Remind me that I should arm my next kite with a feather duster; don't you think?
E loves to pepper me with questions about suffragettes because why can't women vote? and I love that gender inequality is still so completely foreign and puzzling to her. L mostly loves to stand inches from my nose and say something sassy so that I can, like Mary to her mirror reflection, pronounce her "cheeky."
There is, to L's mind, no more delightful criticism.
So I was wondering: do you ever yell at your google? In your head, of course, because I clearly don't yell out loud at my computer- but I was googling "the gubbler" to see if that phrase is in use anywhere besides our household, and The Google got impertinent with me:
The gubbler is not a Thanksgiving pun, google (insert eye roll here). It's a beloved toy in the noteverstill house, and like many beloved toys its story begins auspiciously--
--when L rescued it from its trip to the recycling bin.
The gubbler is a pump dispenser bottle that once held children's hair conditioner that, silly me, I was ready to cast off into the great land of Triangle Code #1 reincarnation.
An Interlude for Pronunciation Clarification:
Gubbler (noun). One should enunciate the two Bs. Gubbler rhymes with "bubbler," not with "doubler."
So the gubbler is the most in-demand bath toy in our collection. Mostly it dispenses the batter for water pies, but sometimes it gets employed as a fire hose for those emergency bath fires, and every so often it pours mud on bad guys to trap them. You understand.
It's the best of childhood. It's imaginitive and not-real and nonsensical and treasured. It's plastic junk. It's the gubbler.
You're not paying attention, are you? You're still thinking about yelling inside your head at the computer.