Play-Doh

Play-Doh is back in my life. A friend bought Baby a 50th Anniversary pack with so many amazing colors it made her Crayolas bitter with jealousy. When I cracked open that first little jar of teal that smell brought back so many memories of...that smell. Come on, I'm sure like me you couldn't freakin' remember more than three or four things from when you were of Play-Doh'ing age unless you underwent a talking cure on Sigmund Freud's couch. Still, there is something comforting and soothing about that smell. I vaguely recall reading somewhere that they pump it into airports, shopping malls and prisons just to calm everyone's nerves. Obviously, if you've ever been to an airport, shopping mall or prison you know that a healthy percentage of people remain immune to the Play-Doh scent's magical effects. Perhaps one day we will read a study revealing that for 50% of smellers the Play-Doh odor actually activates the neurotransmitter for "being an a-hole." Who knows. I also recall reading about somebody escaping from prison with a gun made out of Play-Doh. If that didn't actually happen, it should, provided the person has been put behind bars for a crime he did not commit involving an unreliable witness, that three strikes law, and the theft of a loaf of bread. Anyway, Baby loves Play-Doh and I have never before felt such appreciation for my artistic talents. Not having much of which to be proud in the professional arena of late, any sign of approval or gratitude from anyone for anything I do comforts me in a way the Play-Doh smell never could. For instance, the other day me and a person in oncoming traffic stopped at a stop sign at the exact same moment, and I needed to make a left turn while he was apparently going straight. I flashed my brights to indicate that he should go first and he did, waving a heartfelt thank-you to me on the way as if I had just cured cancer. That felt great. At the gym I glanced at a fetching young woman bouncing along on a nearby treadmill. She smiled at me as if to say, thanks for acknowledging my gym-induced hotness, you're not so bad yourself, now go back to your business, I'm not inviting you to sleep with me. That felt great, too. And then Baby asked me to make a cup of coffee with the black Play-Doh and I fashioned a little mug with a handle and put some light brown Play-Doh in the cup and handed it to her and she said, "Dada, you made coffee faw me!" and smiled so brightly I was nearly moved to tears until she took a fake sip then real bite out of the cup and I had to explain that Play-Doh was for pretending, not for eating. Feeling emboldened, I asked her what else she wanted me to make, and over the course of the next few days I sculpted a bowl of soup, pancake, noodle, pizza, cup of tea and happy face. The results were less felicitous when she requested a frog, whale, buffalo, rhino, lion, tiger and Thomas the Train. To each one of these creations she responded with a sour face, look of rage, or hysterical crying. I dread the future when she asks me to make a woolly mammoth, Michelangelo's Moses, a strand of DNA, the Hall of Mirrors at Versailles, or fried calamari. Sensing my apprehension, Baby has for the time being gone back to requesting coffee cups, plates and the like from Dada and is working diligently on making her own frogs.