Yes, I knocked over the wedding cake.

In my defense, it wasn’t the entire cake, only a portion of the cake. Because it wasn’t a cake at all, it was a beautifully laid table full of vintage cake stands with the prettiest, lightest, most sold-a-tender-dewy-soul-to-the-devil’s-bakery-for-such-perfection cupcakes you’ve ever tasted.

It was A Moment, I don’t mind telling you. I felt my elbow collide with something, a rather unstable something, and I watched in wide-eyed horror as a turquoise cake stand tipped backward and nine cupcakes flew from their safe flat surface and into the air, arching in slow motion toward a bitter, painful end. Time slowed down as those carefully frosted tops landed upside down on the table cloth.

Then time sped up and suddenly the stand was righted and all the cupcakes were back in place, tops miraculously unsullied.

I’m fairly certain Nathan fixed everything with a neat economy of motion as I stood in slack-jawed horror, but I honestly don’t remember. Disaster burns itself into your cerebral cortex in a way that the aftermath doesn’t. I’m just glad I restricted myself to guppy-faced panic and kept my hands from flapping themselves toward further disaster.

Soon my heart stopped racing and I picked up my champagne to edge carefully away from the table. I joined Holly across the aisle, where she was flipping through the shots on her camera. Where she found this:

My guilt, captured in pixels for posterity.

Wombat and I hung out tonight while his parents made use of a Groupon approximately two hours before it expired. Because my apartment is untried by small humans, I decided to avoid the death trap scenario and we went for a walk. (Walk > Death Trap.) Wombat likes stairs and was intent on investigating every single set of them, some more than once. Because he is a very thorough child and will not countenance any shoddy stairway inspection, no matter how briskly I tugged on his little monkey leash.

(The only advice Simon offered regarding his offspring was, “Don’t let him push you around.” Whether or not I allowed a two-foot-tall human with a dripping nose to push me around is a matter of some debate.)

Three blocks into our expedition, I got hungry and we went to Memphis Minnie’s for barbeque (well, I got barbeque, he got Spaghetti-Os) where he stood patiently under the counter reading a sign about pigs. I say reading because he took his little finger and pointed it right at the “s” while making a “sssss” sound, something I am convinced is not an accident, because any kid who can imitate a walrus in a monocle so effectively can certainly read by 18 months.

After a detour to the dog park where he acted all excited and wee conqueror of the animal kingdom, at least until an actual dog came within 12 square feet, we braved the apartment death trap and sat on the kitchen floor to eat. He with his Spaghetti-Os and me with my barbeque. Kitchen floors are handy when you both have red sauce and approximately the same level of hand eye coordination when it comes to dinner forks.

Perfunctory application of damp paper towel to hands (hey, kids were built to be grubby) and we sat in my big red chair, where he snuggled into my arm to listen to Mercer Mayer’s tales of a delightfully moody critter I remember from my own childhood.

Thanks, Wombat. Especially for waiting until you were in your mom’s arms again before doing that horrifying hurl-your-little-skull-backward-toward-the-cement thing.

The Life, Awesome switch flipped recently (one must enjoy the switch flip because you never know when some jerk with a grudge and a case of halitosis will flip it right back again) and now I keep getting emails from my mother – who can track my movements much more closely now that she found my Twitter account – saying things like, “WHY ARE YOU GOING TO FLORIDA?” and “HOW ON EARTH DO YOU GET TO GO TO QUINCE?” (She doesn’t actually use all those caps in her emails, but they’re implied.) Subtext being: Why are you borrowing money from me if you’re going to Florida and eating in fancy restaurants?

Yeah, I had to dip into Bank of Mom for the first time in years after my car died and the (reputable but tax shy) mechanic needed to be paid in cash and my computer released its digital ghost into the ether and its body had to be dumped on the scrap heap of abandoned electronics and suddenly my bank account had approximately 37 cents about the time rent was due. Anyway, Bank of Mom does not subsidize plane trips to the East Coast or my desire for agnolotti. So I had to stress that these are windfalls from the land of Life Switch Flipped to Awesome. Windfall #1: Friend needed someone to accompany her to Disneyworld and drink mai tais by the pool. I’ve never cleared my schedule so fast. Windfall #2: Friend moving to Seattle wanted a last culinary San Francisco bash and asked if I’d like to have dinner, price no object, and do I have any suggestions? WHY, YES. YES, I DO.

Life certainly has an ebb and a flow. One week you’re ripping out your hair in tufts over surprise bills and the next you’re being invited on trips and eating beef brisket. Must remember that beef brisket for when the switch flips again.

Saturday was one of those gorgeous blue days where Gavin Newsom issues a city-wide memo telling everyone to stop scrubbing grout, cease answering email, ditch the errands, and get thee outside. Naturally, I always obey such decrees. So I packed up my big-girl conversational skills and headed to Golden Gate park. After about forty minutes of five of us wandering separately around the park  trying to find the two who had already established themselves, we managed to converge in the right place with no search parties or smoke signals needed. (This time. Last time, I ended up accidentally circling the bison field three times, each time convinced I’d actually shifted position and wondering just how many bison fields there were in the park. It wasn’t until the bison started recognizing me and asking if I’d like a cigarette that I cottoned on.)

