The Road Not Taken -- Maybe For A Reason

I've been thinking about that Robert Frost poem recently, the one
titled "The Road Not Taken," but usually mistakenly referred to on
countless truck-stop keepsakes as "The Road Less Traveled."

The
end of the poem goes: "Two roads diverged in a wood, and I / I took the
one less traveled by/ And that has made all the difference."

People
who need to feel better about their poor choices read those words,
probably painted on porcelain plates in their bathrooms, and take
comfort in the illusion that they're living unconventional lives. But
the catch is, Frost doesn't say the outcome of his trip was good. Just
that his decision made all the difference. And that he can't go back
and change it.

That poem sprang to mind when a woman cornered me
at an indoor play area last week. She was my mom's age, and I
mistakenly thought the twin 22-month-olds she toted around were her
grandkids. They were not.

"My husband needed children, so I had
them," she explained, as though she were talking about knitting socks.
Her youngest grandchild is 6. Her oldest son is older than her husband.
Her third husband.

She started in on the Kabalah and how if I
don't send Zev to a religious school he has a "70 percent chance" of
becoming a drug addict. She said I should have many children. She said
I should hire a nanny. She said I should eat less meat (not for health
reasons, but as a budget cut to help pay for the nanny).

"You have a lot of opinions," I said, trying to ease away from her.

"Not opinions," she said, raising her finger in the air. "Experience."

Ah, experience.

Clearly,
Grandmom has taken the road less traveled by. And clearly it has made
all the difference – but why is it that lonely road travelers like her
think I want to retrace their brambly paths and rush toward their
experiences?

I like the beaten path. It's got fantastic
amenities, good lighting, lots of company. Just think about what the
road less traveled has to offer: nothing. No bathrooms, no Starbucks,
no truck stops from which to buy Frost-inscribed knickknacks. Nothing.

My
mom is about to discover this. This week she is leaving Israel to
embark on a journey to – I think – Slovenia. The reason I'm not sure is
because she was not entirely sure where she was headed. She just hooked
up with a tour group and "where they are going, that's where we're
going," she said. It's a very romantic way to choose to travel – but so
is hitchhiking on dark, desolate highways, and I wouldn't recommend
that, either.

I know the Frost poem is a metaphor, but it's
kinda a lousy one because if you were ever truly faced with a forked
road, it'd be lunacy to choose the one that veers away from everyone
else. When I was a news reporter, I covered the funeral of a
39-year-old woman who died from exposure. She had gotten lost while
driving in the desert, and decided – so it seemed, anyway – to get out
of her car and die.

Her friends were touchy-feely new age types
who opted to "celebrate," rather than question, the woman's choices,
but I had to wonder how far off the beaten path she must have wandered
that she couldn't find her way back to a main road. Her friends swore
she didn't commit suicide, that she didn't have a reason to, but who
chooses the road that leads to sure death? Or, for that matter,
newborns younger than your grandkids?

Zev wasn't done playing, but Grandmom wasn't done talking – so I packed up our stuff and said goodbye.

"Where are you going?" she asked.

It
was such an abrupt and impudent question. We hadn't arrived together.
We didn't even exchange names; what business was it of hers where I was
going?

"Not down the path you've taken, I hope,"I said in my head. "I have to go," I said out loud, adding under my breath, "back to planet Earth.''

Maybe
I'm just doing the same thing everyone else does – using
poetry-turned-pabulum to convince myself that my choices are the right
ones. But I doubt it. If Grandmom's trail is the road less traveled,
she can weather it alone.

I got in my car, and got on the freeway.

More Belly Achin'

People don't know this, but pregnant women eventually have children.

People
think they know this. They see a pregnant woman, and they understand,
on some level, that the lumpy protrusion she's carrying around contains
a small human life form. But they don't truly grasp it.

How else
to explain the wild disparity between the way a woman is treated when
she is with child versus the way she's treated when she is with
children?

Oh, I remember the days when my enormous form would
elicit smiles and loving words from total strangers. Women I didn't
know told me I was beautiful. Men stopped me to reminisce about their
wives' or girlfriends' pregnancies.

Now I'm just the motor
behind an unwieldy stroller that bruises people's ankles and terrifies
small dogs. I'm the woman getting looks because I should have known
better than to bring my toddler on an airplane – he's small; couldn't I
have just mailed him to our destination?

