Truly, you have a dizzying intellect.

Medium Fry has come unglued.

Why?

Because she had to go upstairs to use the potty, since Unca D was using the potty downstairs.  But that's not really the reason why she's unglued.  No, the reason is that she could not reach the soap to wash her hands.

Now, we have to hide the liquid soap dispensers, or we'll go through it faster than milk.  So, all those little bars of soap that we've accumulated from hotel stays have been classified as Fry Soap, and we keep them out for the girls.  It also cuts down on the amount of bubbles they create with the soap, and thus the sheer amount of time they spend washing their hands.

And I know that there's still remnants of one of those soaps upstairs on the sink counter.

That soap is what caused Medium to come unglued.

She refused to use it, instead saying she couldn't reach it.  (She could.)  No, she couldn't use it because it was down to a sliver of the bar left, and it had broken in half during one of Large Fry's previous hand-washings.

And because it was broken, it couldn't be used.  It would no longer work.

We only discovered that this was the problem when we had to insistently order Medium Fry downstairs and we were then able to investigate the reason for her crying jag.

Hubby insisted that broken bar soap was not a reason to cry.  Medium said she just wanted to go back upstairs and cry some more.  We both said no.  She insisted that she needed to go back upstairs so she could cry some more.

Hubby regarded Medium thoughtfully.  "You didn't nap today, did you?"

Medium nodded sadly.

"Come here."  He pulled her onto his lap.  And that's when we found out that soap apparently loses all its cleansing properties when it's broken.  (Much like I believe calories vacate broken cookies, but that's another story.)  Hubby tried to explain that the soap would still work; being broken doesn't mean it won't work.  Soap is special that way.

Medium disagreed.  Stringently, as it turned out.  In somewhat garbled sentence structure, she explained that it was broken because it broke, and so it wouldn't work.  Hubby listened intently.

About then, I came back into the living room from the kitchen, where I'd been working on supper and heard the end of this conversation.  Medium finished up her explanation, and Hubby looked over at me.  "What does the Man in Black say?"

I gave him a slightly confused look; I knew which movie he was referencing, but I needed more context.

"When he's talking to Vizzini.  What does he say?"

Ah-ha.  "Truly, you have a dizzying intellect," I quote, with the precise accent of the Man in Black.

"Exactly," Hubby says on a laugh as he looks at Medium.

Yeah, Medium has one of those that would rival Vizzini.