As we'll be moving (again) in less than two weeks, we're trying not to purchase more stuff, particularly things we'll have to pack. Like food, and other things from the grocery store. One less thing we have to put in a box over the next ten--sorry, nine--days is a small victory. So we've been nursing our dish detergent, in the hopes that we'll run out on the morning of the move. IT didn't work; we ran out yesterday. As I washed the dishes with bar soap, I had the image in my head of Ralphie, in his peacoat and dark glasses, with his white cane, breaking the news to his distraught parents:
"It 'twas . . . soap poisoning!"
I rinsed thoroughly.