I’m in trouble now
Ridge
Maggie: Guess who gets to see me tomorrow?
Me: Kurt Vonnegut?
Maggie: Guess again.
Me: Anderson Cooper?
Maggie: No, but close.
Me: Amanda Bynes?
Maggie: You’re so random. YOU get to see me tomorrow, and you get to spend a whole two days with me, and I know I’m trying to save money, but I bought you two new bras.
Me: How did I ever get so lucky to find the one and only girl who supports and encourages my transvestite tendencies?
Maggie: I ask myself that same question every day.
Me: What time do I get to see you?
Maggie: Well, it all depends on the dreaded T word again.
Me: Ah. Yes. Well, we shall discuss it no further. Try to be here by six, at least. Warren’s birthday party is tomorrow night, and I want to spend time with you before all his crazy friends get here.
Maggie: Thank you for reminding me! What should I get him?
Me: Nothing. Sydney and I are pulling the ultimate prank. We told everyone to donate to charity in lieu of gifts. He’ll be pissed when people start handing him all the donation cards in his honor.
Maggie: You two are evil. Should I bring something? A cake, maybe?
Me: Nope, we got it. We felt bad for the “no gifts” prank, so we’re about to bake him five different flavored cakes to make up for it.
Maggie: Make sure one of them is German chocolate.
Me: Already got you covered, babe. I love you.
Maggie: Love you, too.
I close out our texts and open up the unread one I have from Sydney.
Sydney: You forgot vanilla extract, dumbass. It was on the list. Item 5. Now you have to go back to the store.
Me: Maybe next time you should write more legibly and return my texts when I’m at the grocery store, attempting to decipher item 5. I’ll be back in 20. Preheat the oven, and text me if you think of anything else.
I laugh, put my phone into my pocket, grab my keys, and head to the store. Again.
? ? ?
We’re on cake number three. I’m beginning to believe that those who are musically gifted seriously lack talent in the kitchen-skills department. Sydney and I work really well together when it comes to writing music, but our lack of finesse and knowledge when it comes to mixing a few ingredients together is a little pathetic.
She insisted that we bake the cakes from scratch, whereas I would have grabbed the boxed mixes. But it’s been kind of fun, so I’m not complaining.
She places the third cake in the oven and sets the timer. She turns around and mouths “thirty minutes,” then pushes herself up onto the counter.
Sydney: Is your little brother coming tomorrow?
Me: They’re gonna try. They open for a band in San Antonio at seven tomorrow night, so as long as they get loaded up on time, they should be here by ten.
Sydney: The whole band? I get to meet the whole band?
Me: Yep. And I bet they’ll even sign your boobs.
Sydney: SQUEEEE!
Me: If those letters really make up a sound, I am so, so glad I can’t hear it.
She laughs.
Sydney: How did y’all come up with the band name Sounds of Cedar?
Any time anyone’s asked how I came up with the name of the band, I just say I thought it sounded cool. But I can’t lie to Sydney. There’s something about her that pulls stories about my childhood out of me that I’ve never told anyone. Not even Maggie.