Another Damn Birthday Cake! (Webisode # 1)


"Augh!" Celia smashed her purse into the washer as she spilled into the back door, nearly splattering her grocery bag onto the new, unfinished floor. That was worth a fist-pounding on the counter. "Damn birthdays....damn traffic! Damn people!" she was muttering now, her chest tightened to hold back the rage.

Boxes and jars were tugged out of the canvas, eco-friendly, "support breast cancer" bag as if they were gonna get beheaded. "A revolution! That's what we women need- a revolution!" are you supposed to work 52 hours, be a shopping-cart-pusher,

         a nurse-
-a maid

a chauffeur,
                                            a Hostess,

                            a lover,
                    -a mediator of lollipops,

                                           and diaper rash,
-and still bake a friggin birthday cake...

"CAN SOMEBODY TELL ME!" she screeched at the wall. More ingredients skidded across the counter. The pint of cherries split open, roomates no more.

They lived in dark spaces now, under the water heater and that mysterious old stove...

"Awshitshitshit!" she crushed the airs 'head' between her hands.

A deep breath. A deeper breath. Three short catch-up gasps and a sound that made her dog, Nippy, pinch his tail between his legs and scuttle under the table. A frantic sweeping of hands over the floor, gathering up slippery cherries like loose eyeballs.

 The reclaimed cherries got a quick bath of cold water as her 'Jimmy WHO?' shoes found their way, via air-mail, under the table and into the dogs face.

Which was a better fit.
His 'yelp!' was lost beneath the Clangs! from the avalanche of pots and pans that now CRASHED from the counter into the sink...smashed cherries like blood-splatter stained the plaster wall and made no apology for their suicide...

"Gluten-FREE Cake Mix!" she hissed,

and slammed the box down like a drill seargent taking roll- call. If a box could be scared, this one was...

"Frickin' Vanilla Icing!" SMACK! That one almost crushed the boneless container.
"Tofutti!" (Smash!). "You soy-based piece of s#*%!"

The next little soldier was awarded a particular grunt of disdain-"Coconut f#@%*ng ice cream!"
 He landed half-way between the toaster and a pile of unpaid bills. And wether he was perspiring or melting, was anyones guess.

The rest of the bag was just dumped out horizontally, willy-nilly, wherever it may land.

Her cell phone began banging out some ragtime tune on a miniature player-piano stuffed somewhere deep down in her purse.

 She checked her watch....twenty seven minutes. No way! "There is just NO freakin' way!"

Two eggs were ripped from their box of siblings and re-nested in a green and white ceramic bowl.

Ordinarily, this bowl conjured sweet visions of her Granny's cabin on the edge of the woods,

 - and the huge cast iron wood stove that she believed was the same one used in Hansel and Gretyl, by that senile old witch who baked kids in her oven.  In this moment, Celia realized that that crazy old witch had been misunderstood.

Again, the cell phone, banging riffs from a whores bachelorette party in an old western saloon....

"God! I've GOT to change that ringtone!" she blurted at the cieling. One fist punched into the mouth of her new Louis IsGone purse, snatched the phone- "WHAT!"

If you could set a speed-record for listening,
 Celia had just qualifed for the Olympics.

"Seven thirty! I said I'd be there!" and she longed for the lost days of big phones with big recievers that you could smash down like a cleaver into it's cradle, and really MEAN BUSINESS!

The oven knob was given it's own little titty-twister until it registered "350"

and the poor little eggs got murdered, along with a half stick of vegan butter. Celia wrestled the kitchen scissors from it's wooden block of knives, which she yearned to be cutting  something with. Hard!

Like the damn ignoramous in a red van that CUT HER OFF on Kings Highway! Yeah!  That strengthened her resolve.

"AS GOD IS MY WITNESS-" she ranted with the froth of a boiled-over lunatic-stew,"- I will never bake hungry again!"

  Yes, she had missed the office luncheon to pick her sisters kid up from day care. AGAIN!  London Bridge was falling down.

 There was a storm inside her soul, and something was about to break.

Which is why they invented alcohol, of course. Celia wanted a whole table full of cocktails right about now.

But she settled for a shot of Lemon vodka from the freezer. Glass- unnecessary.
Cake. Cake. Cake. A gluten-free, dairy-free cake. Having celiacs disease was one problem. A 7  year old kid on the spectrum who made Robin Williams look like a coma patient was another. A complex dimension to an aready hurried, stressed-out life.

 So, she baked it.  Split the batter into two pans for that layered look.

 Got changed. Took it out of the oven. Let it cool. Emptied the dishwasher.

She smeared some Tofutti cream cheese on the first layer, covered that with some cherry preserves crap...
And slapped the top layer on like she was spanking a baby. (you know, the nice way a nurse would) 

Then, some vanilla icing.
Finally, pop a few cherries on top, and this bitch is ready to hit the dance floor!

 As Celia packaged the cake in a box she had stolen from Wawa

(they keep them on a rack beneath the doughnuts, in case you ever, ya know, need one...)
she had a thought. One selfish thought......

'Is it so absolutely WRONG.....?'  Would it be so awful if she....I mean, just one taste....So what if she.... how embarassing would it be to show up with a half-eaten...After all, she had missed lunch AND dinner.... and truth be told, as to how she really felt about the mother of the kid whose birthday it was, well....

And that is HOW she came to this conclusion:
"Ahh- what the hell?" she snickered, "Let ME eat cake!"

Celia's ideal version of what a "Baker" should be!

...and since Little Nippy had borrowed her shoes....
- it's only fair, if ya think about it...

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