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“You're a walking disaster,” my mother said. “And you just ate seven pieces of cake.”
“I didn't!”
“You did. You're a cakeaholic.”
“I don't mind thinking I'm a teenager,” Grandma said. “Better than thinking I'm an old lady. Maybe I should get a boob job, and then I could wear them sex-kitten clothes.”
“Good God,” my mother said. And she drained her glass.
“I'm not a cakeaholic,” I said. “I only eat cake on special occasions.” Like Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday, Thursday. . .
“You're one of them comfort eaters,” Grandma said. “I saw a show about it on television. When your mother gets stressed, she irons and tipples. When you get stressed, you eat cake. You're a cake abuser. You need to join one of them help groups, like Cake Eaters Anonymous.”
My mother sliced into the cake and carved off a chunk for herself. “Cake Eaters Anonymous,” she said. “That's a good one.” She took a big bite of the cake and got a smudge of icing on her nose.
“You got icing on your nose,” Grandma said.
“Do not,” my mother said.
“Do, too,” Grandma Mazur said. “You're three sheets to the wind.”
“Take that back,” my mother said, swiping her finger through the frosting on the top tier and flicking a glob at Grandma Mazur. The glob hit Grandma in the forehead and slid halfway down her nose. “Now you've got icing on your nose, too,” my mother said.
Grandma sucked in some air.
My mother flicked another glob at Grandma.
“That's it,” Grandma said, narrowing her eyes. “Eat dirt and die!” And Grandma scooped up a wad of cake and icing and smushed it into my mothers face.
“I can't see!” my mother shrieked. “I'm blind.” She was wobbling around, flailing her arms. She lost her balance and fell against the table and into the cake.
“I tell you it's pathetic,” Grandma said. “I don't know how I raised a daughter that don't even know how to have a food fight. And look at this, she fell into a three-tiered wedding cake. This is gonna put a real crimp in the leftovers.” She reached out to help my mother, and my mother latched on to Grandma and wrestled her onto the table.
“You're going down, old woman,” my mother said to Grandma.
Grandma yelped and struggled to scramble away, but she couldn't get a grip.
She was as slick as a greased pig, in lard icing up to her elbows.
“Maybe you should stop before someone falls and gets hurt,” I told them.
“Maybe you should mind your own beeswax,” Grandma said, mashing cake into my mother's hair.
“Hey, wait a minute,” my mother said. “Stephanie didn't get her cake.”
They both paused and looked over at me.
“How much cake did you want?” my mother asked. “This much?” And she threw a wad of cake at me.
I jumped to dodge the cake, but I wasn't quick enough, and it caught me in the middle of the chest. Grandma nailed me in the side of my head, and before I could move she got me a second time.
My father came in from the living room. “What the devil?” he said.
Splat, splat, splat. They got my father.
“Jesus Marie,” he said. “What are you, friggin' nuts? That's good wedding cake. You know how much I paid for that cake?”
My mother threw one last piece of cake. It missed my father and hit the wall.