I was once a glorious
symbol of human fecundity. Now I'm just some kid's mom, and I'm taking
an awful long time with that squirmy potty-trainer in the bathroom
stall.

“I bet I could burst out in a fit of tears right here,
and a crowd of people would surround me, saying, ‘Oh, what's wrong?
What can we do for you? Comped meal?' ” a very pregnant Maura noted
over dinner at a restaurant the other night. “But if he cried,” she
motioned to Zev, “it would be, ‘Shut that damn kid up.' ”

She's right – but why?

True,
kids move erratically and have the ability to leak fluid from every
orifice. They make a lot of noise for no apparent reason, and they
require bizarre and space-consuming gear. They're messy, fussy and not
a little bit gassy.

But so are pregnant women.

Maura and
I were working on a theory as to why this phenomenon occurs, why
society loathes moms but loves mothers-to-be. But when the food
arrived, Maura dove into her plate, Zev demanded to be taken to the
potty and we both lost our train of thought.

Forced to figure
this out on my own, I can only guess that it has something to do with
our national fascination with the Next Big Thing.

We love
expectation – anticipating something that is just outside our grasp.
Camping out in line for the first “Star Wars” film must have exceeded
the joy of actually seeing the film. Would anybody watch “American
Idol” if the buildup to the finale weren't so deliciously orchestrated?

A pregnant woman is like a wrapped present or a furniture
catalog; when we look at her, we can enjoy the idea of something –
which is often more gratifying than the thing itself.

Of course,
the “thing” in this case is a baby. A noisy, inconvenient baby. And
what baffles me is that a pregnant woman is always pregnant with a
baby. What else could be expected of someone who's expecting? Nobody
goes into labor and delivers a unicorn or a rainbow. There's no
mystery. The only mystery, to me, is why baby-haters love gestaters so
much.

People have to know that eventually that pretty pregnant
lady will be flabby and overworked and tired of being judged for her
child-rearing decisions. Now, I'm not suggesting that society stop
bending over backwards for pregnant women. These poor souls have had
their bodies hijacked and have no idea what they're in for – give them
all the adoration you can.

What I'm saying is that there is no
reason the party has to end when the cord is cut. Instead, people
should view pregnancy for what it really is: the first step to a long,
long commitment.

Here's what I propose: Everyone reading this
should adopt one pregnant woman. Pick just one that you know, love her
up the way you already do – get her a mid-afternoon snack, rub her
shoulders, forgive her bizarre emotional outbursts. And then continue
to do this for the next 18 years.

Maybe you'll have to throw in
a few extra snacks for the moppets, and you'll definitely have to hold
off on scolding the woman when her little ones scream on the plane. But
otherwise, it won't be all that different than the way you treated her
before she popped.

If you need me, I'll be at the table with Maura, awaiting my random acts of kindness

Born At The Right Time

A recent study found that the eldest children in families develop a
higher IQ than their siblings. Since I'm 10 years older than my only
sibling, I gobbled up the research with crow-footed glee. But one thing bugged me:
The study also said younger sibs tended to be more “groundbreaking” and
creative than their older counterparts.

“That hardly seems fair,” I thought to myself. “Why can't I be smarter and more innovative?”

I IM'd Sis for some answers.

Me: So there have been a number of stories in the papers lately about studies linking birth order to IQ and success in life.

Sis: Yes. I heard about it on “The View.”

Me:
OK. So you know that they say that firstborns have a better chance at
having a higher IQ, but that younger children are more likely to be
revolutionaries, right?

Sis:
Yeah, yeah. I think probably in most families that is very true, but
sometimes when the older sibling is really smart and excels at
everything the younger sibling tries to immulate that.

Me: Emulate.

Sis: Hahahaha.

Me: Or, in our case, maybe immolate.

Sis: See! Why is it that you know such good English and you had the same parents as I did?

Me: I read books. What did you think about this whole aspect of the study showing that younger siblings are revolutionaries?

Sis: Well, I think you had more of a bond with our parents than I did so you were perfect and did what they wanted.

Me: Uh-huh. I'm not sensing any resentment or anything.

Sis: I think that's true.

Me: What's true?

Sis:
That I changed the way things were in the house. Just because you were
first, and had things a certain way didn't mean I was gonna do that
too. And I didn't.

