Madame Perfecto
Now unto him that is
able to keep you from falling,
and to present you
faultless
before the presence of
his glory with exceeding joy. . . .
—
Jude 24
I was late for the preschool carnival, and hadn't yet made
the fluffy marshmallow frosting for the cake I'd promised to bring for the
cakewalk.
The smart thing would have been to pick up store-bought
frosting on the way. But ohhh, nooo. Mine had to be the fanciest homemade cake
on the planet.
With one child attached to my left shin and the other child
swinging from the chandelier, with dried juice on the floor collecting enough
dirt to resemble the dots on a map of the United States, with the dog barking
and the phone ringing and the potted plants gasping their last because they
hadn't been watered since the Reagan years, I started to make the frosting.
Only then did I remember that one of the beaters was
missing.
Have you ever tried to make fluffy frosting with just one
beater? You can't, excuse the expession, beat it. It wasn't fluffy. It wasn't
even frothy. It was runny. It was gloppy.
I didn't care. Glop would have to do. I spread the frosting
out on the cake. It ran down the sides and pooled on the plate.
I scraped it back up onto the top again. It ran down the
sides and pooled on the plate.
We had to go. I strapped the kids in the back seat, put the
cake on the seat beside me, spatula in hand, and laid scratch.
At every red light, I scraped the frosting back up onto the
top of the cake. By the next intersection, it had run down the sides and pooled
on the plate.
When we arrived at the carnival, I thought of creating a
diversion, like starting the clown's hair on fire, so nobody would see me
walking in with my Pool of Cake.
When the carnival ended, more than 200 cakes had been
joyously selected, but there was one left over. Lake Cake. And nobody in six
counties was willing to claim it. Least of all me.
OK, so Martha Stewart, I ain't.
There are cobwebs over my rags and cleaners. My carpets look
like they have patterns, but they're supposed to be solid colors. I wash my
hair with dog shampoo and vice versa because the bottles look the same and what
the heck.
I once had to jackhammer a frozen dessert out of the dish.
My kids repair rips in their hems with masking tape. I once served ice-cold BBQ
beef at a big party, mystified by the "funny smell." After the party
I discovered I'd put the rented serving piece together upside down, and the
sterno melted the plastic handle instead of warming the beef.
My first Thanksgiving dinner was served later than expected
because the little red dealie hadn't poked out of the side of the turkey yet.
Hours passed, and still no little red dealie. The guests fell asleep in the
shrimp dip. The bird shrank to the size of a rock cornish hen. Finally, I
discovered that, yes, the little red dealie HAD poked out of the bird . . . but
I had put the turkey in the roaster upside down, so I couldn't see it.
But hey. I've got Martha Stewart beat, bigtime, in the only
home management category that really counts. I'm talkin' audience appreciation.
One of our daughters went to one of those fantasy birthday
parties that don't exist outside of those fancy Martha Stewart magazines. Her
mother is "Madame Perfecto." You know: a cast of thousands, pony
rides, carnival games, mother-daughter matching outfits, a three-tier cake,
party favors from Neiman-Marcus . . . I could never show my face again.
"Woman Jailed for Social Inadequacy."
I came home, swept the junk off a chair with my arm, slumped
down and sobbed to my husband about what a loser I was and what a bad
housekeeper and lousy cook and disorganized mess and boy, I could never pull
off a party like that without a three-alarm fire or a few broken limbs.
He scratched, belched and went back to his paper. Men: such
help in a crisis.
Well, then here came the daughter who had attended Mrs.
Perfecto's birthday party. She had overheard my. She brought me a note with
crooked letters in teal-blue crayon:
"How r u dog? U r the bess mom. Love, Jordan."
I'm a "dog," huh?
But I'm the "bess," huh?
I may be far from perfect, and I may never have Thanksgiving
dinner come out on time, but I was "dog" just fine after that.
Martha Stewart . . . eat your heart out. †
