Cupcake Catastrophes

From an early age I have realized that Hostess Cupcakes and I have a rocky relationship.

That's right. The delicious devils cake topped with the chocolate frosting with the curly Q flare of white icing and the creme filling on the inside? You know what I'm talking about. Even my co-worker, who's actually allergic to gluten, would probably slam one if these babies down if there was an opportunity (actually that's a lie, she's been really good at keeping away from the stuff, but I think you get my point.)

Don't get me wrong, I love the things. And if you know me--and believe me this blog is only available for you, my closest and dearest of friends--you know that if someone hands me one of those things I'm more likely to gnaw off that hand while devouring it than turning the thing down. 

Which is why when bad things happen to good Hostess Cupcakes, I'm likely to either throw a fit, or cry.

Like when I was three.

STORY ONE:
The Tail of the Toddler Tantrum

Imagine a three year old Jason sitting at the kitchen table watching the tail end of his weekly dose of his Saturday Morning Cartoons. You got the image in your head? Good (If you went "D'awwww!", then you are not alone. I was a pretty cute kid).

Now, I always knew when the Saturday Morning Cartoons were nearing their end. The last two of the day were Bugs Bunny and then, straight to yawnsville, with Tarzan. Not that there is anything wrong with Tarzan, it was just not my cup of tea. 

The only thing that I found remotely interesting was during the credits. I know, that's not the best compliment out there. It's equivalent to saying to someone, "the best part of seeing you is when you leave." I know. But in this case it was true. There was this point when, during the credits, the producer's names rolled around Tarzan's head. I can't tell you why, but I thought it was pretty cool. 

It was during this moment of watching the end credits when my mom (God bless her), gave me a Hostess Cupcake as a snack.

(This is where the clouds parted and thick beams of sun light broke through and the joyful cries of angles were also heard)

I looked down at the white icing and admired the way it loopty-looped within itself. Only a monster would even consider eating something as beautifully made like that. A cupcake monster that is (steeples fingers and laughs maniacally). And I picked the cupcake up, was about to take a bite when the frosting, the whole top part of it, all fell off and landed flat on my plate.

*thump*

The angles stopped singing and the clouds rolled on in.

My cupcake was dead.

Tears filled my little Jason's eyes and I wailed. 

My mom came running up to me.

"Oh my God, what's wrong?"

Tears rolling down, I pointed at the dead cupcake and at the decapitated frosting that lay lifeless on the plate.

"Oh," she said through my wailing,"it's okay. It's okay. I can fix that."

While it didn't stop me from crying, I did quiet down a little as I watched her as she was about to do some of her mom magic on the cupcake. I tried to control my sobs as she leaned in and picked up the hardened disc of frosting on the plate. 

To be honest, I didn't know what it was that she was going to do. But surely this, whatever it was going to be, was going to be magnificent. She picked up the frosting, and then simply put it back down on top of the cake.

That's all she did.

She picked up the frosting...

... and plopped it back down on the cake.

That was it.

That was all.

There was NO MAGIC. None. Zip.

Just a pick-it-up and plop-it-back-down.

I don't know what exactly I was expecting her to do. But I do know what my reaction was. I didn't wail like I did before. No sirree bob. I wailed even harder. I'm fact I want to say I kicked and screamed to make it even worse. I was unable to see reason beyond how my cupcake was treated.

"Look," she said, putting the cupcake down in front of me, "I fixed it. See?" She held the cupcake up. The frosting she replaced was crooked and loppy. "See? It's as good as new." 

I reached over, and lifted the frosting up.

Disgusting.

I didn't want it.

It was dead to me.

I had a full out tantrum. I know that. Heck, I even knew it at the time. Deep down, while I was having my melt-down, I knew I was being unreasonable. But I couldn't stop it. 

But even to this day... if I see a Hostess Cupcake that's been unloved, I feel sorrow.

Which leads me to...

When I was a junior in High School, down in Durham, North Carolina.


STORY TWO:
The Tail of the Last Cupcake


There are those days when you don't know you woke up on the wrong side of the bed until it's too late. When a series of events lead you to believe that the universe has somehow pin-pointed you in particular and misaligned all the planets on purpose and to sit back just to watch your day come apart in front of you. And laugh.

You know the days. You've had them. I've had them. They suck.

But this day in particular was my day. Where everything that could go wrong, did go wrong.

So what were they? 

To be honest, I can't remember.

While I take pride in my long term memory, the bits and pieces of that day are vague and foggy. All I know is that from the moment I woke up and heard my friend Joyce knock on my door to pick me up for school, my day was off to a bad start. I might have woken up late or had forgotten to do my homework. I don't know. But it just started off bad and nothing I did was right. 

But one thing I did know was that there was one more single Hostess Cupcake left in the 8 pack that we had bought.

Mmmm. That's right, one more Hostess Cupcake.

It was there in the box on top of the refrigerator. I saw it before I left. And that cupcake was what kept me going that day. I know it sounds stupid, and might even sound like it's made up. But it's true. And that lone cupcake soon became the focus of my sanctuary for that day. 

And as that day went on, it only proved to me time-and-time again that things weren't going my way. And with every hit that I took I would think, 'Crap, could this day get any worse?' And then by the next period in school I would realize that it could. It could get worse. In those fequent moments I kept saying to myself, 'At least I have that cupcake waiting for me. At least I got that.'

I wish that I were exaggerating on this. Because it seems so simple, doesn't it? To just get home from the day, and eat the last of the Hostess Cupcakes that we had? And then it would all be better.

So simple.

When school got done my friend Joyce drove me home in her little yellow Datson and dropped me off at my home at the British Woods Apartments. I got out of the car, walked through the breeze way and let myself in. I b-lined for the kitchen, dropping my back-pack on the floor and reached up for the box above the fridge.

Usually this is where people try and guess what had happened. And they usually say, "annnnd you found out that your mom did take it."

Which is a good guess. And it would have been a nice twist in the story. But that's not what happened.

Because it was there.

The cupcake.

I pulled it out of the box and unwrapped it from its cellophane. And in that brief moment I had the cupcake in one hand, and the cellophane in the other. Unwrapping that cupcake was a symbol that my day was over and my just reward was about to be had. 

I deserved it.

And in one motion, as I was about to take my first bite from it, I tossed the cellophane into the trash. But I suddenly noticed that the cupcake was no longer in my hand. Because the wrapping was still crinkling in my grip. I looked down. And there, lying on top of the trash can was my cupcake.

I had thrown away the cupcake instead of the cellophane. 

'But wait!' You ask, 'You had such a bad day! Couldn't it have been saved? Couldn't it be salvaged?'

Trust me, I looked.

As I looked at it I was instantly reminded that my mom had emptied her ash tray before she had left for work that morning. And my cupcake--was lying on top it.

(Add deadpan look to the camera: here)

I wanted to cry. I wanted to scream. I wanted to throw something.

But I didn't. 

The damage was done. The milk was spilt and there was nothing I could do about it.

I have had plenty of Hostess Cupcakes since then, but none of had such an impact as those two occasions had on me. The only other time that I've faced any pathos concerning a Hostess Cupcake is when I haven taken the last bite of one.

I can only hope that there isn't a tragic trilogy finally in my future.