Category — Sticky Note Friday

Sometimes, I have delusions of grandeur and I convince myself that I am a fabulous baker.

Those chocolate chip cookies I made that were burned on the bottom and runny on the top? Crappy flour, bad recipe and the oven malfunctioned. Hardly my fault.

The birthday cake that had a rock hard centre? Faulty batter courtesy of Duncan Hines, and the worst cake pan in the universe.

Anyway, Joe just started a new job, so I went to the market and bought us something a little extravagant for dinner:  a whole chicken brought up and hand fed by monks, fresh vegetables picked by angels and a box of Betty Crocker angel-food cake mix. With rainbow sprinkles.

How hard could angel food cake be?

As it turns out, not only can I not be trusted with cake mix or baking, but I am capable of making a mess that would terrify even the most hardened Molly Maid crew.

I blame the electric beater I used.

I turned it on and mixed up a rainbow bit batter that would make Martha Stewart envious – but then to clear the beaters, I turned up the beater and splattered batter all over everything ever;

Walls? Check.

The grill, knife block and wall? Check.

My clothes, face and hair? Check.

The counter, floor and oven door? check, checkity, check!

But, the batter that was left over made a very decent cake which I then collapsed by decorating it in very heavy butter cream icing.

However, Joe, the best husband ever, ate my mostly collapsed cake with great enjoyment. In fact, I had only one piece of it (just to be polite to myself) and could often find Joe cutting himself a generous piece and sneaking off with it.

I have no idea what I’ve learned from this except that angel food cake batter in the eye is very fizzy and hurts.

Last night I had my first ever dream featuring a celebrity. The only other time I’ve dreamt of anything celebrity-related was the time I woke Joe up because I was shrieking in my sleep (I was riding around on Angelina Jolie’s speedboat in the dream – I never actually saw her, but I knew it was her boat and I was having the time of my life.)

Anyway, here is the dream:

I am on a small passenger plane headed for Vancouver. There are about 25 passengers and all of the female passengers are clustered around a seat at the back of the plane. When the crowd of giggling and preening women part, I see a supremely annoyed looking Robert Pattinson sitting in the seat. It’s clear to me he’s trying not to lose his temper, or give into to the temptation of tossing the lot of them out the door at 25,000 feet. The girls are all making a huge fuss of him, trying to get his attention, trying to find some excuse, any excuse, to touch him.

He sees me looking at him, his mouth is set in a grim line, his teeth clenched. I give him a little half-wave and turn away.

We begin our descent into Vancouver and the girls all reluctantly return to their seats. I stare out the window as we fly lower and notice that a large tank is rumbling it’s way down a set of unused train tracks as we fly over Kerrisdale. The pilot begins to speak over the PA system as I lose sight of the tank:

“Ladies and gentlemen, I’m afraid we must divert our Vancouver flight to another nearby facility. Please remain in your seats with your seat belts fastened and your seat backs and tray tables in the upright and locked position.”

I’m feeling a little anxious and more than a little annoyed. All I want is to get home and get off this stupidly tiny plane with it’s cramped seating and silly women behind me. Some of the ladies have chosen to become hysterical at the pilot’s announcement and have launched themselves in a flurry of fake tears into Robert Pattinson’s lap. I don’t need to look this time to know that he is not impressed. I can hear him and the flight attendant urging these idiots back to their seats.

The plane finally lands and we are shown into a small, cramped air hangar and told to wait for the arrival of our luggage.

While most of the passengers cluster around Rob, I head over to a counter and ask why the flight’s been diverted. One of the employees, her attention largely focused on the large group around Rob, tells me that the pilot saw a tank in Kerrisdale and was unsure it was safe to land. Cars were being brought in to pick us all up and get us either home or to a hotel.

I walk towards the group which has dispersed somewhat and get Rob’s attention.

“What?” he’s practically snarling with frustration.

“The pilot diverted the flight because he thought there was a threat to our safety. Cars are being sent to pick us all up and take us where we need to go. I thought you might like to know.”

Rob looks surprised, then colours a little for biting my head off. “Thanks.”

I nod at him and walk over to where our luggage is being unloaded. I take my bags down a small hallway near a door over-looking the tarmac. A few moments later I hear footsteps behind me. I turn and it’s Rob.

“Hey,” he says. “Want to grab a cigarette with me?”

I don’t smoke, but what the hell, I agree and we walk out. Rob lights up and we start walking across the tarmac. Suddenly, from behind, there is a cacophony of voices. “Rob! Rob, is this your new girlfriend?”, “How does Kristen feel about this?”, “How did you two meet?” and other questions lost in the babble of voices and sound of camera flashes and hurried footsteps.

Rob grabs my hand and looks at me quickly and then down again. The message is clear: “Don’t look. Say nothing. Keep moving.” We hurry further on and I feel grateful that he didn’t simply bolt and leave me to fend for myself. There is a large white car across the way and we move towards it. As I am looking down and hurrying, I see a small pixie dressed in a deep pink dress at my feet. I bend and scoop her up in my hand as we rush forwards.

The pixie is completely unimpressed with this and bites me.

I frown at her. “I thought maybe you’d prefer to not be trampled by those idiots.”

“Oh.” she says in a tiny bell-like voice. “Then I apologize for biting you.”

The reporters and photographers are now gone and we reach the car. The pixie leaps from my hand into the open driver-side window. The dome light goes on illuminating the amber tinted windows and the driver-side door opens. Inside, the car is upholstered all in white leather. As my eyes adjust to the slightly darker interior, I see that the seats are covered in strings of raw meat, watery blood and the small holder between the two front seats is full of what looks like a blood and milk mixture.

I look back at Rob and he grins, “Well, we have to have somewhere to eat, drink and whore.”

At this point I got woken up by a garbage truck in the alley behind the house – and maybe that’s for the best.

I’m not sure why I thought of this old Clearasil commercial today, but I did.

This just seemed to naturally follow: