Dreams of Perfect

Today, I bake a birthday cake.

My oldest turns 14 this weekend, and, bless his heart, he wants a yellow box cake with tub frosting.

Mind you, I’ve attempted the homemade stuff. Perhaps this is why he wants the box and tub.

I have aspirations. I see vegetables carved into clever shapes and laid out on shiny white square plates to resemble faces and think, “I could do that. I should do that.” I watch Ms. Stewart craft topiaries out of twigs she harvested from the forest whilst wearing leather riding boots and a Hermes scarf and tell myself that I’m one pair or curved clippers (and a pair of boots and a scarf) away from a gracious centerpiece myself.

I even try using “whilst” and “gracious centerpiece” in conversation. For example, I say, “Dammit, Cat! Did you destroy my gracious centerpiece of mismatched socks whilst I was going pee?”

Not that I fold laundry on the dining table.

Not that I actually fold the laundry at all.

I have high standards.

Maybe someday I’ll live up to them.