Indiscriminate Drivel

Sorry I’ve been MIA.

Though really, why would I apologize?  It’s such an egotistical thing to do.  I imagine you all (both of you!) standing there thumping the faces of your wrist watches going “Where IS she?  She should have been back by now!  This is so rude of her.  Does she KNOW how worried we all (both) are??”

But really, I know that you didn’t even notice I was gone.  I’m even OK with that.  But my ego – that sucker needs more salve than a raging case of herpes.  And so here I am issuing apologies.  They’re not for you, really, they’re for me.

(And now I feel as if I should apologize for apologizing, but really – where would it end, right?)

I’ve been busy with Fight Club.  We just aren’t sure the TPS cover sheets are exactly right.  Don’t fret, though.  We’ll sort it out.  You just leave the important stuff like that to me.  I’m totally on it.

I was up in the Greater New York area.  I wasn’t actually visiting New York, but I flew into LaGuardia, hopped into my rental car, and drove over the Whitestone Bridge on my way to Connecticut.  I spent a whole week on TPS cover sheets and then Friday – after a new batch of snow had fallen – I headed back to the airport.

It all sounds kind of boring, yeah?  I know.  I agree.

Here’s the thing… those damn New Yorkers.  Do you understand how their bridge and tunnel system works?  They charge you approximately thirty eight dollars each way to cross the bridges.  If I throw this startling fact out to a New Yorker, they won’t even blink.  Evidently, crossing bridges is a privilege, not a right, and also what the hell are you doing driving over it – use public transportation you dipshit midwesterer.

Whatever.

But the cost of crossing the bridge isn’t the worst part.  Perhaps it is this:  when you approach the toll part before the bridge, there are approximately 73 lanes and it doesn’t seem to matter where I am – the CASH lanes are always all the way on the other side.

Did I mention it was New York?  Drivers there really aren’t all that happy with people from the red states trying to cross over 71 lanes to get over to the cash lanes when they are all La-Dee-Da with their EZ-Pass thingies and just trying to gun through the toll booth at 140 miles per hour.

Damn New Yorkers.

That still isn’t the worst part.  After the 73 lanes that go through the toll booths, there is approximately 30′ of pavement before it all converges back down to four lanes.

Even that I could handle.   I have handled it before, many times, for years, without killing myself or a single other human being.

This time, though, two of those four lanes were blocked by some very important looking construction vehicles.  I don’t know what they were doing, but I’m certain it was of utmost importance because there they were – threatening to make me miss my flight and miss getting home to the loving arms of my internet family.

Of course the two big important looking construction vehicles (here after known as Snorts) were on the LEFT side where the cash lanes were.

WHY DOES NEW YORK DO THIS TO ME?

I needed to get over to the right lanes and I needed to do it quickly.  I was trying.  I had my blinker on.  I wore my best midwestern smile.  No one would even make eye contact with me.

And then the driver of Snort #1 put on the beep-beep-beep reverse thingie and was gesturing to me to get the hell over to the right.  I was gesturing back to say “I’m TRYING.  They won’t let me over.”

He started getting very angry with me.  None of the drivers would let me in.  They wouldn’t even meet my naive midwestern gaze, even with my best smile.  The Snort driver was starting to yell at me but I couldn’t hear him and I, myself, was getting angry too.

Something had to be done.  Clearly.

I rolled down the window of my rental car, and at the top of my lungs I screamed “I’M FROM THE MIDWEST, MOTHERFUCKER.  WE’RE TOO NICE TO JUST CUT INTO TRAFFIC.”

I’m pretty sure I scared him.  He looked over to the lane of through traffic and suddenly, as if he were Moses, the traffic parted and off I went.

The moral of the story is this:  even people from Missouri can handle those mean ol’ New Yorkers as long as we scream expletives.

Do with that what you will.

Just cakewreck is not an ugly enough description for this;  it’s way beyond just a cakewreck.

Sit down, and I shall tell you a tale.  It won’t begin with Once Upon a Time because this is no fairytale.  This is as true as the day is long.

