Aux oligo-éléments marins.

HIM: I see that this is allegedly multi-sensory bubble bath.

ME: Sure. It probably tastes like chocolate and sounds like a steam engine.

HIM: Surely there's more to it than that.

ME: I expect it also feels like being poked repeatedly with a pencil eraser. It's educational.

HIM: I mean -- this is the twenty-first century. We don't just believe in five senses anymore. There's proprioception, and temperature, and, uh, whatever the sense of acceleration is called.

ME: Oh, good point. So it's a hash bath, is what you're saying. Where are my hands? I lost track of them again. Oh, here they are, under the bubbles. 

HIM: AAAAH AM I MOVING?! Oh, no, I'm not, it's just the bubble bath. Right.

ME: And actually, tasting like chocolate is totally old news. There's probably been chocolate-flavored bubble bath since 1963.  

(We put Jane in the bath. She seems to enjoy it.)

ME: Jane, is it a festival of the senses? Does it smell like loneliness and taste like the number four?

HIM: (fiddling with the laptop) Does it taste like THIS?

 

But no, actually, it's just blue. SCIENCE!

Comments

[ben]

I would be more concerned about the fact that it's apparently evil.

[Elsa]

My first thought, too, ben: I mean, it says so right there. It's one thing when products try to sneak a little evil in, but to include it in the product description? That's some shamelessly evil baby wash.

[David Auerbach]

This is awesome.

"Hash bath." Hee. "My hands...they can touch everything EXCEPT THEMSELVES."

[ben w]

When I press my two hands together, it is not a matter of two sensations felt together as one perceives two objects side by side, but of an ambiguous set-up in which both hands can alternate the roles of "touching" and being "touched". What was meant by talking about "double sensations" is that, in passing form one role to the other, I can identify the hand touched as the same one which will in a moment be touching. In other words, in this bundle of bones and muscles which my right hand presents to my left, I can anticipate for an instant the integument or incarnation of that other right hand, alive and mobile, which I thrust toward things in order to explore them. The body catches itself from the outside engaged in a cognitive process; it tries to touch itself while being touched, and initiates "a kind of reflection" which is sufficient to distinguish it from objects, of which I can indeed say that they "touch" my body, but only when it is inert, and therefore without ever catching it unawares in its exploratory function. Doncha know.

[heebie-geebie]

This post cracked me up.