My Birthday was on Saturday and if you recall, I was quite looking forward to my cake.
E did a great job of ordering my cake. It was exactly what I like: white with buttercream icing. Buttercream, the way God intended, not that shitty whipped icing fuckery. Whipped icing is the work of the devil and/or Richard Simmons, who may be one and the same now that I think about it.
My cake was red and white, which I believe E chose for therapeutic purposes. I’m still in denial over Alabama not making it to the National Championship so instead of getting me a straight up Alabama cake with a big “A” on it, I think he started cautiously, slowly drawing me out of my football depression much like you would carefully draw a wounded animal out of its hidey hole.
Or maybe he just said “Hell, you pick the colors, bakery lady.” I’ll go with the wounded animal theory.
I was supposed to start my diet yesterday and I did. I honestly did. I ate a healthy breakfast, curtailed the full on sugar in my coffee and increased my water intake. I was easing back into the swing of things. But there was one piece of cake left. A corner piece, with roses. Buttercream roses.
The well known rule in our house (or so I thought) was that the Birthday Person gets the last piece of cake. It’s not debated, it’s accepted as fact and the socially acceptable thing to do. I planned on eating that last piece of cake as a reward for my first day of eating sanely since October. I was looking so forward to eating that last piece of cake in utter silence after everyone was in bed for the night. I fleetingly thought about wrapping that last piece up carefully and putting it away in the cabinet but I chided myself with “C’mon, your family wouldn’t do that to you, there’s the Birthday Person Gets The Last Piece Of Birthday Cake Rule.”
Apparently, rules don’t mean shit in my house. Here’s how it went down.
E: Thanks for eating the last piece of cake.
Me: My Birthday, my last piece of cake. I plan on enjoying it later tonight after y’all are in bed.
E: No, you don’t. It’s gone.
Me (thinking he’s fucking with me): Yeah, right.
E: No, I’m serious.
(I don’t say anything right away, my brain is attempting to process this new information because the last time I checked, my piece was intact, in the cake box when I arrived back home from picking the kids up from school… picking up the kids… from school… my little darlings have been home for almost 3 hours now… oh dear God and for the love of all that’s holy… MOTHER FUCKER!)
Me (yelling): WHO ATE MY LAST PIECE OF CAKE?!
Me (yelling again but shriller than last time and there may have been a little sob involved): WHO ATE MY LAST PIECE OF CAKE?!
Landon: I didn’t!
Gracie says nothing but her facial expression says “Oops, my bad.”
Me: What happened to the Birthday Person Gets The Last Piece of Birthday Cake Rule?
Gracie: What rule?
Me: The rule we’ve always had!
Gracie: I didn’t know there was a rule.
Me: You sure knew the rule on your Birthday! Landon knew there was a rule.
Landon: Yep. I know the rule.
Gracie shrugs, puts her headphones on and goes about her business like she didn’t just give me a lifetime of hella cake trust issues.
I can’t wait until her Birthday in November. I have a hard-on for that last piece of cake like you’ve never seen before. I’m thinking about making up shit just to have an excuse to buy cake for her so I can eat her last damned piece. This Was Your Original Due Date cake, You Started Pooping On The Big Girl Potty 11.25 Years Ago Today cake, You’ve Been Wearing A Training Bra For 683 Days cake, Yay! Your Forehead Pimple Is Finally Gone cake, Congrats On Trimming Your Toenails cake.
She has no clue about the shit storm she’s brought down upon herself. Godspeed, Gracie. Godspeed.
As for me, I’ve learned that nothing, and I mean NOTHING, is sacred. Next year, I will wrap my last piece of cake up like it’s gold and hide that fucker in the washing machine. In my house, that’s safer than Fort Knox.
*Update: My “most wonderful husband” pointed out in the comments that I neglected to give him credit for going to Wal Mart last night after the horrific event described above to buy me more cake. Well done, E. Well done. He’s taken, ladies. Go get your own enabler.