Cake for lunch



My life has as of late become a run-on sentence, prepositional clause after prepositional clause and unfinished intentions. This can happen when you let punctuation occur too naturally. There is one solution for such a condition: to indulge in a meal composed entirely of cakes from the best bakery in town. One must find a partner in crime, not easy these days as no one is proud of pudge even if it's pudge from the finest buttery treats one could eat. Big J, my natural partner, is 3000 miles away so S, my icecream partner at work, happily obliged me this Friday noon.



Crixa cakes has upseated Massa's for being best bakery in town. Massa's is all about stiff buttery treats, but sometimes a girl wants to enjoy without too much chewage. So lunch was all about

1. ginger cake(moist and solid)

2. apple walnut cake(ditto)

3. chocolate rum quad layer cake (pushing up type b diabetes in the bay area)

4. frou frou almond rose concoction (for some lace underwear lady out there, but nobody at the table)

5. obligatory pave (still fabulous as ever)

6. coconut tapioca (no chewing, but topping of toasted coconut and shaved almonds might have pushed it over the top)



Between mouthfuls of cake and dollops of fresh whipped cream , I was trying to convince S to reserve running shoes for running and get more hip shoes. This is all in the name of upping his gay appeal. S is a fine fellow to be sure but looking like a dorky young dad about to go to the gym is no way to attract a gay soulmate. Grubby running shoes are universal deal breakers, gay or not gay.



C, who is now officially on a diet(my own hudgebend saying no to butter can you believe it) also met us just to sip coffee. He was poo-pooing my expertise on all such matters demanding pedigree and experience. C didn't believe I understood the rules of attraction between gay men. Come on. I so know all about it! I apprenticed under the original expert on all human nature, EJ. Even S appeared to have been convinced for the need for upgrading to casual stylish gay apparel. Clean clothes never hurt the cause.



*On a bizarre side note, our executive admin came to my desk asking me if I wanted what looked like a wrinkly never worn white shirt with the yellowed price tag still hanging off it's exaggerated cuffs. They had been cleaning out the closet and found this thing with frill ties hiding in a box; none of the guys in the near area would own up to having anything to do with it. I told her I was "not pirate enough" to be it's new owner.