Whipped Cream Angry

December 22, 2011

Christmas is fast approaching, I want to say I’m ready, but I’m not, there is still shopping to be done. Horror. I’ve been playing the game of avoidance, but alas, we are almost down to the wire and I can avoid it no longer. Truth be told I don’t really trust myself these days. Crowed malls, hostile parking lots and a road full of rage’ers is definitely not the place for a women who’s emotions have been completely hijacked by her future off-spring. The hijacking has made me unstable, in a crazed psychotic way. One minute I’m fine, perfectly civil, laughing and having a sane time and the next minute I’m a combination of Charlie Sheen (the “winning” phase) and Britney Spears (the shaved head, umbrella slinging phase). And it happens so quickly, for the randomest of reasons. Take the other night for example. I was at dinner with a good friend, having a lovely time. Too full for dessert, we both decided to order some cake to-go. I told the server the type of cake I wanted but asked that he not add any whipped cream. I was very specific. He nodded and smiled which I took as his understanding of my request. Ten minutes later he arrives back to the table with our dessert in hand, all boxed and nicely bagged. We pay the bill, leave an above average tip and go on our merry way. By the time we get home we’re ready to tackle the cake. I’m giddy with excitement as I grab a fork and prepare myself for the red velvety indulgence. However, everything changed the second I opened the box and saw that my cake had been decorated with persicisly the thing I had asked for it NOT to be decorated with, WHIPPED CREAM. I became instantly psychotic, flying into a rage I knew was completely irrational. I was aware of the screaming, the red face and pulsating angry veins. I saw my friend pause, mid mouthful of his own slice of cake, eyes wide with shock and fear. His expression told me I had lost it. I was over the edge and completely derailed and I knew it. And over something as stupid as whipped cream. But the knowing that I was crazy and actually doing anything to stop myself were two very different things. In my mind I was fully within my rights to not just be mad, but to be mad as hell. The server had completely sabotaged my dessert, and if there’s one thing you don’t mess with, its a pregnant women and food, especially her dessert. Lucky for him it was a good 40 minute drive back to the restaurant and my first trimester fatigue was just not up for it, otherwise I would have been back, getting all New Jersey Housewife on his ass. Instead I offloaded on my poor friend, who was now in survival mode, agreeing with everything I said, as he waited for the mist to settle and me to realize what an utter wack job I was being. Which I eventually did. Good news for all. The bad news is, this may be a pattern that repeats itself, when I least expect it, over the next 6 months. Something tells me I may not be coming out the other side of this with a whole lotta friends.

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