Me: OK,
I guess that's a form of revolution. What about in terms of your
approach to life? You did go into journalism after all – apparently to
immolate me.

Sis:
Hahahaha. Well I'm both! I tried as hard as I could to be like you the
best I could, but no more than that. No overachieving. Just achieving.
I agreed with the study, but I'm saying that the opposite is true also.

Me: What about the study did you agree with?

Sis: Hold on let me find it somewhere. Send me a link to the study.

Me: [I send a link.] I'd like to point out that you said you were going to find the study and then asked me to send you a link.

Sis: LOL. See!

Me: More telling is that I did it.

Sis: [After
reading it.] OK. So … I would say that the study shows older siblings
have a higher IQ than their younger siblings because of the family
dynamics. And in our case that was definitely true. You were quiet and
dutiful because it was easier for you to be. Being a little kid with a
bunch of older people was harder, and I tried to get attention by doing
not so smart things while you got attention for doing great things and
just being yourself.

Me: Well that's a giant oversimplification of my childhood, but OK. Also "not so smart things" isn't what you did to get attention.

Sis:
Yes it is. Screaming and acting up, and running around, while you were
quiet and studied. If I had your life, I would be different.

Me: You'd be you, but with a younger sister. We were both essentially only children.

You
had a much tougher family dynamic than I did. [Our father died when Sis
was 12, after a long battle with cancer.] But that had more to do with
Dad's illness, in my opinion, than birth order.

Sis: No.
I think it's birth order. Birth order determined how we got to live. If
I came first I would have had your life. You would have had to have
mine.

Me: Wow. Look at the wording of that ... do we need family counseling?

Sis: Well, it's true. You had delicious hot meals every night [Dad cooked], while I ate Hot Pockets [Mom did not].

Me: Wow.

Sis: What? It's so true.

Me: I know ... it's just ... wow.

Sis:
It would have been a calmer environment. When I went off to college, I
got straight A's because I could study and do what I want.

Me: You got what?

Sis: I did too. Wanna see my first year report card? All A's.

Me: Are you sure you want to go on record saying you got straight A's through college?

Sis: I got straight A's my first year because …

Me: Because you took that high school-level math class that you'd already taken four times before?

Sis: LOL. Noooo!

Me: Three?

Sis:
Four. But that's beside the point. Mom's kookiness and everyone else
wasn't there to make me crazy. There was already a method to how the
family was running that YOU helped create ... not me. And it didn't go
well with my personality so I spent more time arguing than studying.

Me: OK. So since leaving the house, do you find yourself more motivated and intellectually curious?

Sis: Yes.

Me: So I can expect great revolutionary things from you?

Sis: Duh.
       
       
       

Earning the Right To Bare Arms

Long before I had a kid, when I still had a waistline, I visited a
private trainer who fancied himself a health guy. He told me he hated,
hated, hated working with clients who said they just wanted to "look
good in a bathing suit." He was interested in helping people improve
their health. So what, he asked me, would I like to work on?

I
blinked a few times. I was 22 and healthy. I couldn't think of a
reasonable lie, so I told him the truth: "I want arms like TLC."

My
body was fine – sure, I would have liked bigger boobs, but whatever. My
only aspiration was to have appendages as cut and strong-looking as
then-living singer Lisa "Left Eye" Lopes and the rest of her all-girl
pop band.

The trainer gave me a look. I didn't hire him, and I never did work on those arms.

Turns
out, though, I didn't have to. All I had to do was add 10 pounds of
belly flab and a C-section scar to my bod, and – voila – arms so cut
they could scratch glass.

I had no idea that one day a toddler
would become my one and only piece of fitness equipment. But there he
is, all smiles and 25 pounds of him, refusing his stroller, demanding
my arms and – constantly – handing me things.

Whenever Zev finds
a rock or a twig or a scrap of paper that tickles his fancy, he thrusts
it into my hands. I'm asked to carry pebbles, toys, even imaginary
balls. He'll sometimes inexplicably demand, with the utmost
earnestness, that I stop making dinner that very moment, accept one of
his toy trains and "hold it tight."

I think he'd store things in my nose if he could reach that high.

The
weekend that the Disneyland submarine ride made its triumphant return,
I stood in a two-hour line. In the heat. Without water. Carrying a
couple of rocks in my pocket and my son in my arms.

