Tuesday, June 22, 2010
Let Me Eat Cake (a Repost)
The Judgment of Dissolution reclines amidst old tax forms to collect dust: the tragic culmination of a 13-month marriage followed by 13 months of divorce proceedings. I sank from ecstasy to despair within a heartbeat.
Naturally, my mind gravitates to chocolate cake. Not just any cake, mind you, the wedding cake. Wiping my saliva, I recall the deep brown cake iced with shimmering sweet raspberry filling lost in precious whipped buttery cream, united by a staunch but delicately flowered white chocolate frosting.
That night, my piece was scrumptious. I wasn’t sated, though. Something wasn’t altogether right. What perhaps detracted from its zest were the accumulated annoyances of others’ neuroses. It’s amazing how fanatical people get when it’s someone else’s turn in the spotlight. Moments ran through my head, as the chocolate fought to settle into my deep, dark insides.
“Robyn!” Ellie snapped whilst clenching my left forearm, “due to recurring muscle spasms shooting down my neck and all the way through to my fingertips, with particular acuity in my right pinkie, I can’t applaud for you when the rabbi presents the new couple. I hope you won’t mind. Heck, you might not notice. It’s just this chronic pain that acts up sporadically. The Doctor said I should go easy on it. My boss, John, you know, the one with the big mustache, suggested disability leave. I'm sure you’re busy. But I thought you should know. You understand. Right?”
“Sure, Ellie. Just let go of my arm before I show you what a real muscle spasm feels like.”
“Robyn, I know there’s no food in the sanctuary. I’m just going to slip some Corn Puffs in my jacket pocket. See, it’s in this little Tupper Ware container. Well, it’s Rubbermaid, actually. Those are cheaper. My sweetie eats hourly, and I thought I shouldn’t breast feed during the ceremony. Is that okay?” I dashed off with a nod. It mattered not whether I, or even God, consented.
Francine called during my manicure, demanding a ride. There was no “How are you feeling today?” No “I can’t believe you’re getting married.” No “What’s up?” Just “Coordinate my commute from the airport, to the hotel, and back home before dark. We don’t want to get in too late. I’ve gotta catch an early morning flight.”
Sam volunteered to videotape the entire event. He took his role seriously, ordering guests to position themselves just so, get out of the way, and stop blocking the light. Next week, we discovered that his expertise was less than expert. Sam got great shots of the ceiling but missed the vows, kiss, and glass shattering “Mazel Tov” moment.
“Hey, he shouldn't take pictures in the sanctuary! Robyn, what’s going on? I assumed this was a Conservative Temple. The meal will be kosher, right? I didn’t have much for lunch.” Claire further demanded that the wedding party members (of which she was one, being Dad’s girlfriend and all) count 1-one-thousand et cetera through 20 before embarking down the aisle. This might have worked, but she was a painstakingly slow walker. The rest of us needed to inconspicuously jog to compensate.
I can’t forget the DJ’s. They spun a great music, and we all enjoyed the party. They took themselves on a well deserved break for an hour or so mid-way through. It must be difficult to simultaneously eat and work an iPod, especially when I had already loaded said iPod with our chosen songs. This must be extra tricky, though, when one ignores the couple’s music requests. Nice guys, though, and they appeared to really enjoy the meal. I’m happy for them. I really am.
Indulge me momentarily, dear reader. I must share that I looked stunningly gorgeous that evening. My glimmering beaded, elegant, antique style dress fit like silk caressing my feminine figure. I was a picture of grace and beauty. My need to emphasis this fact stems from the reality that no one complimented my appearance. I thought it common knowledge to tell the bride how beautiful she looks, even the most plain of them, if only because of the thousands spent on the hoopla.
Heck, no one even stood when I walked down the aisle. Nobody! That’s the moment every girl dreams about, and they failed me. People!? Why? Why did you fall short of arising to offer your full reverence, or a mere squat?
Dawn, always dazzling, worried. She tailored her dress to minimize the cleavage factor. “Does this look okay? Will the rabbi be offended?” “No, sis. He’s gay. He won’t notice.” That one was easy. Next!
Dad adorned a white shirt to accent his all-black suit. “How’s my tie? Do I look okay?” “Sure, dad,” I said with confidence. “The pimp look is in this year.”
In the midst of picture taking, the groom (naturally) leaves to take his car for a car wash. An hour later, he had neither returned nor responded to my panicky calls. When he finally arrived, he explained that he mistakenly left the phone on the car’s hood. It must have fallen and gotten run over at some point. No time for condolences. The music was starting.
Hold on!” The caterer bursts in and blurts out. “My back is killing me. I have a splitting headache, and my assistant bailed. I need help unloading the truck.” I suppose I should be relieved I didn’t have to cook the meal. I’m not sure how she managed that one, and the food was more than decent. I expect it helped to ignore our agreed upon dinner menu. Further, she failed to deliver champagne to the tables. We were toasted with empty glasses and bewilderment. Perhaps someone enjoyed the booze behind the scenes. She capped her performance by handing her bill to the groom, then standing in the middle of the dance floor.
“Oops, it was three times my original quote. Just don’t tell Robyn until after the honeymoon. You too have a great trip. Oh, and you can keep the cake cutter.”
Alas, the family needed to depart, leaving clean-up duties to the bride and groom. Thankfully, a loyal friend offered assistance. Alas again, this friend needed a ride home.
“See ya,” I said as he departed solo in a car decorated by “Just Married” and “Down with Bush.”
One clear thought occupied my frontal lobe as the last crumb settled in: More! More cake. Let me eat more cake.
I ran into the kitchen and haphazardly wrapped the remainder of wedding cake.
Over the coming weeks, or perhaps just hours, I ravaged that delectable chocolate raspberry laced butter creamy cake, flowered delicately in white chocolate frosting. I consumed it for breakfast, lunch, dinner, snacks, dessert, and a simple pick-me-up. Screw the tradition of freezing the left over cake. Let me eat cake, I said and continue to say at any appropriate or not-so-appropriate opportunity. That particular cake was purely sweet and deliciously, even if not altogether right.