nice weather. I pull out a short-sleeved, white blouse and unroll a flared, red skirt. I am an expert packer. I read this article in Cosmo or something about traveling and how rolling your clothes instead of folding avoids wrinkles and it was right. This is a major perk for me, because I am not an ironer. I ruined my favorite Express white buttoned down shirt in high school while pressing it and to this day I have yet to pick up another iron. I am now anti-iron. My dad is a huge fan of ironing. Whenever I am home for a visit, I get the pleasure of extra pressed clothing thanks to him. In my shoe bag, I drag out a pair of matching red, strappy sandals. I heart these shoes so much. Brianna and I had both eyed them while shopping and lucky me, they only had my size. Brianna is incredibly tall and has the shoe size to match. While I am not so tall. I refuse to use the title of “short” or vertically challenged, I’ll pass on that one too.
Starvation tugs on my stomach. Of course, I’m not a poster child for malnutrition, but I should’ve taken my mom up on food last night. I’d just wanted to go to bed. Now I’m woozy and weak. Is it possible to pass out from being extremely hungry in the morning? Hopefully, I’ll never have to find out. I bet my mom has whipped up a batch of palatable food for me. As I know Megan has yet to shower, which means she won’t be coming downstairs until she has primped properly.
I mosey down the creaky maple wood stairs. Pictures line the hunter green papered walls along the way. Images of Megan, Luke, and me are in various frames of all shapes and sizes. Some of the photos are undeniably cute while others are awkward and staged—the kind of photos you’d see on funny cards at Target. Despite this, my mother chose to keep them up. My favorite photo is black and white of my family at Bush Gardens; we all dressed up in pioneer attire and posed properly. Luke and my dad have shotguns, Megan and my mom have wooden spoons and I opted for a doll. I was only five in the photo, which makes the doll seem legit.
Would she notice if I replaced the photos with different ones? This might be a challenge for when I return at Christmas. Better yet, I could see if I could restage the photos with newer ones of us. That would be pretty funny. Especially our acrobat impression. Megan and I had hung upside down from a tree while holding Luke’s feet steady for his one-armed headstand. We were practicing for our Cirque du Soleil auditions. Of course we were only kids pretending, but it sure seemed real. Eventually we gave up on that idea and moved on to other areas of expertise. Like for instance, I’m great at walking down stairs without falling. I nod as my foot misses the last step, almost as if I planned it. Except I didn’t. This is probably a side effect from lack of food.
Mmm…blueberries. Yay, my mom must have made her famous blueberry muffins. They are from a box and the blueberries are in a can. However, they are incredibly scrumptious. I’ve had my share of blueberry muffins at fancy bakeries all up and down the east coast but there is something different in my mom’s version. I’ve never been able to place it. Maybe, it’s because she made them. The stairs lead into the kitchen. It has a light oak corner table with a bay window that my mom added some cushions to for extra seating. The windows are lined with a French chef scene. It’s not the standard chubby French Chef you would see at local retailer’s mass market produced. Instead it features a mime French chef with a beret dancing in the kitchen, he is dressed in white and black horizontal striped bow neck long-sleeved shirt with black tight pants, a red scarf is around his neck and he has a connoisseur mustache. At the stove is a glamourous female chef almost a cross between Audrey Hepburn in Breakfast at Tiffany’s with Nigella Lawson’s body. She is wearing a pink frock topped off with a string of pearls around her neck and is stirring a big pot of red sauce. Crimson text along the print of the white fabric reads “Toujours Cuisinez Avec Du Vin”, repeated throughout and it is framed by a crimson satin hem. The window treatment has varied over the years. Yet, my mom changes out the cushions with the season or theme. Today they are turkeys dancing with cornucopias on their heads. The pillows’ background has small writing that reads, “Do the Gobble Wobble.” Musical notes are dispersed throughout. Eating at the table is almost like being in a diner booth, with its closed-in, festive atmosphere.
My mom is in her spot—the only actual chair for the table. She’s wearing her fuzzy blue robe with white clouds scattered across it. Her salt-and-pepper, wavy hair is parted to the side, held in place by two cow-face bobby pins. She’s drinking coffee out of her The Price is Right mug. She swears she made it on the show. I have searched the internet high and low and have never been able to find any evidence to prove this. Her Sudoku puzzle is spread out on the table. The lady loves her Sudoku and crossword puzzles. She has a bookcase in the office full of completed crossword puzzles. Last year my dad bought her a new bookcase for her Sudoku books. It already has two complete shelves. Ever since Bob Barker left The Price is Right she has quit watching.
“Hi, honey. Did you sleep well?” Her eyes remain focused on her puzzle.
“Pretty good.” I rub my back, wishing that were true.
I’ve slept better, a lot better. The bed has the same mattress from my elementary days. That was at least fifteen years ago. The mattress definitely needs to be replaced, but I don’t think it’s a top concern for my parents. Especially since I’m the only one who ever sleeps on it. Although, I’m still not convinced of any possible Brian upgrading attempts.
Maybe after my wedding they’ll get a queen-size bed with a new mattress. At least it’s what they did when both my brother, Luke, and sister, Megan, got married. A brand-new bed at my parents’ house as a wedding gift seems lame. I guess if I was getting married that would be the least of my concerns. I haven’t even had a serious boyfriend since Scott. I roll my eyes. What a waste of two years. I know hindsight is twenty-twenty, but you would think I was completely blind the entire time I was in a relationship with him. Of course it was a long-distance relationship and every time we reunited it seemed like we were a part of the theory of absence makes the heart grow fonder but in reality we really weren’t. I think the idea of a relationship was what I wanted but I wasn’t thinking clearly about the “who” factor. A warm body does not equate to a good mate. During an extended weekend get together I took an extra day off of work to make it a four-day holiday instead of three, and I realized how much I really did not care for Scott. I don’t think it mattered to him. Which was even more proving of the fact, we didn’t belong together and thus I ended it. This was almost a year ago.
My dating life in Maryland has been non-existent. For one, I put in a lot of overtime at work. And two, it seems as if I’m only ever really aware of my single status when Brianna is dating someone and then I’m all alone sitting on my grey couch watching The Vampire Diaries on repeat. I imagine I’m back in high school and having to deal with two guys wanting to be with me. It’s always such a difficult choice to decide between Damon and Stefan, I usually end up choosing both. Ha!
I reach for a mug from the cabinet. It’s my favorite cup to use when I’m home. I bought it for my mom at a garage sale a few summers ago. It reads “I’m Going Pecans” and has a woman sprawled across a pile of pecans, looking as if she has given up. I have yet to see my mom ever use it. On the counter rests the ancient coffee machine. My parents have had the same coffee machine for as long as I can remember. Though, it seems like I’m consistently having to replace my own. My dad would point out this is because “they don’t make things the way they used to anymore. Nope, it’s all a scheme to keep you buying more. More crap, I’ll say.” I try not to give him any type of electrical gear for presents, I would not want to hear about how it broke after x amount of times of using it. Nope, I stick to clothing for him.
Where will the liquid sitting in the clear carafe fall on the coffee scale? My mom makes the weakest pot of coffee on earth, except for one of my friends from college who actually reused the grounds. Who does that? I like a strong, freshly ground brew with real cream.
I pour the brown imposter into my mug and sprinkle in some non-dairy powder flakes. The flakes sit on top of the liquid staring back at me. I can almost imagine them laughing at me. The little flecks of white remind me of fish food.
