So the Kid is in the tub and I peel and hand her a bar of soap, which she peers at, with grave suspicion.
"This is not our usual brand of soap," she pronounces, as Nero Wolfe would declare, This is not the murder weapon I ordered you to retrieve, Archie!
"That's so," I agree. "Unfortunately, the Harps is out of that soap, and I am not going to Wal-Fart, not today. Not in this heat."
Not ever again, if I can help it.
She frowned, attempting to decide if she should stage a rebellion.
"It's Ivory," I said, winningly, "so pure it floats!"
She kept frowning. But then she said, "Does it actually float?"
Heh, thinks I. "Try it and see," I said, ever so craftily, and she tossed it at the water -- lo, it did float! -- and I drifted smugly down the hallway, leaving her singing made-up TV commercials to herself, about Ivory, the soap so pure it floats.
Oh, yes. I'll take my Trickster Mama award now.