The oldest child takes routines, rituals and tradition to heart. He never misses a visit to the county fair. This year, we didn’t have the free passes that made the fair slightly less expensive, so I thought he might opt out of going. I was wrong. He needed that fair visit. I dropped him off with a younger sibling and many hours later, they were brought home, sticky from sugary treats and loaded with fair treasures. He gave me a bag of giant chunks of bath salts.

“Thank you. Did the seller give you directions?”
“You put them in your bath.”
“How much? While the water is running? Hot water?”
“I don’t know. Look it up.”

My face may be perpetually stuck in a tech device, but there is no way I am googling bath salts. If I wanted to see pictures of cannibalism, I would watch gore movies and they are at the top of my list of movies to avoid. I’ll experimentally throw a chunk of salt under the hot faucet and see what happens. Now, everyone can legitimately call me salty.

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