I heard the hissing sound as I scrubbed off the refrigerator. It always seems to get covered with crayon or some mysterious residue that’s a cross between mud and yogurt. Maybe it’s a little bit of both. I don’t know. All I know is that it always seems to wind up on the handle and that I have to scrub it off each night.
Tsssssss. Tssssss. Tsssssss.
What in the world?
Was that---
Could Tom have---
“Tom! That’s disgusting. Say excuse me!” I shouted to him. He was busy playing his airplane game on the computer which means he didn’t have his headphones on for once.
Tom paused his game and whirled around. “Why should I say excuse me?”
Tssssss. Tssssss.
“Because of that! How gross.” I immediately pinched my nose because if you don’t, you’ll die.
“I’m not farting! That’s not me!” Tom shouted indignantly.
I just gave him a Look and went back to washing the fridge. Then I heard it again:
Tssssss. Tssssss.
“Tom, honestly. If you’re going to fart, own it,” I said sharply.
Tom paused his game again. “I’m telling you! It’s not me.” Then he cocked his head to the side. “How do I know it’s not YOU?” He shot me an accusing stare.
I was aghast. “Why would I accuse you of farting if it were really me?” I demanded.
Tom shrugged. “Who knows? Girls are weird!”
Tsssss. Tssssss.
Tom and I both glared at each other.
“So if it’s not you...and it’s not me...who is it?” I wondered.
Tom scanned the room. “Wait a minute. Natalie isn’t here…”
Crap!
It’s never a good thing when your two-year-old wanders off and is QUIET.
So I immediately shoved aside the Lysol and headed for the stairs.
This is where I found my daughter. Playing with this:
Basically she was spraying herself with Citrus Breeze. And when you spray the thing, it makes a hissing noise.
“Natalie Elizabeth! No!” I admonished.
She grinned at me and pressed the spray button. “I smell pretty,” she informed me as she danced in the droplets of Citrus Breeze.
I scooped her up and nearly passed out from the stench. I hope she doesn’t turn into one of those women who practically bathes in perfume and think that they actually smell NICE.
I carried her downstairs. “Your daughter was getting into the sprayer thing,” I told Tom.
Tom took one look at Natalie and burst out laughing.
“It’s not funny! It’s wasteful. She’s going to smell like oranges for a week!” I said. I ran my fingers through her damp hair. “Suppose her hair starts to fall out?”
Tom waved a hand dismissively in the air. “It won’t. She’s fine.”
I glared down at Natalie. “You owe me $3.99 for the spray stuff,” I informed her.
Natalie fluttered her eyelashes at me. “I smell pretty.”
“You smell like you've been bathing in orange juice for hours,” I said.
“I yike oranges,” Natalie answered sweetly.
“Well, that’s great. Because you’ll probably be smelling like them for awhile.”
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