I don't believe I've met you...

"Jeeeez! Look at all this little personalized Mariners' paraphernalia," I marveled.

Jim and I were at a very swanky party thrown by the president of the Mariners. You know, the terrible baseball team based in Seattle? It was held at SafeCo field (where aforementioned baseball team loses most of its games) for two friends who are getting married this summer. The groom grew up with the President of the Mariners' kid, and therefore el Presidente’s family decided to host an over the top party at the President's suite at the ballpark.

So here we are at this swanky party with unlimited food and booze, where we knew nobody except the bride and groom... and there is customized paraphernalia everywhere, which is clearly impressing me.

Think: Little baseball player cookies with little frosting jerseys with the bride and groom’s name on them, real Mariner’s jerseys with the bride and groom’s name on them, hats, water bottles… just swag up the kazoo.

And I, trying to make friends as I make my way across the suite to the restroom, am exclaiming to strangers in the room, enthusiastically, about how cool all this stuff was.

“Oh look at those cookies…” I cooed. “They’re so cute!” This elicited murmers of agreement from a stranger or two, who I then introduced myself to and made nice with before moving on to the next weird personalized memento.

So picture me doing this while making my way across the room, proudly leaving a bunch of not-strangers-anymore in my enthusiastic wake. I was quite pleased with my impact, and as I sauntered nearly out of the room, I passed one last item: A very oversized leather mitt with a wedding band on its ring finger, in the center of which was a softball-sized baseball with the bride and groom’s name embroidered on it.

“Oh my gosh, would you look at that??” I shrieked in my girlish delight. “It has their names stitched right into the ball!”

To punctuate this exclamation as new strangers turned towards me to respond (and because I have pretty terrible vision and couldn’t see the items well enough), I reached for the ball. I planned to pick it up, turn it over, and look at it up close and personal, as I had with the other items, while making friends.

Except the ball wouldn’t lift.

It was either the world’s heaviest softball-sized baseball, or it was stuck to the mitt.

I tugged at it again with my hand. Nothing. Just as I was about to engage my other hand for a good old fashioned two-handed pull, it hit me.

It. Was. A. Cake. (And for the record, it looked a helluva lot more realistic than this picture of a similar cake. It looked honest to God real.)

A fondant-covered, larger-than-life, baseball mit with baseball in it CAKE.

And I had my grubby little strange hand all over the crowning jewel, huffing and puffing and jerking at it like an I was an over-served middle-aged man and it was a stripper with negligible moral code.

“Oh my gosh, it’s a cake! It’s a cake! I didn’t know it was a cake!”

Yep, that's what I said. I know, I know. Brilliant.

My voice was high pitched. My face was bright red. I clutched my “bad” hand with my “good” hand and glared at it like it was some sort of naughty pet that had temporarily escaped my control. And then I looked around.

Some people off to my left were giggling and nodding knowingly. They had caught me. And they were not impressed. But no matter – I was not going to my left, I was going to my right. To the bathroom. Hell, to FREEDOM. To a place to hide forever and never come out. Because I had touched, aggressively, the cake.

I spun around to my right, just feet from the door, just seconds from the bathroom and sweet escape, and bumped directly into – with my “bad” hand – wait for it...

The president of the Mariners' wife. You know, the HOSTESS of the EFFING SWANKY PARTY at which I knew nobody (now including Jim, who saw the debacle and wisely denied having any idea who I was).

Oh.

FUCK.

Intelligently, I said (still holding up my hand:

“I didn’t know it was a cake! It’s… uh… amazing!!!”

She looked at me – this woman who had certainly come up with the idea for the cake, absolutely ordered it and without a doubt paid ridiculous sums of money for it – with a look of such disdain I can’t even describe it. It was like Cruella DeVille had suddenly appeared before me, and I’d accidentally vomited on her coat holding a sign that said "SAVE THE PUPPIES".

And then she spoke in a slow, disapproving drawl the words that will forever be burned into my mortified memory of this moment while looking me up and down and shaking her head:

“I don’t believe I’ve met you.”

...

I no longer watch the food network's cake show -- the one where cakes are made to look like kittens or buildings or small children or golf equipment.

Why? Because fuck them, that's why. Making food look like something else is just MEAN.