There was
plenty of time for people-watching, so I took note of the fact that
every parent I saw was holding stuff. Sticky stuff, messy stuff,
ridiculous stuff (the sunburned linebacker-looking-dude holding the
miniature pink Cinderella backpack was my favorite). One common theme
to the stuff: None of it seemed to belong to the parents themselves.
They were all just schlepping their kids' junk.

So when Hubby swung by completely unencumbered, I was furious.

"Where's the backpack?" I hissed at him.

"It's in the stroller," he said, motioning to some far-off corner of the theme park where he'd abandoned it. "It's heavy."

I
demanded that he go get it. Not only did the backpack contain my
wallet, but it is a backpack – it's supposed to be on our backs. My
first 45 minutes standing in that line confirmed that carrying a bunch
of junk is the whole point of parenthood. So get with the program,
buddy, and start schlepping.

Besides, carrying stuff may be the only thing keeping most parents from expanding at the same rate as the universe.

I
was in a dressing room at Bloomingdale's recently, trying on swimsuits
and thinking about that personal trainer I never hired. Zev had snagged
a number of bikinis off the low racks and carried them into the
dressing room. As I tried on one of my selections, he kept handing me
his. Without even thinking about it, I took one. Then another. Then a
third.

Before long, I was standing before a full-length mirror,
assessing the horror show that is my body, while holding fistfuls of
swimsuits.

"Zev!" I finally said, realizing what I was doing. "Please don't give me any more. I can't hold them."

If
I wouldn't hold them, Zev reasoned, then he should be allowed to hang
them on the dressing room hooks. So I hoisted him up, and while he
carefully and patience-testingly placed one swimsuit on a hook at a
time, I caught another glimpse of myself in the mirror.

My thighs touched. My belly pooched. But … look at those arms! Unmistakably well-defined triceps. Undeniably strong biceps.

I
may have a few more pounds – and many more pebbles, twigs and toys – on
me than I'd like. But at least being Zev's living fanny pack has paid
off in one area: I finally have those arms I always wanted. They're cut
like TLC.

Sigh. I have to think that somewhere in the world, a health-conscious fitness trainer is laughing his rock-hard glutes off.

Still Playing Dress-Up

I recently sat at a table, in a gaggle of women, sipping Cristal as
a limo waited for us outside a hot L.A. nightclub. It was Keren's
birthday. We were celebrating in style. But all I could think about was
“The Love Boat.”

It wasn't just the
Julie-the-cruise-director short-shorts that all the women at the club
were sporting. (Apparently, camp counselor gear passes for evening wear
these days. Who knew?) I had “The Love Boat” sailing around my brain
because I wasn't entirely comfortable in my outfit

When
I was 6, Sarah's mom set up a “dress-up box” for her – and by
transitive property, me. Boas, hats, high heels, anything that Sarah's
mom didn't want anymore, she'd toss in the box for us to play with. I
never understood exactly how she chose which clothes to toss in the box
for us, but they almost always seemed to be evening wear.

That
dress-up box was a powerful thing, capable of transforming and
transporting us. Donning our mysterious, grown-up garb, we'd go from
being giggly 6-year-olds to embodying our ideal of sophistication,
glamour and sexiness. Which, at the time, meant that we'd pretend we
were guests on the “Love Boat.”

Ah, Capt. Stubing and his
lucky crew! To young Sarah and me, there was not a more enchanting,
romantic, sartorially significant existence than that of the women who
graced the Pacific Princess.

The way they'd sweep into the
ship's dining room in floor-length evening gowns, dripping in diamonds,
poised to fall madly in love – I still swoon just thinking about it.
Sarah and I wanted nothing more than to turn “older,” and take to the
open seas with our consorts and our fabulous clothing.

In the meantime, we'd have to make do with the dress-up box.

I
loved playing make-believe, but I was always acutely aware that it was
a game. I was swimming in those clothes, after all. Half the time, we
probably looked like participants in a very strange potato sack race.
Eventually, though, we just knew we'd grow into those clothes – and
into the mature women we saw at the Captain's table.

Well,
I'm finally “older,” but those clothes aren't any more natural on me
now. At the club the other night, I fretted that my skirt was too
dated. For one thing, it covered my butt, which meant it was by far one
of the longest skirts in the bar. I also doubted my choice of earrings.
And my Spanx struggled to suck in that enormous dinner we all wolfed
down earlier.

