The girls were in the shower this evening and sent Hillary, dripping, out to find me. It seems they had no body wash or shampoo to use, so I went to another bathroom and grabbed travel-size bottles of each for them. They were not enamored of the scent of the body wash, which was a hotel mini-bottle--probably titled something faux French, like "oatmeale et lavendre" or some strange food/plant mixture meant to pass as high-end odeur.
In any case, the girls called the smell "wretched." I asked what they meant by "wretched."
"Well," said Abigail, "it smells like a mixture of fried onions, mushrooms, and burnt toast."
Mmmm--lather up, everybody!
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