Apparently, in my house, if your husband comes into the kitchen and sees you re-icing cupcakes that he knows you iced an hour earlier, he will assume (not incorrectly) that the cat at your feet has committed some egregious counter jumping transgression and you are re-icing the cupcakes to cover for the offending cat.
“Why are you re-icing cupcakes that the cat licked on,” he said, as he leaned against the counter.
“Who said the cat licked the cupcakes?” I replied, trying to sound nonchalant.
“I am re-icing these cupcakes because I made a cupcake-icing miscalculation,” I lied.
He chortled and said, “Right!”
He looked at me with a raised eyebrow, the hint of a smile playing around the corners of his mouth, and said, “The only ‘cupcake-icing miscalculation’ you made was miscalculating how quickly Miss Prissy Pants would jump on the counter and lick your homemade cream cheese icing off of those cupcakes after you left the room earlier.”
“Her name is Prim, thank you very much, and nobody said she licked the frosting off of the cupcakes,” I said.
He let that go and just watched me for a minute while I iced the cupcakes.
Finally, he said, “Do you want me to lick cat butt?”
“Wha-cat butt! What does that have to do with my cupcakes?”
“Does the cat lick her butt?” he asked. I just looked at him with a go-into-the-other-room-and-die-because-I-am-too-busy-for-this-shit kind of look and ignored him.
“No, seriously, does the cat lick her butt?”
I looked at him with that look again, but he didn’t go into the other room and die, so I decided the best way to get rid of him was to humor him and answer his question.
“Yes, I suppose sometimes she licks her butt,” I said scathingly. “What’s your point?”
“Well, if the cat licks her butt, and she licked that cupcake you are re-icing, and then I eat that cupcake, by proxy, I am licking cat butt. So, since I do not want to lick cat butt, I am not eating those cupcakes or taking them to work tomorrow.”
“What!” I sputtered. “I worked at my computer on school work and at my job for over 10 hours today and now I have been in this kitchen—what time is it, going on 1:30 in the morning—for three freaking hours making these cupcakes because you wanted to take something special in for your regional manager tomorrow. You are taking these cupcakes to work!” I said emphatically, feeling my face get flushed with anger.
“Oh great! You want my regional manager to lick cat butt too,” he said with a smile. “I can just see the day unfold now. ‘Hey, Stevo, let’s talk about that promotion—oh nice! You brought cupcakes. I think I’ll have one of those. Hey, this is good….wait. Stevo, does this cupcake taste like cat butt to you? Man, I’ve got to go gargle with Listerine. We’ll talk about that promotion….someday.’ And there goes my shot at a promotion. No way! I’m not taking them. I don’t lick cat butt, and I don’t want the regional manager to lick cat butt.”
At this point, because he was grinning from ear to ear and he sounded like he was teasing me, yet he looked like maybe he wasn’t, I got desperate.
“Ok, you’re right. Prim did get on the counter and lick the frosting off some of the cupcakes. But, but, it was only these three right here,” I said, pleadingly, pointing to the three cat-licked cupcakes.
“The rest of the cupcakes are fine. She didn’t touch them. I swear. There are 22 cupcakes still that are ‘cat butt’ free that you can take to work. Please take them to work. I don’t want to have lost my sleep for nothing and I can’t let the kids eat all of these, they’ll be blimps by the time they get done,” I pressed.
“Oh, so you want to let our children lick cat butt?”
“Stephen, I’m serious,” I cried. “Take the cupcakes to work. These are fine, I swear on my right ovary. They are ‘cat-butt’ free.”
“Oh, your right ovary?” he said, putting his hand over his heart in exaggerated shock.
Again, he looked like he was joking with me, but, then again, he looked like maybe, he wasn’t, so I nodded my head vigorously and made a cross over my heart for good measure.
“You mean one of your menopausal, erratically spewing hormones, estrogen-slot-machine of an ovary? No dice. That’s no different than you swearing by Mount Vesuvius. I mean if I take that assurance, it would be like, ‘hey, the first decade or so is ok, but before you know it, daddy and the kids are running for their lives as mommy spews forth a fountain of hot flash-induced lava that threatens to turn us all into people-shaped piles of ash’,” he declared with a look of horror.
I just looked at him with that go-into-the-other-room-and-die look again and said, “Be serious. The cupcakes are fine. Now go away and let me finish icing these so I can pack them up for you to take to work tomorrow.”
“I am being serious. You would lose those ovaries in a heartbeat if the doctor said you could, so they aren’t very important to you. I’m afraid I’m gonna need you to swear by something a bit more important to you before I believe you that the cat didn’t put her butt-licking tongue on the rest of those cupcakes. Otherwise, I’m not taking them to work and the kids can prepare to blimp-up.”
I sighed. “You are so infuriating!” I screeched. “The cat did not lick these 22 cupcakes and you ARE taking them to work tomorrow. End of discussion!”
“Swear by something important, and I will believe you that the other cupcakes are cat-butt free and take them to work tomorrow,” he said, as he looked at me from his position against the kitchen counter.
“Ok,” I said in exasperation. “I swear by the upcoming Sunday night in October when you are going to keep the kids out of my hair so I can watch the premier of the first episode of season five of The Walking Dead.”
“Ooooo,” he said with mock surprise. “That is a serious assurance. You mean to tell me that if I find out that these 22 cupcakes have cat-butt on them, you will forfeit your Walking Dead time?”
“YES!” I said, really peeved at this point. “I swear by my walking dead time that these 22 cupcakes are cat-butt free. Now go into the other room and leave me alone—die if you can manage it because you are pissing me off—and let me pack these up because you are taking them to work tomorrow, and I want to go to bed.”
“That’s fine. I will take the 22 that are cat-butt free,” he declared, as he moved over to where I was standing and kissed me on the top of the head.
“I was just messing with you, by the way,” he murmured into my hair. “I think your cupcakes are great, and I was pretty sure that the cat didn’t have time to lick the frosting off of all of them in the time you were in the den with me,” he said, ducking away from me by this time, trying to avoid being hit by the frosting-covered plastic spatula I was trying to bash his skull in with when I processed what he was saying.
“I am going to kill you!” I shrieked, near apoplectic at this point. I was pretty sure that veins were sticking out on my forehead and I was about to foam at the mouth.
“You were messing with me?” I wailed. “I thought you were serious and I was going to have to trash all these cupcakes. I am so tired and you were just giving me hell? You are mean,” I wailed.
“Oh baby, I’m sorry,” he crooned. “I would come over there and hug you to make you feel better, but you have that bowl of icing in front of you and I don’t want it to end up on my head,” he teased and then quickly left the room.
Then he peeked back around the corner of the kitchen doorway and said, “Oh, and baby, I won’t even tell the kids that you fed them cat-butt cupcakes if you decide not to throw those other three out.”
“Arrgh!” I yowled and hurled a freshly frosted cupcake at him.
Husbands can be such jerks.
But I smiled to myself as I remembered the earnest look on his face when he asked me if I wanted him to lick cat butt.
“Cat butt,” I muttered as I packed the cupcakes into a plastic container and shook my head ruefully.
I looked down at Prim, who was eying the bowl of frosting from the chair next to the counter, and said, “Don’t even think about it butt licker.”
Then I covered the cupcakes, put them in the fridge, turned out the kitchen light, and went upstairs to cuddle in bed with my cat butt-aphobic husband.