So yeah, did I mention that I live with my parents? Most days
anyway. It’s alright, I mean it is what it is. I’m twenty-six years
old, and I sleep on a fun-size bed, a door and two feet away from my
parent’s true-size one.
Dad’s a Civil War Junkie, and my Momma’s addicted to Facebook. So the
majority of my nighttime freedom is spent discussing reenactments gone
wrong and giving tutorials on updating a cover photo, or my all time
fave — de-friending someone. My mom actually does that a lot. She
even de-friended me once.
One particular evening, I was treated to yet another fascinating
parental topic: potato salad…. Yeah, that stuff you eat. So there I
was, lying in bed, trying to make peace with my current situation
(wannabe writer living with her parents), when I heard this popular
BBQ side dish mentioned.
My father and mother spoke in hushed voices and occasional giggles (I
know. Gag.), trying to determine the perfect recipe. Dad argued that
it was the mayo that made it great. Hellman’s and the right amount —
no need to overload. Momma said it was definitely the relish that
brought it together. Like the kind Aunt Judy makes.
As I lied there, in my fun-sized bed, listening to this “you can’t
make it up” pillow talk, I couldn’t overcome an intense desire to
dissolve into my mattress and leave it all behind. Surely, this had
to be a true blue low point if ever there were one. I mean, could my
life be any lamer?! Potato salad — are you kidding me?
At about that moment, I caught a whiff of fabric softener. That
expensive kind Momma buys. My Dad laughed out loud, and our dog,
Champ, jumped up and curled right into the crook of my legs.
And I found myself thinking, mayonnaise, relish, and just a little bit