale (HAD to have it). Screwed this little gumball machine thingy to the treehouse table (otherwise, it'll find its way to the woods and anthropologists will find it in the year 2278 and think its some sort of incubator or primitive transporter or something). My girl was BEAMING. She was giddy. She learned how to change the bits on a power drill. She told me she could imagine staying in the treehouse forever.

The child could stay in the treehouse forever.

This is all just to say that the laundry sat soggy and molding in the washer, the dishes didn't get done, and we had leftovers and frozen veggies for dinner. And I had a GREAT day at work.

Why the Shower Should Have Rubber Walls

Here's what went on last Saturday...

Me: In shower, shampooing for a nice change of pace, noticing new fat as usual, deciding not to shave (it's winter!) Taking my time since Steve is home and can...oh, I don't know...enforce no-playing-with-flaming-torches rule while I shower in PEACE.

5-year-old (heard faintly): MOMMMMMY! Uh yahn hair iyoncho glob glob ANT EYE glob.

Me (yelling, so as to be heard the first time): Sweetie, Mommy's in the shower! I can't hear you!

Child (heard faintly, more slowly): Uh-yahn-haaaair-eye-elpo-glob-glob-ANT-glob-glob!!

Me (in my head): Note to self...children must be chained to post in yard
when I am showering. And where is Steve? Perhaps injured in freak coffee-maker accident which rendered him tragically EARLESS.

Me (yelling, again, shampoo sloshing into mouth): I CAN NOT HEAR YOU!!! I AM IN THE (don't say fucking, don't say fucking) SHOWER!!

Child (at the top of her little lungs): UH YAHN HAIR EYE ON GLOW GLOBBITY GLOB ANT EYE GLOB GLOB MURPLE MURPLE, MOMMY!!

Me (eyeing razor and thinking about ending it all) (opening shower door so as to improve communication, freezing ASS off while shrieking like lunatic): STOP YELLLLLLLLING!!! I CANNOT HEAR YOU!!! COME IN HERE AND TALK TO MEEEEEEEEE!!!

Child appears. Naked except for Little House on the Prairie hat. Chastizes me for NOT HELPING and for being ALWAYS IN THE SHOWER and for YELLING at her.

Breathe, breathe, breathe. Channel Carol Brady. Scratch that. Stop everything in order to focus on expunging image of naked showering Florence Henderson from mind.

Me: I could not HEAR you. It's NOISY in here. All I heard was "murple, murple." Couldn't Daddy help you? What did you say?

Child (simply): I want to wear my poncho but I can't find it.

Oh. No poncho. Now that IS big. Why didn't she SAY it was a wardrobe emergency? Why didn't anyone call 911? Oh. Let me just hop out of here right now and find that hideous fuzzy pink thing! Don't want you to wait another MINUTE! Maybe we can find one for Mommy, too, and I can wrap it around my NECK a few hundred times and PULL! (Note to self: always close shower door when banging head against tiles so as not to alarm naked little bonnet-wearin' cutie-pie.)