I Love Cake More than any Sane Person Should

At this very moment I'm enjoying the dry desert of Las Vegas.  I'm enjoying the fact that my hair looks fabulous and is perfectly straight and that never happens to me back home.  I'm enjoying the company of my oldest and dearest childhood friend and no doubt laughing over diet coke and high school memories. 

While I'm busy doing all of that and taking photos and creating memories to share, enjoy this little ditty.  This was originally written as a guest post for LeeAnn over The Life of Rylie...and Bryce too!  enons ago.

I'll miss you while I'm gone!

>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>
I like Cake.


Maybe I didn’t emphasize it enough. I mean, I REALLY LIKE cake. I like all baked goods, really, except for scones, which just aren’t sweet enough for me, and therefore don’t really belong in the baked good category. I have a serious sweet tooth, but not in a Swedish Fish/JuJuBe kinda way, but in a delectable, soft, chewy, fresh, and sweet kinda way.

That piece of knowledge about me is essential to this story.

It’s December, we are at a birthday party for a girl in my 4 year old’s class. It is held at one of those gyms for kids with balance beams, rings, a trampoline, and giant mats for tumbling. The kids have a blast. The Hubs spends the majority of the time with Chloe who is 9 months old and crawling, and I spend time chasing around our 4 year old and the birthday girl with the camera.

It’s cake time, everyone’s favorite part of a birthday party, right? So, Hubs goes in to the cake room to help Cam get situated at the table with her friends and I hang in the waiting area with Chloe, who refuses to be held and only wants to crawl around the filthy carpet. So, there I sit with her, trying to keep her from chewing people’s shoes, and picking yuckos off the carpet and putting them in her mouth. Before, I know it, cake time is over, they are passing out balloons and the party is over. So, Hubs being the gentleman he is and knowing me like the back of his hand, offers to grab me a slice of cake “for the road.”

We lug the kids, the diaper bag, my camera, and the balloon out to the truck and we get the girls in and we drive off. I look at Hubs and notice that he isn’t holding my cake. I look at the dashboard. Nope, no cake sitting on the dashboard. So I say to him, “Where’s my cake?” He looks at me with that “Oh crap” look that just signals that he screwed up and…I know. I know exactly what is coming ::gulp:: “I left it outside.”::crickets::

Now, I pause to describe myself a little further. I’m passive aggressive. I do not like confrontation, I am really hard to anger (although my 4 year old has figured out exactly how to accomplish that) and I have patience as long as the Nile. That said, this was my reaction:

“WHAT DO YOU MEAN YOU LEFT IT OUTSIDE?” Hubs: “I think I forgot it on the bumper.” Me: “Well, it’s gone now….oh, I really wanted some cake.” In my head I’m thinking this, “You frickin’ idiot. How can you not remember a simple piece of cake? Every day I tote two kids around, lunch bags, diaper bags, toys, and crap, and rarely do I ever forget something. You had one kid and a piece of cake in your hand. How does that happen?” BUT, I would never say that, because it’s not my style.

So, I say, “It’s just cake.” But, inside, I’m fuming. And, I get silent. You know I’m mad when I can’t say a single thing. And, Hubs knew it, because as we merged on to I-75 he started apologizing for forgetting the cake, and then went in to a long narrative about how the cake wasn’t that great anyway. It was a nice effort on his part, but I really wanted that cake and I. Was. Furious.

So, we drive. We drive six miles down the freeway and merge on to city streets and we pull up to a stoplight. Something catches my eye. It’s a car load of teen-agers next to us, and one of them has their arm sticking out of the window. What is that they are doing? Taking a picture with an iphone? Of my bumper? OMG! The CAKE!

The kids are taking a picture of my lonely piece of cake sitting on my bumper
and they are probably posting it to their Facebook pages at this very moment
with a caption that says:

“Look at these schmucks driving around with cake on their car”

No way. So, I pull the car into a gas station, the Hubs jumps out, he retrieves the cake and brings it back in to the car and says, “There’s your cake! See I didn’t lose it, it was right where I said it was!”

Later that night, after the girls were in bed, I debated eating that cake. It had traveled down the freeway at 70 mph. It was exposed to exhaust, bugs, and unknown airborne particles of what-not. But, that cake wanted me. That cake held on to my bumper for dear life, and that cake was my destiny.

So, I ate it. It was damn good.

And, that’s how much I LOVE CAKE.