Best.Toy.Ever. Or, (Feminine) Hygiene Begins at Home.

The morning, the Babe and I left home, hair wet, clothes barely on, bleary and disheveled, to meet the lovely men of Russell's Moving and Delivery at the H's office, to move his office furnishings, computer and so on back to the house in anticipation of M-Day. Because of his back surgery, he's not allowed to drive, lift or bend, so there was no point in his coming, and he cannot be alone with the Babe--hence her participation in this whirl-o-fun.

The men had already called to tell us they were ready and waiting at the old studio lot where the H has been working these last few months--45 minutes early. I was still sitting at the kitchen table in the fuzzy grey robe the H loathes trying to mainline my caffeine when the phone rang--it was Cesar and his crew, letting us know they were there, waiting for me. Ah. But Russell told me 9 a.m. In about 8.4 minutes, I made Dido's lunch, got dressed, brushed my teeth, grabbed snack, diaper bag and Babe, and raced out the door, to get in my brand new object of lust car (the one I bashed into the Westside Range Rover Mom yesterday, yes, that one) and race off to meet them. Mind you, no one races in Los Angeles at 8:45 in the morning. Gridlock is everywhere; you drive accordingly. But I was only five minutes late, the Babe was strapped into her stroller and behaving in her most charming, flirtatious manner (and when she's on, she's on) and the security at the lot couldn't have been more helpful, or the movers more polite or careful...all was well, progressing ahead of schedule, even. Beware, oh overconfident one. After twenty minutes of watching the movers pack the H's stuff into boxes and arguing with me over whether or not my wallet, and the cash within, were appropriate playthings (you can guess the sides in that debate) lovely Babe morphed--and that word fails to do justice to the immediacy of the transmogrification--into Banshee Babe, screaming, throwing herself on the floor, kicking, beating her tiny clenched fists. Desperate to get through the next seven and a half minutes more or less mentally intact, I went fishing in my purse.

Thanks to the ugly orange bible, my purse is now scarily organized--three different zippered mesh pouches hold make up; my "office"--pens, cards, notebook, stamps, white out, and the like--; and emergency supplies (which include, of course, dark chocolate.) The make up bag is always the favorite, so I started there. Want to help mommy put on lipstick? (First of the day--what the hell, live large!) Nope. Want to look at yourself in the mirror? No way. But then, she saw it. Her eyes dilated, the corners of her mouth stopped pressing themselves down into the ground and perked up. Mascara? Lotion? Some other mess-making opportunity? No, no. Nothing so public domain. A tampon. OB Super, to be exact. Her smile like an arc light, she clutched the object of lust tampon in her hand, and proudly showed it to the moving men, who focused on the fascinating question of how to move the carpet protector under the desk. Only when she started screaming at the injustice of being strapped into her carseat a quarter of an hour later did the Babe throw it across the car floor, its obvious charms faded, its magic betrayed. Next time she throws a tantrum while the H is charge I think I'll suggest this remedy and see what he does.