Some months ago the hubz turned thirty. Yes, I am somewhat of a cougar, having snatched a younger man. Not complaining=) So, his whole family invited themselves over to our studio flat for a little coffee before going out for a birthday dinner. Oh, my, I broke out in sweat. The whole casual nature of 15 people in our shoe box eluded me. It would be a disaster.
Planning started a month ahead of time, what cakes, what ingredients were needed etc. No, I am not a control freak so I tried to delegate as much as possible, yet to no avail. No one was able to make a cake for me, even for pay. Yes, surely I could have forked out something way above budget, but yeah, you don’t live in a shoe box for no reason.
The day before the big party I stood in the kitchen a total of eight hours. During high summer season, sweat dripping off every inch of my bodies surface. Early the next morning the decoration started, a Cheshire cat fondant cover for the cake, try drawing with liquid sugar with sweat dripping down your hands and the rabbits clock ticking away. Ah, the horror.
I called dad to come early to help decorating the cupcakes. A good eighty cupcakes in total. He agreed and soon there were two people sweating away in the heated shoe box. Schroedingers cat was certainly dead by now. Once the first guests arrived the hubz was no where to be seen. He had disappeared, so I had to entertain his grandparents whilst franticly planning my next steps in my head.
The kitchen was a disaster, and, his family not being too discreet, enjoyed the entire shoe box, walking around and taking in the whole view, with trashy balcony which served as our cupboard to chuck stuff in in order to cram sufficient chairs into the box. I was making small talk about the flowers on the balcony whilst sweating yet some more since one could have not missed the pile of trash blocking the view to the flowers even if one tried.
Well, it was a great success, everyone liked my cakes and cupcakes and decorations and the hubz finally showed up and we were all sweating in our box, hoping to follow Schroedingers cat soon to a better place. In that sense it was an unbirthday, as it surely will, unlike a birthday, never be repeated, at least not in the real world. Frankly, I don’t care what Alice does, I won’t. End of story.