GREAT! Now I'm banned from finishing the cake.
He then matter-of-factly offered an idea of how to fix it: A big sign for each side. (note: big). "But, but, that's not what it's supposed to look like!" I shouted, holding back more tears! But despite trying to argue with him, he actually was right. That would potentially fix it. The planned design will just have to change.
I then wrote the birthday boy's names with my edible pen thing, and attached Oreo biscuits as wheels. I was slowly regaining confidence, and am considering making an appointment to see a therapist who will actually talk to me.
The end was in sight, and I felt okay. I forgave my cake therapist for being so difficult. What doesn't kill you makes you stronger, right? ... Or what doesn't kill you drives you to therapy in the first place.
The 'dump' part was done. Fin! But is a dump truck still a dump truck without the truck part?? I did have cake prepared for this, and covered in black fondant. But it turned out to be the wrong. freaking. size! Far OUT!! Our friend was minutes away from picking up the cake, and I hadn't finished it yet! The front part just wasn't sitting right! "It'll be fine" says Husband. "NO IT WON'T!! GET OUT OF MY KITCHEN!!"
Therapy will be good.
I made a coffee and took a deep breath. Does the front of the truck have to be made of cake?? But what else could I use... C'mon, Nat, THINK!
I ran to the shops. Searching the aisles for what I could use as a truck, I came across TISSUES! Yes please! 2 boxes, thanks. I also purchased black cardboard, and made the bolt back home to continue repairing the cake.
I covered one of the tissue boxes in black cardboard, and sticky taped it to the cake board. Husband knew not to speak to me at this time, but was incredibly helpful and made the windows.
The cake, disaster bound to begin with, finally became reasonably passable as a dump truck:
The second tissue box was used as I farewelled the cake that had caused so much grief and pain in making. I'm not sure whether I was sad or happy to see it leave my house. But I cried never-the-less.
Immediately I made an appointment to see the dietician.
And a therapist.