Too self-conscious to get up from the table,
I watched some of the other women walk by – the ones who looked dressed
to kill, and the ones who looked as though they had killed their own
dress. It struck me that many of us – maybe most of us – still feel
like we're playing dress-up when we wiggle into formal gowns and
nightclub wear.

No matter how good they looked, women
tugged at their hems and applied coat after coat of lip gloss. They
shifted their weight in a silent complaint about their high heels.

Is
this really all there is to adulthood? I think the reptilian part of my
brain still believed that truly “grown-up” women dress in formal wear
at all times and always look perfectly put together. But reality caught
up with me that night: The women on “The Love Boat” probably slipped
into sweatpants at the end of the evening.
 

I got home after
2 a.m., peeled off my heels and snuck as quietly in the house as I
could so as not to wake up Hubby and Zev. When I woke up the next
morning, I found my clothes piled on the floor. They reeked of
cigarette smoke and sweat, and they looked more like they'd been thrown
away than removed.

Looking at them, I smiled. All these
years later I figured out how Sarah's mom chose which clothes to toss
in the dress-up box. It probably had nothing to do with fashion or how
worn out the clothes were. It was probably much more psychological than
that.
 

At the end of a night on the town, she probably
tossed the outfits that made her feel as though she was wearing
somebody else's clothes.

I've Got A Secret

My stomach hurts.

My stomach hurts, my palms are sweaty and I can’t sleep.

I’m as tweaked as a heroin addict, and every time my phone rings I jump, nervously checking caller ID before I dare pick up.

Years ago I decided to work on my ability to keep a secret. I hated being the girl who ruined everyone’s surprise party. I couldn’t see movies before anyone else without giving away the ending. I was a complete buzz kill at holidays, always blurting out what someone’s gift was  while they were opening it.

So, I worked on it. Practiced biting my tongue. Perfected my poker face. And now I can honestly say that I am able to keep a secret.

But it’s killing me.

By the time you read this, Keren’s birthday will have come and gone.
Her husband’s lavish celebration plans will have been executed, and
good times will be had by all.

But as of this writing, there are four days left until the party, and
I’m about to collapse from the weight of all this privileged
information.

I get all twitchy around Keren. When we hung out recently, I caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror: I looked downright green.

It’s so bad, that I can’t make eye contact with her. In fact, I can
barely make eye contact with anyone. I feel like a criminal. Like prey.
It’s as though I can sense that at any given moment Truth-Seeking
Ninjas are going to crash through my front windows and fight me until I
finally blurt out: “We’re going to have a spa day. Then dinner. Then
clubbing. There, I’ve told you, now please, spare my life!”

It takes most of my energy to rein in my natural
reporter-must-tell-the-world instincts. But the thing that eats at me
the most about keeping someone’s secret is the fear that I’ll let the
news slip accidentally. I already almost ruined the surprise once.

“Why would your husband be calling me?” I asked Keren on the phone, as
my call-waiting caller ID announced Mark on the other line.

Idiot! I realized as soon as I said it. Maybe because he’s trying to tell you something about the
super-secret plans.

“Hang on,” I said to her, as I moved my thumb over to the “Flash” button.

But then I panicked. What if she asks what Mark said? What’s my alibi?

With my thumb still poised over the button, I thought it over: I could tell her that Mark wanted Hubby’s cell number… but
then, why would he need that? Maybe I could tell her he called me
accidentally. That’s it! That’ll work!

By the time I came up with my genius plan, Mark’s call had been sent to
voicemail, Keren moved on to a new thought, and disaster was averted.
But I got off the phone completely wiped out.

I think Keren can sense my weakness because for the last few weeks, she
keeps bringing up her birthday to me – telling me what she’s like to
get for her birthday, asking if I know what Mark is doing for her
birthday. I’ve begun to suspect that she sadistically drops the word
“birthday” into a conversation, like it’s a bomb, just to watch the
veins pop out on my forehead.

“When is your birthday, again?” Boom! “Did Zev have fun at his birthday
party?” Bam! “Did you know that this year my birthday will be on
7/7/07?” Ker-Pow!

I think I need to take out temporary restraining orders on all my friends around their birthdays.

Either that, or get their significant others to stop including me in
their secrets. It’ll make surprise parties harder, sure. And it might
make for a few awkward conversations: I can’t believe
you’d sit here with your wife right in front of you and say you don’t
want to do anything for her birthday! Doesn’t it fall on a Saturday
this year? Hey, why are you shoving that sock in my mouth?!

