Mom’s curled up on the couch with a book and a cup of coffee, and I want to be too. “Hey mom.”
She lays it down and fixes her eyes on me. “Tell me about your first day at work.”
I plop down. “I soo love it! There was like a party of toddlers who came in. They tested my patience and my multitasking skills which happen to be lacking,” I raise one finger, “but I’m learning the art of distraction. I love the dresses, the cupcakes, and Fernando! He’s a crazy-amazing baker. You should see the things he can do with frosting.” I hold up my phone to show my mom a few pics I took.
“Check it.”
Her eyes widen as she backs away from my phone in her face. “Very impressive.” She agrees.
I lay my phone down in my lap. “I know.”
She stares at me…maybe. “Any cute boys?”
“Only the most delicious Mudpie Mojo I’ve ever met,” I spill.
“Excuse me?”
“Mom, you know I love Mudpie Mojo ice cream! It’s my favorite! And this guy. Oh, he’s so yummy. He’s just like the ice cream: the perfect combination of coffee, peanut butter, and chocolate, three of my favorite things.”
She laughs at me! “Katie, he’s a boy, not food.”
“Yeah, I know. But he’s got the most perfect brown eyes, a perfect tan, and a dimple in his chin that I just want to nibble.” I stop. I’ve said too much. Mom’s eyes are buggin’. I pat her knee. “Don’t ask if you don’t want honesty, mother.”
She sits back, all prim and proper. “Katydid. There are some details that you only tell your girlfriends.”
“Yeah, probably.” I hop up. “I hear the bathtub calling my name, along with some awesome-smellin’ bath bombs.”
“Great idea! Go and enjoy a nice hot bath! It’ll feel good after your first day of work.” She returns to her book. I’ve been dismissed.
I race up the stairs, humming as I go. One of my weaknesses is bath bombs. While some girls can spend all day in a jewelry store, I can spend the same amount of time in a bath bomb store. The fragrance alone is time worthy; not to mention all the fun names given to each individual bath bomb. Then there is the shape and the appearance of each bath bomb. I particularly love those that are lemony, because I can easily imagine myself… sitting beneath a lemon tree, just a girl with her parasol and hour-glass figure, held in ever so tightly in a corset. I nibble on little tea crackers like a dainty Southern belle when the man of my dreams saunters in, all button-up shirts and suspenders, barefooted on the lush green lawn. He holds out a hand with his charming sideways grin. “Care to dance?”
Me and my fifty pounds of lace float up from the ground as smooth as levitation. I hold out a dainty hand attached to a flirty fan, playing peek-a-boo. “I do declare”.
He takes my hand as his other goes to my waist. We waltz lazily among the young boys running about in their knickers, playing a game of catch in the yard, bare-chested in their snappy suspenders, overjoyed to be in the South and wealthy with our monstrous mansions with giant pillars on our front porches…
“Katie!”
I holler down the stairs. “What, Mom?”
“I think I’ll make chicken salad for supper.”
“Sounds perfect-o.”
I sink down in the tub of all things velvety soft and flowery.