Cinnamon Girl

Ever since Marcia became certified in feng-shuiaromatherapy, Jan's had house envy.

You walk into her home and it's obvious that she has rid her environment of hostile energy forces and the scent of canine ass. Charger cords are tucked neatly in a wicker basket that her handy husband drilled holes in so the cords won't show. Junk mail in the recycling center conveniently located by her custom children's locker section in her garage. All sixteen rooms in her outer-ring suburban chalet are in perfect order.

And with the holidays right around the corner, gone is the smell of lemon verbena and hither is a new smell. What is it?

Sniff, sniff. Hmmm.

Sniff, sniff.

A...a....a

Achooo! Uh. Jan's allergies. Long after all plant life has perished. And Tiger's death.

Still, she can't help but breathe in the wonderful aroma.

That smell. What is that marvelous smell?

Marcia's house smells like cinnamon. Like mulled cider.

How does she does it?

"Did you bake something?" Jan asks, dully

I mean, maybe she did. How would Jan know? She never even offers her a glass of water, let alone a home-baked treat. Those generosities are saved for the people on Marcia's tennis team. The people she wants to impress.

"Oh, I made some cinnamon rolls for the kids before school, but they're gone now."

Oh. I see.

Yeah, I'm sure her perfect husband fell all over here when she pulled those Pillsbury Deluxe Grand ready-made rolls out of the oven. The ones with the frosting in a toxic little vessel packed in the end of the roll. Yes. Oh yes, she sure is a wonderful baker. She can take that spoon and pop the crack open on that sucker better than anybody Jan knows. Boy that Marcia. She does it all.

Jan watches Marcia load her Ipod at her built-in kitchen docking station.

And she knows it. As sure as she knows that she is a middle childe.

Marcia's lying. The beeatch is lying.

"You didn't cook sh-t," Jan says outloud...er, to herself

And she follows her freckled nose.

It leads her to Marcia's red dining room. Her eyes search. And she sees it:

http://www.atouchofcountrymagic.com/Merchant2/merchant.mvc?Screen=CTGY&Store_Code=ATOCM&Category_Code=CB

On top of the Baker china cabinet. Keeping watch over the silver service. Marcia's dirty little secret.


A cinnamon broom that makes up for it's lack of style with a smell that makes Jan think of eating homemade snickerdoodles and crying on Alice's masculine shoulder.



Jan is so getting one of these. Or maybe two. For both rooms in her house.