It's still the same old clay. It gets hard and crusty within days of hitting the open air, begins to crumble on contact, the colors get mixed up, it falls on the floor collecting hair, dust, crumbs, only to be scooped up and mixed back in with the parent ball so by day three you've got this dense dry cluster of floor garbage mixed in (a thought that gags me for some reason) and a clump so hard your 2-year-old can make a ball out of it. Then there are the accessories. Many times it comes with some sort of device meant to smoosh the play-doh through a tight space, to make hair, legs, squiggly things, although the brainiacs at Hasbro headquarters must never spend time playing with their product because they leave no easy method for prying the play-doh OUT of the contraptions. It gets stuck in there and hardens making it impossible to use it again. It makes one want to pitch the entire disdained lot out the back door. Grrrrr.
So apparently I am not the only woman to suffer from a hidden play-doh hatred. Just the mere mention of play-doh to a group of tired mommies will bring out cries of anguish and disgust. I have yet to cross one mother that does not detest the vile stuff. How is it that a toy that is loathed by one set (the grown ups) is adored by the small fry? It's the first toy they ask for, the first one out on the table with these little faces looking up at you saying mama play with us. How can you resist? So you cave fully knowing you'll be crawling around under the table in a few minutes dabbing the crumbs and sweeping the rest. I must love my kids a lot because I let them use play-doh. I should be nominated for saintly mother of the year for that one alone. I'm pretty sure the devil sits on a giant dry, cracked, hairy crumby throne made of multicolored play-doh, just another reason I'm not going there in the next life.