Difficult, sure. But I have to do something: I shed years off my life
every time someone plans a soiree.  Yes. Staying out of everyone else’s
plans is definitely the way to. I’m going to alert my friends – after
Keren’s birthday. Until then, I don’t have the energy to talk to anyone.

I’m going to lie down. My stomach hurts.

An Open Letter To China

Dear China,

Stop trying to kill me. 

It seems like
every day, I read a new story about how you're pumping up my food,
medicines and hygiene products with antifreeze. First, you have me
frantically reading the ingredients on my dog's pet food to make sure
I'm not feeding her tainted wheat gluten. Then, you target my
toothpaste.

And recently, I had to rummage through all of Zev's
toys to make sure my toddler's favorite choo-choo trains weren't
covered in lead paint. Next, I hear you've slipped unsafe food color
into my juice. 

What gives, China?

Sure, it's possible
that the dissemination of toxic substances is the result of lax
government oversight in the face of cutthroat global economic
realities. But, I prefer to think of this as you trying, very
specifically, to kill me.

After all, the recent recall of
Thomas the Train cars went into effect the very same day I bought my
son a huge train set for his birthday. Coincidence? I think not. And
when did all those Panamanians keel over dead from poisoned cough syrup
manufactured in China? The same week I developed a respiratory
infection! Case closed: You're trying to kill me. Now, stop.

You
have no reason to target me. I'm not a terribly powerful person
(despite the affirmations I tell my mirror each morning), and once you
get to know me, I'm actually kinda nice. I'm certain that if you and I
enjoyed a few beers together, you'd realize you don't really want to
fill my mouth with kerosene.   

You'd know that all I want to do
is to be able to buy ridiculously cheap cough medicine produced through
the toil of impoverished laborers in your country without having to
feel bad … about what might be lurking in the syrup.

I harbor no ill will, China. Can't we just be friends? 

I've
considered the possibility that it's not just me you're after, that
these toxic products are part of a larger plot to bring all Americans
to their knees. But there are two things wrong with this idea: 1. It
takes the focus away from me, and 2. It would never work.

Last
month in Alabama, 11-year-old Jamison Stone unloaded eight shots from a
.50-caliber revolver into a 1,060-pound pig, then chased it for three
hours in the woods, before walking right up to the hulking
9-foot-4-inch beast and shooting it dead with a point-blank shot.   

You think your little red choo-choo trains are going to take down a nation of Jamison Stones? No. Clearly, it's me you're after.

I
think I know why, too: It's because I'm on to you. When the history
books about modern American culture are finally written (in Mandarin,
no doubt), it will be clear that terrorist attacks and diethylene
glycol didn't topple our nation. Britney Spears did. 

I was at
an improv comedy class the other night where actors had to riff on
different celebrities. When given the suggestion "Barack Obama," half
the actors stared at each other blankly.

"Barack Obama is a presidential candidate," the instructor had to explain. 

Another suggestion came in from the audience: "Paris Hilton."

"Yeah, OK," the actors said. "Let's just go with Paris Hilton." 

When
we do bother to pay attention to current events, it's only for the
purposes of exploitation and personal profit. Have you seen Maxim's
July issue featuring Women of the Israeli Defense Forces?

Of
course you have. I have your number, China. Now that I hang out with
stay-at-home moms I have a better grasp of how pervasive – and toxic –
celebrity culture is in America.   

It seems we gobble up more
gossip than cola, cookies and candy combined. There is no way that
anything we consume this much of could possibly be made in America – we
couldn't afford it if it were. So that means, somehow, celebrity
obsession is made in China.

I'm not entirely sure how it all
works, but I'm certain that you want to snuff me out before I get close
enough to Lindsay Lohan to check for a "Made in China" label on the
back of her neck. 

Let me assure you, China, that I have no
intention of foiling your plot. I have completely succumbed –
surrendered – to your mass-produced celebrity obsessions. I'm even
planning on TiVoing Paris Hilton's first post-jailhouse interview.

So
put down the toothpaste, and let's declare a truce: Grab a seat on my
couch, China, click on the tube, and we'll watch what they say about
Rosie on "The View." You can bring the popcorn.   

On second thought, I'll handle the snacks.