Go to Speedway Meadow on a sunny weekend and you’ll be greeted by groups of raucous people playing a game I can only assume is called Beer Dodge Ball. Actually, I think it’s Beer Kickball, but I never actually kicked anything, just ducked when round things flew at my head. Anyway, the game involves kicking and ducking and running and, most importantly, not spilling your beer. Also, you’re not allowed to leave second base until you’ve chugged an entire cup. Second base is conveniently marked by a keg. We joined in, which means we stood around chatting and drinking our beer, stopping only to dive out of the way if anything flew in our general direction. Eventually, I got hungry.

Here’s how far I’ve come. Several years ago, my ex and I were in New Zealand, where we got into a fight because I didn’t want to ask the waitress for the check (in his defense, I may not have accurately described the feeling of chest-caving black Mordor-infused doom and instead just appeared lazy and ornery). On Saturday, I walked right up to the grill and asked if I could make myself a hot dog.  Keep in mind, this was something of a crashed party. I didn’t realize I was going to a party, so I neglected to bring anything to contribute, neglect that would make me feel bad, except that I think there’s a flow to these things. Just keep paying that beer forward and you’re fine. Anyway, I just waltzed right up, asked for a hot dog and started grilling myself one. I only stopped grilling when someone tapped me on the shoulder (turned away from the grill for better conversational access) to inform me that my hot dog had turned a deep, rich shade of charcoal. (Luckily, my palate’s not that refined. Plaster on some ketchup and who can tell the difference?)

Later we were lying on our stomachs in the grass and someone noticed ice cream cones. (I suspect that someone was me, but memory proves hazy.) So I hopped up, identified the source and (rudely?) interrupted two women speaking rapid fire Spanish. I requested permission from the group gathered around the carton and cones and had myself some dessert.

To the uninitiated observer, it might appear that I only have this free-flowing sense of self-confidence when there’s a food-based reward in it for me. And you might be right. But it’s a start. A delicious, oreo ice cream start. And really, people just aren’t that scary. Especially if you’re friendly and remember to smile. WHO KNEW ?

I love planning the menu and buying cheese and crackers and even cleaning my hallway. Cleaning is so much more fun when you know someone’s going to see it and maybe even think you live that way all the time, when in reality sixteen spiders were evicted, along with a month’s worth of dust and the inevitable dust rabbits (less cute than dust bunnies) that accumulate when stray hair leaps off your head like a ravening mountain lion onto a tender gazelle carcass. (Please note: I also clean up the gazelle carcasses before having people over.) But it’s been a long time since I’ve had friends over for dinner, despite my joy in the general experience. Because the squirrels using my cerebellum as their playground keep getting in the way.

Latest Episode of Unfathomable Excuses My Brain Cooks Up To, I Don’t Know, Avoid Being Happy?

1. My apartment is too small to have anyone over.

2. Nobody will want to set aside an evening and truck all the way over to my kitchen just to eat something that might strongly resemble cafeteria food by the time I’ve subjected it to my artistic process.

3. If I invite a couple, the male half will be bored because there’s no male counterpart to entertain him. Unless I find a cardboard cutout of Harrison Ford in Star Wars, and even then I’m not sure Mr. Ford will be much of a conversationalist.

4. It’s expensive to have people over.

My Ego Needs a Good Stomping, a la Lucille Ball in Her Vat of Grapes. Because, COME ON.

Rebuttal, point 1: My apartment can hold three people easily, more if nobody’s claustrophobic.

Rebuttal, point 2: Who doesn’t like a mini dinner party? NO ONE WHO EATS, THAT’S WHO.

Rebuttal, point 3: Have you considered that you might be giving these lovely, sociable men too little credit? Yeah.

Rebuttal, point 4: I didn’t actually do the math, but I’m pretty sure I fed Kristin and Scott (and myself, plus leftovers) for about $10-15, thanks to the magic of Trader Joe’s. Next time I will spring for the sausages that don’t curl up in fear if you put them too near a leaping flame. I do have some standards.

I’m glad I’m having people over again. Extra glad I did a little ego tromping, because that sort of thing extends way past regular dinner guests. So if I ever hear of you NOT doing something you love for such pitiful reasons, I will force my way into your kitchen and feed you home-cooked dog food.

I even gave myself a pass on the etymology questions because, well, because I’d had a few pints by that time. But I fully expected to shine when ye olde Question Master got to the Sesame Street portion of the proceedings. I got rather smug, I admit. Cracked my knuckles and looked forward to sallying forth as the savior of our table in the genre of children’s entertainment that prominently features muppets. BUT NO. What’s Bert’s favorite TV show? Wait…seriously? (Yes. Pigeons in the News.)  How tall is Big Bird? Well, let’s see, he’s on a tiny TV screen, so…6 inches? (8′2″) What was the name of Oscar the Grouch’s pet worm? Uh…Stinky? (Squirmy. Wait, no. Squiggly? Squealy? Shit. I still don’t know the answer, EVEN AFTER HEARING IT THREE SEPARATE TIMES.) It was humbling, I don’t mind telling you.

