Tag Archives: Cupcake Dangler

There’s a First Time for Everything

Cupcake Dangler (CD):  While I was running errands, I ran into an old buddy, and we grabbed a drink. How was your night?

Me: It was fine…right up until the point that you stood me up.

In my 15 dating years, I’ve never been stood up. Even Mephistopheles never pulled that. He was notorious for showing up late, but he always showed up.

CD: I didn’t realize I had actually committed to seeing you tonight.

Oh no you didn’t…. The c-word rears its ugly head.

CD: I’m sorry. I messed up.

Me: It’s ok.

That “It’s ok” was the kind you feel like you have to say because someone apologized, but in reality, your feelings are still hurt and you just want to punch the asshatted douchearoo in the face.

Except for this, CD was a perfect gentleman while we dated. But it was this exchange that made me begin to realize he wasn’t the guy for me.

My friend Puddin’ put it best: “He’s nice guy. But he’s not your nice guy.”

Favorite Comment From Last Post: “That cupcake is terrifying. Look at the eyes! Cookie Monster is choking on that cookie. Why are you wasting time arguing about desserts and nicknames when you should be doing the Heimlich maneuver?”—Laura


Me No Share Cookies…or Cupcakes…or Anything

When I first started dating the Cupcake Dangler, I had to come out of the blog-closet to him:

CD: How long have you been blogging for?

Thoughtsy: About 3 years.

CD: Wow! So I have a lot of reading to do.

Thoughtsy: Awww…. That’s so cute that you want to read it. But you can’t. Not now. Maybe not ever.

To soften the blow, I offered to let CD pick his name. That was a mistake.

CD: I’ve always liked the name “David.”

Thoughtsy: That’s…so…boring. (Author’s Note: No offense to people named “David.”)

CD: How about Lance?

Thoughtsy: Isn’t that a Backstreet Boy? I mean, NSync. You’re not allowed to pick your blog name anymore. You can’t be trusted.

How could I be with a guy who possibly secretly liked boy bands?

Then…he bought me this cupcake. (Translation: I snuck it into his grocery cart, and he pretended not to notice.)

A cookie and a cupcake!

A cookie and a cupcake!

Two desserts. In one dessert! I thought the tables had turned in his favor.

Then he suggested we split it. Split. It.

Which is pretty much the same thing as…

  1. Calling me “fat.”
  2. Questioning my dessert-eating ability.
  3. Taking food right out of my mouth.

That’s when I first realized I made a horrible mistake. It was the beginning of the end for him.


How to Spot a Psychokiller

One evening the Cupcake Dangler (CD) invited me to his house. I accepted…and then I panicked.

What if his super-polite gentlemanliness was all an act…and he was secretly a psychokiller.

After Googling the percentage of psychopaths in the population (1-2%), I decided to play the odds. CD was probably safe. And his house probably did not contain a secret torture room.

Nevertheless, I decided to be on guard and look for suspicious psychokiller clues.

CD: Would you like some wine?

What I Should Have Said: No, thank you.

What I Really Said: Yes, please. 

Translation: I’m afraid you’re going to kill me, and I want to be numb to the pain.

CD: Red or White? This bottle of white is already opened, but I can open the red if you prefer?

What I Should Have Said: Red, please.

Translation: I want to be sure you didn’t roofie the opened bottle.

What I Really Said: White, please.

Translation: Roofie, shmoofie.

CD: Can I give you the tour?

What I Should Have Said: Yes. Of the living room. Only the living room.

What I Really Said: Sure!

Translation: I will stab you with the wine glass stem if you try anything.

Favorite Comment From Last Post: “I’m with you; that peacock looks incredibly dangerous. Its beady eye is freaking me out right now.”—Sarah9188


I Locked Cupcakes in the Car and Didn’t Crack the Window

A few weeks ago, I locked my keys in the car. At work. Oops.

Luckily, my mom has an extra key. Unluckily, I work for the Special Forces, so there’s too much hassle security involved for her to bring me the key.

Cupcake Dangler (CD): Where are the cupcakes you baked?

Me: In my car. For safekeeping. With my keys.

I was going to walk to meet my mom because it’s only a mile off post. And then CD offered to drive me because he really wanted a cupcake.

Once we reached the key drop-off point, I called my mom from CD’s phone (because mine was locked in my car) to see where she was.

Me: Someone from work was nice enough to drive me….

CD: “Someone from work?” I’m hurt. I don’t get to meet your mom?

Me: I can’t tell my mom it was you!  Then she’ll save your phone number, and you’ll get random texts from her asking if I’m ok if she can’t get ahold of me. And that’s embarrassing.

Then later that day, my mom texted me this:

Mom: Was that him?

Me: Yep. Don’t save his phone number, ok?

Mom: Too late.

Favorite Comment From Last Post: “This is eery. I JUST told my family I wanted eyelash extensions for Mother’s Day, and they laughed and laughed. And then laughed some more. Fuckers. I’m showing them all this post.”—Carmen


An Accomplice to Plantslaughter

The Cupcake Dangler brought me a housewarming gift: a plant.

Thoughtsy: Uh-oh…. I mean, Thank you so much!

Cupcake Dangler: Don’t worry. It’s pretty low maintenance, so you can’t kill it.

What the Cupcake Dangler didn’t know was that I can kill anything (BWAHAHAHA!), and he just unknowingly delivered the plant into the hands of death.

It’s a simple equation, but they don’t teach it in math class:

Thoughtsy + Plant = Dead Plant

OR

Thoughtsy > Any Plant’s Will to Live

From the minute that plant entered my apartment, its days were numbered.

Oopsy daisy....

Oopsy daisy….

The first time I killed a plant, I was home from college. My parents went on vacation for a week and said, “Don’t forget to water the plants.”

You know what happened? I forgot to water the plants.*

The day before my parents returned, I ran around with the garden hose spraying water like a madwoman firefighter on anything that looked brown green.

Ever since, I’ve never owned a plant.

Anyways…back to my recent victim. I take 90% of the blame, but the other 10% is Esme’s fault. Initially, I put the plant on my kitchen island. Then Esme started to eat it, so I had to move it to the top of a bookcase…

…right by a vent spewing out hot air…

…in a dark corner of my apartment…

…where I completely forgot about it.

Not long after…the plant was gone.

*I wasn’t totally irresponsible. Although I forgot about the plants, I did take care of everything else: dishes, laundry, brother, cat…disposed of empty liquor bottles.

Favorite Comment From Last Post: “Cleaning up shit is man’s work. If he wants to wear heels while doing so, so be it… but really….”—29 Candles