Tuesday, February 08, 2011
I was in the basement, the Food Network channel on in the other room, as usual, when a request I've long cringed came from my beloved wife. "Honey, I feel like a cupcake from the cupcake store.".
Oh good God no! was my instinctive reaction. The Cupcake Store is where women go to seek refuge from testosterone tainted lifestyles otherwise known as healthy marriages. I can go to the drug store and buy feminine hygiene products, not a problem. Condoms and jellies and sex books, hey, look at me, I'm gettin' some. But the cupcake store...
It's, it's, it's akin to walking into the women's washroom by accident.
Off I went, over the bumpy snow with my man-ly four-by-four, pardon the masculine adjectives, I'm trying to compensate for what might be the equivalent of a month's worth of estrogen therapy. I pulled into the cupcakery parking lot, right between two huge American-made trucks parked outside. The two trucks dwarfed my Pathfinder in what felt like some feminine conspiracy to further tarnish my manhood dare I enter their sacred establishment.
I got out and went into the store. My first thought, "Oh, thank god, there's a man ordering at the till." As I walked closer I could tell, from his voice, the way he flicked his wrist, and the two earrings he wore that this man was far more in touch with his feminine side than I. The dainty little shiny black tables with two chairs each, the flowery cupcakes with swirling icing atop them, descriptions longer than novel blurbs.
I avoided eye contact with the man lest his gaydar compass be confused by by this sanctuary of femininity.
My avoiding eyes scanned the cupcakes, reading their elaborate article-length descriptions and scanning for my wife's directions. "Cream cheese icing." I found it after about my fifth placard reading, the only other word that registered in that description was bourbon although there were probably other words like heavenly, and divine, and girly...
I placed my order. "Would you like it in a box?" The girl asked.
"Yes!" I said, the request an obscure way out. If I was buying someone a gift, I was not here on my own account. I was forced to be here to make a loved one happy.
She rang the order through, $3.93. I had my out. The feminine man's gaydar need be confused no longer, I was buying this cupcake for someone else, male or female, it didn't matter, I was taken. Wait a second, did she say $3.93, for a F#$%ING cupcake that wasn't even that big.
Speaking of big cupcakes, back in primary school we had cupcake days. Once a month, one of the grades would have students in that grade bring a dozen cupcakes per student to school. The teachers would sell them at recess for twenty five cents.
It was the day that Dave Chaffey was the hero. Chaffey's mom made huge cupcakes. I remember them having blue icing and everyone idolizing Chaffey that day. If it were up to us kids, we'd rename it Dave Chaffey Day instead of cupcake day. Those cupcakes were like mountains compared to the mole hills our moms made. You needed both hands to hold them and they lasted all recess, if you were lucky enough to get one because there were only a dozen and seventeen boys with their eyes popping out and saliva dripping down their chins in the class. We all knowing which one's to ask for because we saw them in class beforehand and they were sold through the windows so you couldn't see what you were getting.
I paid my $3.93, enough for 15 cupcakes from public school days, and took the cupcake home to my wife. Another day, another ordeal, another gruesome chapter in the life of Dan complete!