I’ve decided my strengths are better displayed by baking banana bread and doing Miss Piggy impressions.

In non-humiliating, non-trivia-related news: Thank you all so much for your kind comments about my site redesign! I honestly felt like I’d tunneled to Rome, arm-wrestled an ornery gorilla, and mastered Euclidean geometry. It feels incredible to conquer something that has scared you for years. Even if you could have emailed a friend and had the whole thing sorted in under an hour. MY FEELING OF SUPREME ACCOMPLISHMENT WAS WORTH IT.

I’m now clinging desperately to that sense of accomplishment, hoping the cupcakes will wipe away the haunting, fugue-like sense of despair that accompanies being asked 80 questions and HAVING NOT ONE SINGLE ANSWER. I mean, except when I correctly identified Tori Amos’s bee-stung lips from a grainy photocopy and hummed Little Earthquakes for a few blissful minutes.

Please note the culprit preparing to flee as Emily and I gather our scattered wits.

Manda would later claim no part in the incident, but we all know that for the shameless lie it is. PROOF IS IN THE FLICKR ACCOUNT, MANDA. That said, these things do seem to happen around me. Especially when cupcakes grapple with the laws of gravity.

Whenever I think of the Blathering, I will recall our speedy descent and Elizabeth’s gracious acceptance of our destruction of her charming outdoor landscape (not to mention her hammock). But we also answered many questions of vast, history-altering import. Such as: Is Sacramento truly a fashion port of the world? (Signs point to yes.) Also: What do bloggers do when they get together?

Jennie looking dignified, Manda looking culpable, me looking like I’ve owned that striped dress since 2001 which, in fact, I HAVE.

If I had finished my 13 Things You Should Know Before Making My Acquaintance, rather than leaving it at an unbecoming 9, I would’ve told you how much I love to dance. I routinely bop around my living room like an unhinged maniac with ear buds. Doing the robot at Holly’s wedding with her brother and sister will remain a highlight, edging out even the truffle aioli french fries. My dancing moose slippers are tenderly archived in the annals of Youtube. I also used to perform, once upon a time, in that glimmering era before I got lazy.

When Amy suggested we go dancing at a gay bar later that evening, I admit my reaction veered toward a pronounced preference for renouncing my shoes and collapsing on a nice, flat surface. A nice, flat surface without corseted trannies. But as we walked through the Western room full of plaid shirt-garbed lesbians doing the Electric Slide, I realized no couch could compare. No matter how fluffy the cushions. We spent the evening throwing ourselves wildly across the room.

Cupcake in hand, devil horns, wine glass in easy reach, and discussion so enthusiastic I forget my mouth is full. Possibly the most accurate picture of me ever taken. I’m already using it to scare off potential suitors.

Meeting smart, insanely funny women and eating cupcakes with them is one of my favorite things to do. Ladies, it was a true pleasure.

LUCKY ME:

(Photo thanks to Leah.)

Yes, that’s Jemima planting one on Leah, much to onlookers’ delight. (And my favorite camel is planting one on me.) (It was that kind of a day.)

Spending the weekend with Jemima led me to the horrifying conclusion that I both eat and pee more than a pregnant woman. If I ever procreate, I will not only be toting a gestating baby, I will also be hauling a mini-fridge and porta-potty with me everywhere I go. Maybe in a little red wagon. Or maybe I’ll hire a team of sherpas to carry me to and fro on a velour-covered chaise lounge, with extra Sherpa-lets to dash out to the deli whenever I need potato salad. WHICH WILL BE OFTEN.

San Diego culture – what we saw of it – was comprised of the Hooters near our hotel and the man in a hot pink speedo. And women who trolled the street in very small bikinis. After asking the hotel about the over-abundance of naked flesh, we were told there was a popular pool party in the area, one requiring women to totter through the streets in high heeled sandals and enough spandex to make a coin purse, if you don’t have any quarters. No pool party on the planet could convince me to walk down a busy street in nothing but a bikini, I don’t care if Don Draper is serving the daquiris and Jim Henson is giving a Kermit the Frog encore from beyond the grave. When we hit the long line full of scantily clad women, Jemima mumbled something like, “Get me out of here before my baby catches syphilis.” We hid in the bookstore. No scantily clad women in Borders!

We were all in town for the much-anticipated wedding of Holly and Sean, and that meant pancakes, beach photo shoots (more scantily clad women! and very smug men!), alarmingly good cupcakes, and pub dinners with some of my favorite people. I really can’t recommend the out-of-town wedding enough. Even when your “friends” try to banish you to Tijuana.

What Are You Talking About This Time, Woman?

Ha! I have become shifty. You must now go here to find out. Go, minions! Go!