Gina Calanni - How To Bake The Perfect Pecan Pie

This isn’t a situation where I want to be the alpha user, or rather the first victim. Brian is historically known for coming to my parents’ house and “fixing” things up, when in reality he tweaks things to the point of my father finally caving and calling a professional repairperson.

“Oh wow. Okay.” My lips form a flat line. I try to smile at him as I push past and open the bathroom door. I blow the hair out of my face and exhale through my clenched teeth.

Despite the need to take a shower, this is now the last thing I want to do. Dread fills my mind. But, my hair, amongst other things, needs to be cleaned. There’s no turning back. I shut the bathroom door and hit my head against a rod that’s sticking out from the wall.

“Ow.” I massage my temple.

“Did you see the new towel rack? I made it in my garage,” Brian says through the door.

There is an odd metal contraption hanging from my parents’ bathroom wall. No way I’m using that thing. I drop my towel in a safe place—the toilet.

“Yes, um, that’s neat.”

I wish I were Supergirl and could burn through the metal object that is the source of my pain. I imagine melting the steel into something that could easily be used as a weapon. This is going to be a long weekend.

In the mirror, there is a red bump to the left side of my head. I grimace and bite my tongue to refrain from sticking it out. Someone with more holiday cheer is going to emerge after this cleansing.

Knock. Knock. Knock. “Hey Lauren, remember you are not on one of your spa trips with friends, okay? Other people have to shower as well, so try and keep it brief,” Megan says through the door to me.

I roll my eyes. She is so demanding and accusatory, how does she know if I take spa vacays with my friends? Well, I mean I guess I did tell her about my trip to Sedona with my friend Brianna over the summer. Ah, I wish I was there now listening to the waterfalls in the backdrop as some hunky guy from Europe massaged all the worries out of my bare back. I shrug my shoulders.

“Happy to hear your voice, Megs!” She hates it when I call her that. “I’ll be sure and be extra quick for my favorite sister Meggy-poo.” I laugh. I’m sure she’s flicking me off through the door. But out of sight out of mind.

I run my fingers through my hair and take a deep breath. The new showerhead is large and shiny—an improvement over the rusted one. It’s trying to woo me into turning it on, promising me a squeaky-clean showering experience. I sigh and turn the faucet’s knob, sliding the red dial all the way to hot. I need some steam.

A surge of water flows from the showerhead. I lean back and soak my hair. Could this be an actual improvement thanks to Brian?

I grab my fruit-scented gel and pour an ample amount on my washcloth. I scrub the travel grime from my body. The tub is filled with steam and bubbles swim over my toes.

My commute was around five hours, including the layover in Atlanta. Unfortunately, there isn’t a direct flight from Baltimore to Austin. My parents live outside of Austin—what some might call the suburbs. It’s where I learned to drive, except my parents have a newer home—not one built in the seventies. It was built a decade later. Since my mom and dad never got into the renovation craze, the majority of the house still reflects that time period accurately. There’s lots of gold trim in the bathrooms and green marble. The walls are mostly pastel. My room has a dainty floral print that’s plastered on tight. I tried to take a piece of it down during high school, but was unsuccessful and ended up being grounded for a month.

After college, I luckily scored a job at a credit card company. I usually keep my job a secret and say I work in finance. A casual conversation can go into Mach 5 mode of anger if I mention that I work for a credit card firm. It’s almost as if I said I was an assistant to the devil himself. A few years ago, I would get on my pedestal and defend my employer and their practices, but now I keep it all on the down low.

Speaking of low, the water pressure went from a nice blast to a dribble right in the middle of shampooing. I still have to make it to the conditioning part of this routine. The suds are crinkling in my hair. Maybe if I turn off the faucet, I can trick it into restarting the blast I enjoyed earlier. Turning the knob over to the right again changes nothing. It’s almost as if my parents hadn’t paid their water bill.

That couldn’t possibly be the case. A blast of cold water shoots into my left eye. I wasn’t hoping for a Niagara Falls experience, but the surge will get the suds out. With as much effort as I can muster, I begin to rinse my hair of the shampoo. I try to run my fingers through my hair, but with no conditioner, they barely make it to the nape of my neck. I mush the back of my wet locks together, not a bubble sound to be found. Great. I turn off the knob, hoping to conserve a little water until it’s time to rinse. I plop a huge amount of conditioner into my hand and begin massaging from the bottom all the way to my scalp. Goosebumps have sprouted all over my body as if I’ve seen a ghost. Most likely the water ghost, as the real deal seems to be gone.

There’s no way I could have gone without my conditioner. It’s one thing to deal with the humidity, but humidity combined without conditioner is like going outside without pants—a definite no for this gal. Even in late November, humidity is ever-present in Central Texas.

I scrape my fingers from my scalp, down to the ends of my hair. Yes, conditioning is complete. Here we go again . I turn the faucet on and cross my fingers, praying for hot.

The water is still cold and no longer blasting, but rather shooting out drops of water at a time. The heavens are not on my side this morning. I glare at the faucet, wanting to rip it from the wall. But I know that wouldn’t go over well and I’d find myself sitting at our dining room table for a family meeting.

I sigh and take a deep breath. I turn the knob off again and count to five, hoping my computer restart method will work for Brian’s idea of an improved showering experience.

Showtime. I turn it back on. I’m blasted by hot water. This will do . I make a one hundred and eighty degree turn and rinse the suds from my hair. The creaminess from the conditioner is gone and the water at my feet is clear. That’s it. Bath time is over. I turn the knob all the way to off, thankful I’m clean and can exit this unenjoyable experience.

Talking to my mom about the showerhead situation is a debate I’m not ready to dive into. Especially, not since Brian is wearing the shirt she gave him. I’ve got at least twenty-four hours before I’ll need to use it again. I grab my towel from the toilet. The warm, fuzzy terry cloth is soft on my skin and smells of home. This makes me smile. I wrap it around my head and put on my bathrobe. I’m the epitome of a classic fresh and clean commercial with a makeshift turban wrapped around my head.

Back in my room, I gently tap my phone’s screen to pull up my favorite weather app. Weather.com shows a big sun with black sunglasses (as if the sun would need to wear sunglasses? I guess they didn’t think that one through) smiling with the text 74 degrees written across it. Fantastic. This isn’t the type of temperature I’d have in Baltimore. An added bonus to visiting my parents over the holidays—having 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.