This past Saturday we threw my Dad a surprise 60th birthday party. It was up to my sister and I to go get the cake at Wal-mart.
I loathe Wal-mart.
So - the baker hands us this GI-NORMOUS cake. It was gorgeous - Mom had given them a picture of my dad's '79 Ranchero and they screened it on to the cake! The little hair-netted woman puts this cake in my hands and tells me to keep my arm in the middle since, being a half white half chocolate cake - it could crack and leave a big tear or bubble in the picture.
I am forced to awkwardly carry around this pastry monstrosity while Summer picks out the perfect ice cream "Whatkindshouldweget?" she asks, breathless with anticipation of the giant wall of freezers in front of us. One look at my red, shiny face and she goes, "Ohrightokay. Vanilla!" She throws open the door and pulls out a massive container and swoops down the aisle singing whatever tune that was looping through her brain at that particular time. I am left to waddle behind her, hair plastered to my forehead, cake-encrushed Ranchero cradled in my chubby, aching arms.
We get outside and I place myself carefully in the seat, balancing the precious pastry on my leg. Harry starts to move forward when some Frogger-esque four year old and matching stupid mother fusser WALKS OUT RIGHT IN FRONT OF US! Harry slams on the brakes and the vehicle lurches, I scoot with my cake refusing to succumb to gravity's evil lure.
Whew!
No harm came of the icing-laden box!
I slid back up, looked at Harry and yelled : "WHAT THE FREAKIN' HELL - RUN OVER THE DAMNED PEDESTRIANS! I HAVE CAKE HERE! CAKE! ALWAYS CHOOSE CAKE OVER PEDESTRIANS!"
Harry and Summer stared at me.
"Areyouserious?" she asked, incredulous.
"Shhhhhhhh." Harry said as I checked for cracks and bubbles in the Ranchero's whipped frosting finish.
The day of the party - everything goes off without a hitch. Daddy arrives to help Summer's friend "set up tables for a Baby Shower" - we all yell "SURPRISE" and he looks confused and then laughs as Gillian yells "WHEEEEE!" and claps at her papaw.
While dad was opening his presents, my parent's neighbor calls me over. To my chagrin, his live-in girlfriend (who likes to walk around sans pants and undergarments) grabs the ends of my hair.
"Honey, who cuts your hair?" she said.
"Sabrina at Barbie's - she's great, she-" she cuts me off.
"It's crooked. It looks awful, your layers are all uneven. You should let me fix it."
I was shocked. Still stooped over, I looked at her eyeing me critically and bobbing her lemon yellow mullet.
Yes, yes, I said MULLET.
I smiled. What else could I do?
My dad was having a ball opening his presents and here I stood, speechless having just been insulted by a deflated version of Susan Powder.
At this point, she was talking about her own shop and how she could "fix it" and "make it better." I nodded and walked back over to my dad.
"What was that all about?" Harry whispered to me while giving me a big hug.
"Mullet-lady hates my hair." He looked over at where "Susan" was now happily bouncing on her live-in beau's lap. I shuddered. "But I think I'm gonna take it as a compliment."
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