* * *
“Baby,” I said. “I am at a complete loss. I have NO idea what to get you for Father’s Day.”
“Oh, you don’t need to get me anything!” Fred said, shaking his head earnestly.
“Well, I was thinking that maybe you could go get a massage, and we’d call it your Father’s Day present!”
A considering gleam came to his eye and he thought for a moment.
“How about a massage… and a cake from Peggy Ann’s Bakery!” he said.
“Yeah!” We really REALLY like the cakes from Peggy Ann’s, and I’m no fool – I was NOT about to argue with that idea. “We can get yellow roses on it this time!”
That night, while we were laying in bed, I picked up the phone.
“Who are you calling?” Fred asked. I held up the shushing finger, and he said “Oh. Are you calling me?”
“Hey,” I said, “Don’t forget to call Peggy Ann and order the cake. And make sure they don’t put any cheese on it. Love you!”
Teasing him about his dislike for cheese on a salad just never gets old. And yes, I made him call in the order for his own Father’s Day cake. I also made him call it in for his birthday. I probably haven’t mentioned it before, but I HATE talking on the phone.
This morning, Fred called me at least three times before 9:30.
“When are you going to go get the cake?” he asked. “Go get the cake!”
“STOP HARASSING ME!” I snapped. “You won’t be able to eat any of it until you get home this afternoon, so what’s the difference?”
“I just want you to go pick it up,” he said in a small voice.
“OKAY, I’m going! I’m going to the post office, and then I’ll get your damn cake. GEEZ!”
After a stop at the post office and a stop to fill up my gas tank ($1.92 a gallon for the cheap stuff), I made the arduous journey to South Huntsville. It took about half an hour.
“Hi!” the sales clerk chirped as I stepped through the door. “Can I help you?”
“Yeah, I’m picking up a cake for And3rson,” I said.
While she looked through the cake boxes, I glanced around at all the goodies on display, especially the smiley-face cookies. They had little pieces of fudge in a cup for customers to take, so I ate one, and then swooned. Fudge as good as in Gatlinburg!
I looked up in time to see the sales clerk lift the top of the box, look at the cake, and then give me an odd look.
Huh, I thought. I wonder if there’s a problem with the cake.
She turned the cake toward me, and I stared down at it, waiting for what I saw to make sense. When I realized what it said, my face turned an instant bright red and I giggled stupidly.
“Heh. Yeah. Looks good!” I said, paid as quickly as I could, grabbed the cake box, and beat a hasty retreat.
In the car, I called Fred from my cell phone. “You are such a shithead!”
All I heard on the other end was laughter.
And out the upstairs window.
Displeased.
They’re digging on the other side of our fence to put in a culvert. This pleases us, because then there won’t be that big, scary ditch there, and Fred can actually mow or weed-eat back there instead of leaving it so that it gets all ratty and overgrown.
And on the plus side, the next time someone’s being an assmonkey on the road, loses control of his car, and swerves over toward our back yard, rather than hitting the ditch and flying up into the air, he’ll drive across the flat part where the ditch used to be, come through our fence, and probably still have enough momentum to keep going straight through our living room. Fun!
(THAT would certainly be something worth doing an entry about, eh?)
Meester Boogers tries to help Miz Poo escape from the box.
Licklicklicklick.
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