There aren’t any little children around, are there?  It gets a little scary at the end.  Fair warning.

So if you’ve been following along with my riveting life, you’ll know that in just a couple of weeks, I have the big prom my daughter’s wedding.  I know, I know – the way I keep droning on about it (me, me, me!)  you’d think it was my wedding.  Perhaps I’ve gotten a little exuberant about it all, but can you blame me?  The dresses are all so pretty!  So many matching dresses!  You know how I love girls in matching stuff, right?  And there will be lots of photos.

Plus, if she wants it to be about her, she can get her own damn blog.  (Hi, Katie!!)

Also?  Me in a totally awesome size 12 red dress.  I shall endeavor not to steal too much of the spotlight from the bride.  (As if.)

I’ve tried not to be the interfering mother taking over the wedding plans, but I did want to be helpful to the extent I could.  My daughter, at my request, has given me a few assignments.  I designed and made the invitations myself.  And that saved us… oh, wait – yeah, it only cost us about twice as much as it otherwise would have.  Go, me!

For my next assignment, my daughter said I should make the giant cupcake that will reign supreme on top of her big ol’ tiered tower-of-cupcakes.  (I picture that last phrase said in a very deep, echo-y radio commercial voice).

You might assume that perhaps she is an admirer of my great cake making and decorating skills.  I might have even deluded myself into thinking that was it for a few moments there.  But, no.  I possess no talent in cake decorating.  What I do have is the BigTop ™ giant silicon cupcake pan.

In other words, I was given this prestigious task simply because I own the pan.

Never mind that.  I would make her proud!  I could do this.  I would simply make a practice one or maybe two, perfect it and voila’ – I’d be ready for the big day.  Success was so close I could taste it.  (It tasted like cake, by the way.)

I spent hours perusing the internet.  Then I decided to look online for pictures of giant cupcakes.  Oh, this was going to be fun.  I deliberated on which style I wanted, what type of decor, colors, frostings, accoutrements, as if all I had to do was choose and then, by osmosis, I would have the skill to make it happen.

I decided that fondant looked fancy and smooth and, best of all, oh-so-easy.  (Ends up, I didn’t even know how to pronounce it correctly, much less use it effectively.) (That’s a little writing technique called foreshadowing.  Are you on the edge of your seat?)

After laughing hysterically at the amount of work that goes into homemade fondant, I got in my car and drove to a store to buy some.  I acquired a multi-colored package of pre-made fondant.

I baked a giant cupcake and it was sublime.  (I should tell you the recipe.  It’s a doctored up box cake that has sour cream and pudding mix and egg whites and olive oil and let me tell you – the cake was delicious!)  Once it was cooled, I started working with my fondant.  I used the least desirable colors from my multi-color pack in order to preserve the good colors for my masterpiece.

I used a crumb coat first.  (See?  You’re already impressed with my cake-decorating vocabulary, aren’t you?)

I rolled.

I floured.

I shaped.

I was prepared to pipe my buttercream frosting to add the pieces of rolled fondant to decorate my giant cupcake.  However, before I got that far, I already know it was a disaster of gianormous proportions and I didn’t even bother to pipe anything.

This cake should have a white flag of surrender sticking out the top of it.

My six year old said “It looks like a ham.”  (She likes meat.)

My eight year old said “It looks like the mushroom guy from Mario Party 8.”

Then, my fourteen year old tried to make me feel better.  “It’s not that bad, Mom.  It’s better than I could have done.”

Thanks, honey.

I made a bee-line for my favorite bakery and yes, they do sell giant cupcakes.  They suggested I look on the Internet and find a photo depicting how I’d like it to look and they will make it happen.  Voila’!  That easy.  People – I have the skills to find images on the Internet. I can do that!

I am the mother of the bride.  I am very happy to write the check to purchase the prestigious cupcake that will sit atop the tower-of-cupcakes to save my daughter the humiliation of having  to act like she loves the mushroom-ham monstrosity I made for her wedding day.

Oh, the lengths I will go to save my pride help my children.

That’s how much I love them.

T minus two weeks and counting!!