Noodle looked up, intrigued.
For the next hour, Victoria and Noodle played “rescue the rubber duck.” She’d launch ducks across the pool with the noodle-scooper; Noodle would shriek with joy and splash after them. Neighbors peeked over fences, laughing. Someone shouted, “You’re a professional pool noodler now, Vic!” victoria cakes pool noodler
Victoria dropped to her knees, used the noodle as a balancing bar, and began an impromptu circus act. She wobbled it on her nose (failed), used it as a snorkel (drank pool water), and finally—genius struck—she threaded the noodle through the handles of a plastic strainer, creating a makeshift “Noodle-scooper.” Noodle looked up, intrigued
By sunset, the grass was a swamp, the ducks were lost under the hydrangeas, and Noodle was asleep in a towel. Victoria leaned back, noodle still in hand, and whispered to herself, “Best job in the world.” She grabbed it, held it like a microphone,
That’s when Victoria spotted it—a lone, neon-green pool noodle left over from last year’s barbecue. She grabbed it, held it like a microphone, and declared, “Ladies and gentlemen, welcome to the Victoria Cakes Pool Noodler!”
The summer sun was brutal, but Victoria Cakes didn't care. She had one mission: to keep her toddler, Noodle, entertained without melting into the patio concrete. The kiddie pool was up, the hose was running, but Noodle was already bored, slapping the water with a half-deflated float.
