- Wash my hair with roofing tar.
- Be a member of a moms club.
- Have an acupuncture treatment, on my eyeballs.
- Iron, and then wear, a pleated skirt.
- Talk to Paris Hilton about the meaning of life.
- Watch a marathon of Sylvester Stallone comedy films.
- Dry my face with 40-grit sandpaper.
- Drink a cocktail made with gin and Jagermeister.
- Go shopping with one of the moms featured on "Toddlers & Tiaras."
- Affix hunks of meat to myself with a staple gun and spend some time at the zoo, hanging out in the tiger exhibit saying, "Here, kitty kitty."
Zach hates Play-Doh as much as I do, and has always preferred to leave the hunk of dough in a monochromatic, dent-free shape of a cylinder. Charlie is always willing to pick up a wad of the crap and play with Zoe, who is sort of obsessed with it, and will cut a purple rope into the smallest pieces of shrapnel and call it rice. It's almost like she knows how much it annoys me.
Yesterday I gave in and pulled out a couple cans of dough, the box of rolling pins and a few cutters, but drew the line at the extruder. As little bits of dough showered the floor, she kept glancing my way, waiting for me to pounce on the situation with the Dust Buster. Does it matter that she was making star "cookies" for the boys and being creative? No, because I hate Play-Doh.
After about ten minutes of chopping and molding the cans of hell, she decided she was done and wanted to watch "The Spongebob Movie" instead. I happily agreed, and also got her a bowl of Pirate's Booty which, coincidentally, I hate almost as much as Play-Doh. I mean, would I rather dry my face with 40-grit sandpaper than eat Pirate's Booty? No. But 150-grit? Possibly.