Scatterings

I have been the ole proverbial headless chicken (that is in way a reference to Mike the Headless Chicken. I am not a fan of that story or celebration ... it's weird and sad and way too barn-yardy for me. I mean look at the logo on the Web page ... they have the headless chicken wearing a hat. Why would a headless chicken need a hat? Gah) lately since my dear, recuperating coworker has been out of the office.

Yesterday's entry was supposed to include a story about how Margaret asked me (not Santa) for soap for Christmas.

See, she loves smelling stuff. It all started when she was about 2 and we were visiting some friends who have an extensive spice collection in their pantry. Our friend, Robin, spent a good long time opening spice jars and letting Mar smell them.

Mar loved it. It made such an impression that every time we see those friends, (which is not nearly enough as they are really great people) she excitedly recounts the time she and Robin spent smelling spices.

You could say that smelling stuff is a minor hobby of my 6-year-old — it could be worse, I suppose.

So, it's only natural then that she would love the soap display at the bagel shop/local produce gift shoppy place where we often eat.

While we dine on yummy soups and fresh bakery goodies, she smells the soaps. Ones that she really likes, or dislikes, she carries around the table so everyone can take a whiff. She's quite adamant about it. And it's not just enough to smell the soap but you have to comment on the smell as well. I guess you could call her the soap nazi.

On one visit before Christmas she decided that the lavender soap was her favorite. (I find that interesting because lavender was the dominant flower and fragrance at the our friend's wedding. A wedding for which Margaret was the flower girl. Coincidence? I bet not.)

Being the attentive mom that I am (ha! or at least, pretend to be), I made a trip to the store and on Christmas morning Margaret found ... not a lump of coal, but a brick of soap.

Huh? Lavender soap for the 6-year-old. It could be more strange, eh? She could've asked for cheese.