Tomorrow will be my oldest child’s 11th birthday. My Braeden Patrick and his freckle face. Birthday season at my house is a busy time of the year. My three boys all have birthday’s around Christmas and for their big day, we set two separate party dates. One for the family and close friends, the other for the kids. In addition cupcakes and what not are distributed at school on or about their special day.
This year we held Braeden’s family party last Thursday. It was the best date I could come up with that fit everyone’s busy schedule, including ours. However,the date changed a few times leaving me a little short on time for a cake to be made. So off to Wegmans I went the morning of the party, knowing my chances of having a custom cake were slim.
With the help of my husband we unloaded the two littlest of our family into their respective carts and wheeled towards the bakery. I pulled up to the cake display with a smile on my face and began to eye the already made pastries. They typically have a great selection and initially I was not concerned. However, my smile began to fade as I saw everything they offered was covered in frosted roses, rainbows and hearts. I looked up hoping to find a friend that works in the department, who is always more than willing to help me out in a time of need. Much to my disappointment, she was nowhere to be found.
After what seemed like 20 minutes of waiting to be acknowledged, a pleasant yet uncertain looking woman came over and asked if she could help me. Again I smiled and asked if it was at all possible to have a simple cake made up for my son’s birthday that evening. She responded with “Hmmmm. Ummmmm. I don’t think so, but let me check.”
So off she went to defer the question to a unpleasant looking woman who I immediately dubbed “Puss Face.” Puss Face looked up at me, frowned, then looked back at the other woman and began shaking her head. She then plodded towards me and said “We can’t do any custom cakes without a 24 hour notice.”
I maintained my smile and politely said “Yes, I realize that. However, everything you have here is really girly. Can’t you just take a plain vanilla cake and write ‘Happy 11th Birthday Braeden on it?”
Puss Face began to shake her head “No” before I even got to “and write Happy 11th Birthday” and then said in a clipped, snide tone “No I don’t have time to do to that today. All we have to offer is here in the case.”
At this point my smiled had turned to a seething glare and I was beginning to see the color red in the peripheral of my vision. I had a brief thought of jumping the cake display and going for her throat with my teeth bared. However, I looked at her and said “Really? Okay, we’ll see about that.”
At which point I wheeled my cart around and began wildly pushing it away from the bakery on a direct mission to find a manager. My husband, with Kelan in the cart, was behind me trying to catch up. Half way down the aisle, I ran into a friend who is a department manager. He saw the look on my face (the word crazy comes to mind) and immediately said “Who was stupid enough to piss you off?”
I spat out “I don’t know her damn name, but I’m calling her ‘Puss Face’.” I then explained to my friend the circumstance causing my current state of discontent and that I wanted to speak to a manager. He happily went in search of the head of the bakery department.
Chris wheeled up next to me with the other cart just in time for me to tirade about the woman who wouldn’t make my little boy a birthday cake! I explained that “Puss” didn’t know who the hell she was snapping “No” to.
My friend returned with the manager who was totally apologetic and explained that my request was not at all unreasonable and that she (Puss Face) should have been more than happy to accommodate me. I told him I understood that it was a last minute request and I was more than happy to return later or even opt for something simple like cupcakes. But they had nothing that was suitable for a little boy. As we were having this conversation, we were heading back to the bakery and I could see that “Puss Face” saw us returning and was really working up a snit.
The manager asked me to wait a moment and went on back to have a little talk with his happy co-worker. He returned with a big smile and asked me what I’d like best a cake or cupcakes. As they had a dozen cupcakes with little footballs already made, I asked if it would be possible to have another dozen whipped up. He willingly obliged and asked if I could give them 2o minutes to complete the task.
Two dozen cupcakes later with the kids tucked into the car on the way home, my husband turned to me and asked if I was really going to eat those last minute cupcakes. I looked at him like he was nuts.
“What do you mean?” I asked.
He said “Spit cakes baby, spit cakes.”