T O D A Y

Drama Queen candidates:
The worst toys ever

Contestant No. 1
Contestant No. 2
Contestant No. 3

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TABLE TALK

Trying to do it all? Discuss the joys and trials of single motherhood in the Mothers area of Table Talk

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R E C E N T L Y

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One mother's gain
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After adopting three children, a mom says it's love, not blood, that makes parents
(01/06/99)

My mother's daughter
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A child of adoption wonders: How much is my nature a product of my nurturing?
(01/05/99)

The baby girl I gave away
By Ceil Malek
Putting up a baby for adoption was the first act of my adult life, but it took me almost 30 years to face what that decision meant for me and my daughter
(01/04/99)

Millennial family values
By Stephanie Coontz
The legislators who are piously "voting their conscience" have been consistently screwing the future for our children
(12/24/98)

ARCHIVES

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Mamafesto
By Camille Peri
Why it's time
for Mothers Who Think

The gunk that stunk
By Fran Liscio

It was called Glarp or Flarp or Blarp, one of those goop toys so in vogue these days, and it was stacked up near the cash register at the toy store. I thought to myself, "Wouldn't the children love tossing it around in the backyard?" The small jars of mauve phlegm were only $1.25 each, so I bought four, and the kids opened one of the jars in the car on the way home.

I assumed these glop-in-a-jar toys were tested at the factory first, so that they wouldn't stick to the kids' hands and clothing and the upholstery on my brand new Taurus. I was wrong. Instead of shimmying smoothly off of little fingers and cargo shorts, the Flarp-Blarp stuck to everything. Attempts to scrub it off the back seat of the car proved fruitless. Attempts to scrub it off the children's clothing and skin were equally fruitless. The scene brought to mind '60s war stories about Napalm, which had that same freakish tenacity.

Later, back in the house, I checked out the Glarp-Flarp more closely. Each of the four jars was a slightly different shade of mauve -- it occurred to me that this product had once been hot pink. I opened up another of the jars, sniffed and nearly gagged. The stuff was rancid. I looked in another jar. It was flecked with small gray and black spots. This one was downright moldy! And yet the jars had been hermetically sealed. What creepy thing was growing in a sealed, airtight jar? I pictured the old "Saturday Night Live" skit featuring the fictitious sleazy toy manufacturer. I could just hear Dan Ayckroyd's announcer voice selling this product: "This here's one of our most popular items. It's called Anaerobic Slime Mold in a Jar. The youngsters love to throw it at each other and introduce deadly, ineradicable spores into their bloodstreams. Also makes a great depilatory for Mom!"

My sister Val and I gathered the children and tried to wrestle away whatever Blarp-Flarp they had. They were reluctant to surrender it. The kids thought this stuff was just great. They didn't care about fungal outbreaks and strange algaes in their little alveoli. They knew a good disgusting mess when they squished it. One might have thought we were asking them to give up a new Spice Girl doll or a Furby, not a discolored, greasy, smelly blob of smegma. Blarped T-shirts went straight into the laundry. Little hands and fingernails were scrubbed with hot water and nail brushes and antibacterial soap. Faces were lathered up and rinsed. We inspected the kitchen and car seats for any more specks of the weird anaerobic alien spawn yeasting away in the upholstery.

When four jars were rounded up and sealed, my sister tucked my receipt into her purse. "We're not paying for this, you know. I'm getting a refund."

"Five dollars plus tax? Is it worth it?" I wondered. Well, yes. It was worth it. I really didn't want the stuff in my house, and just on principle, I was entitled to my money back, which we got. We then promptly reinvested in something far more wholesome and constructive: Spice Girl lollipops.
SALON | Jan. 11, 1999

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