Clif Kid Zbar Filed Apple Almond Butter bar is like Waffle House dessert; like a crunchy slab of toast smeared in apple butter with dribble of syrup pooled in the corner of the plate from the already-eaten waffle. Last time that I tried to take a bath which was as long ago as in the old house (yes, I’m going somewhere with this – I don’t fantasize about bathing in apple butter) the girls naked-ninja’ed into the tub the moment that they heard the pipes churning and thudding from the faucet turning on. My quiet bar-bath-time. Unlike the cliched stress-free, commercial Mom who lounges amongst fragrant bubbles, a wine glass perched on the edge, the swell of her boobies just rising above the fragrant translucent sudsy orbs, nope, I sit in the bath while it grows gray and tepid, clutching whatever catalogue came in the mail, eating a bar. Discarded to the side of the tub to become soggy with rubber squirting fish toys splashes of bath water were the wrapper remains of my Clif Kid Zbar, and an Oriental Trading barking its colorful cover at me to prepare for the approaching Fourth of July.
The new house that the girls and I just moved into has a monstrous bathtub in the master bathroom and I’m looking forward to lounging in it, even if a little bit voyeuristic, as there are two large windows right above it. With all the chaos of searching for a home – everyone said “you’ll see hundreds of homes! You’ll try on a hundred wedding dresses! You’ll eat a hundred bars until you find your favorite!” (OK, maybe the last one is more relevant to me and my bar obsession, and the one in the middle just makes my stomach turn as I’m trying to figure out if I should have a friend model my wedding dress so I can sell it on Ebay) – I really lucked out and the perfect nest for my baby birds and I to land in really just popped on my radar more quickly than I’d expected. But the process after that became hectic, stressful, exciting, nerve-wracking, but eventually a dream come true. And for the few hikes around town with my darling realtor that fate dropped in my lap by eavesdropping on her real-estate-ey conversation in a coffee shop last fall, I had a handful of bars on hand to nibble in between either oohing over the awesome in some houses, or ughing over the grossness of others. And back to Waffle House, there is a sparkly, newly-built Waffle House, barely more than a mile from the new house, so I can smear apple butter on warm pieces of toast, then return to my house to warm peaceful toes in my big bathtub.