Soap-on-a-Rope

Good gravy, has it really been a month since my last post?!

I can't account for the first two weeks, but I know the last two were lost to the cold/flu/whatever-nastiness-it-was that settled on our household (and is taking its sweet time leaving). To celebrate our quasi-recovery &mdash and Cary's birthday &mdash my friend Sue invited us out to dinner at our favorite Mexican restaurant.

"No thanks," Cary said. "You two go ahead."

Sue looked at me, understandably confused. No thanks to a birthday dinner? No thanks to great Mexican food? Was the boy still ill? After a bit of coaxing he agreed to join us, if only for the company.

"Cary doesn't get too excited about birthdays or holidays," I explained at the restaurant.

"When you expect soap-on-a-rope and Toughskins underwear, it's hard to get excited about presents," Cary said.

"Oh, man; I got soap-on-a-rope, too!" I said.

"Soap on a rope?" Sue asked.

"You never got soap-on-a-rope?"

Sue shook her head.

"Every year," I said, "I'd get another soap-on-a-rope. And every year, it would end up in a drawer. 'Cause who would actually use it? It's like, 'Gees, grandma; I'm not going to prison.'"

Sue erupted in teary laughter, perhaps delighted at the thought of someone thoughtfully selecting gifts for soon-to-be-incarcerated grandchildren.

"Mine were all animals," I continued, then had to think: a cow? A lamb, maybe? "I know at least one was a big-ass Poodle."

"Mine were worse," Cary challenged.

"What could be worse than a giant Poodle soap-on-a-rope?" I asked.

"Praying hands," he said calmly.

Sue and I both burst out laughing, which of course got Cary laughing. And then coughing. But we couldn't stop. Because really: how are you supposed to wash your butt with praying hands soap-on-a-rope?