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So in contrast to my post about the woman who had me doing backflips to please her for her cake in the SC thread, I thought I'd post this, which actually happened several weeks later.
The day is cold, snowy, miserable. One of my girls called in sick, so I'm doing the work of two, slaving along in front of our behemoth of an oven that has been a few degrees off temp all day and I can't figure out why. I have someone coming in to help me, but she can't make it for another hour, so here I am in the trenches, unable to help the new girl who is desperately trying her best to put away our supply order in the back room, today's order numbering some 300 pieces. I half expected her to quit on me.
Suddenly, while I'm engaged in trying to figure out why our stupid label machine is no longer working, I feel a tentative pat on my hip. "Excyoose me, Miss."
I look down. My cold little charcoal briquette of a heart sparks just a little. This little boy is barely as high as my waist, his cheeks ruddy with cold, his winter cap askew on his head, revealing touselled blonde hair. He's holding one of our little round cakes, this one featuring a border of fake icing 'ice cream cones' and sprinkles. I immediately drop to his level and start to coo. "What can I do for you, midget?"
He grins at me, revealing a gap in his teeth, and blushes, becoming shy. His father wanders over and flashes a thousand-watt smile at me that leaves me a little weak in the knees. Hurrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr, what's my name again? I'm engaged, but this guy is gorgeous, radiating charm and good nature, with open brown eyes. "Are you busy, miss?"
I make some sound that might be "nuh". He puts his hand on his son's shoulder. "Can you write on a cake for us, please? It's for my wife's birthday."
"Oh, I'd love to!" I sound like a moron, but I don't care, because the kid's face just lights up. I snap on a pair of gloves. "What do you want written on it?"
His father gives the boy a gentle nudge, and the kid holds the cake up to me. "Can yoo please write, happy birfday momma we love you from daddy and Sammy?"
My heart drops just a little as I take the cake from him. This sucker is only eight inches across and the border crowds the writing space a little. There's no way I can fit --
"I'm sorry, young lady," the father says, smiling sheepishly, "I know that's a lot. If you can just write 'Happy Birthday' or 'We Love You', that would be --"
"Oh, no! No, don't be silly, I can make it happen!"
Stupidstupidstupid.
But the kid beams at me like I just told him I was going to give him a pony for his birthday and have Batman perform at the party, and what else can I do but make it work?
I painstakingly pipe the inscription as small and neatly as I can, somehow managing to not only fit the entire thing on there but to make it look legible and attractive, too. The boy actually claps his hands and jumps up and down when I show it to him. The father's smile reduces me to a little pile of semi-sentient goo. "Thank you SO much. You have no idea how much this means. I'd like to give you a tip . . . "
I manage to pull myself together enough to insist that we don't take tips; it's store policy, and besides I never feel comfortable about it. The kid actually blows me a kiss, they thank me again, and they leave. They actually made my day. I later found out they went up to customer service and made it sound as if not only had I fixed their cake, I had cured cancer and developed a formula to turn lead into gold, too. The following day, they came by with his wife, a wonderful lady who actually took me by the hand and thanked me for making the cake for her. They didn't actually have any shopping to do; they just wanted to come by and say thank you.
They were the nicest people I ever met at that job, and it made all the other terrible customers that much easier to take.
The day is cold, snowy, miserable. One of my girls called in sick, so I'm doing the work of two, slaving along in front of our behemoth of an oven that has been a few degrees off temp all day and I can't figure out why. I have someone coming in to help me, but she can't make it for another hour, so here I am in the trenches, unable to help the new girl who is desperately trying her best to put away our supply order in the back room, today's order numbering some 300 pieces. I half expected her to quit on me.
Suddenly, while I'm engaged in trying to figure out why our stupid label machine is no longer working, I feel a tentative pat on my hip. "Excyoose me, Miss."
I look down. My cold little charcoal briquette of a heart sparks just a little. This little boy is barely as high as my waist, his cheeks ruddy with cold, his winter cap askew on his head, revealing touselled blonde hair. He's holding one of our little round cakes, this one featuring a border of fake icing 'ice cream cones' and sprinkles. I immediately drop to his level and start to coo. "What can I do for you, midget?"
He grins at me, revealing a gap in his teeth, and blushes, becoming shy. His father wanders over and flashes a thousand-watt smile at me that leaves me a little weak in the knees. Hurrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr, what's my name again? I'm engaged, but this guy is gorgeous, radiating charm and good nature, with open brown eyes. "Are you busy, miss?"
I make some sound that might be "nuh". He puts his hand on his son's shoulder. "Can you write on a cake for us, please? It's for my wife's birthday."
"Oh, I'd love to!" I sound like a moron, but I don't care, because the kid's face just lights up. I snap on a pair of gloves. "What do you want written on it?"
His father gives the boy a gentle nudge, and the kid holds the cake up to me. "Can yoo please write, happy birfday momma we love you from daddy and Sammy?"
My heart drops just a little as I take the cake from him. This sucker is only eight inches across and the border crowds the writing space a little. There's no way I can fit --
"I'm sorry, young lady," the father says, smiling sheepishly, "I know that's a lot. If you can just write 'Happy Birthday' or 'We Love You', that would be --"
"Oh, no! No, don't be silly, I can make it happen!"
Stupidstupidstupid.
But the kid beams at me like I just told him I was going to give him a pony for his birthday and have Batman perform at the party, and what else can I do but make it work?
I painstakingly pipe the inscription as small and neatly as I can, somehow managing to not only fit the entire thing on there but to make it look legible and attractive, too. The boy actually claps his hands and jumps up and down when I show it to him. The father's smile reduces me to a little pile of semi-sentient goo. "Thank you SO much. You have no idea how much this means. I'd like to give you a tip . . . "
I manage to pull myself together enough to insist that we don't take tips; it's store policy, and besides I never feel comfortable about it. The kid actually blows me a kiss, they thank me again, and they leave. They actually made my day. I later found out they went up to customer service and made it sound as if not only had I fixed their cake, I had cured cancer and developed a formula to turn lead into gold, too. The following day, they came by with his wife, a wonderful lady who actually took me by the hand and thanked me for making the cake for her. They didn't actually have any shopping to do; they just wanted to come by and say thank you.
They were the nicest people I ever met at that job, and it made all the other terrible customers that much easier to take.
He's already got excellent manners, and two superb role model parents. And he'll raise his children in the same way. 
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