Archive for the ‘Uncategorized’ Category
No, I know how I lost my virginity. It’s my soul that I’m currently missing…
I don’t know exactly when it went missing, but I had to have been born with one, so I’m guessing I lost it within the last 20 years. The first six seemed pretty soulful. But now that it’s gone, I want it back. At least for a while. I can always just sell it later on ebay…
Seriously…I know I’m a little (lot?) crazy, but the wedding planning has proven that I have no soul. I’m getting hitched in 5 days…FIVE DAYS, and I’m not even the least little bit excited. Stressed? Oh hell yes. I love my fiance, but he has been 92.73% USELESS this entire time. He hasn’t been at his new job for a year yet, so he doesn’t get paid time off…meaning that he can’t take any more time off than the week for the honeymoon…meaning that ALL the final details fall on my shoulders. Like all the initial details and big ideas did…except the one that landed us in this mess, which was the big idea to have a wedding in the first place.
What did the reverend say to the melon? You cantelope.
I cannot even BEGIN to tell you how many times that joke runs through my head every single day. Some days I wake up saying “can’t elope, can’t elope” over and over again in my head. As horrible as this sounds, I actually harbor resentment towards my future husband for insisting on having the wedding and dumping all the work on me. That’s the worst thing that possibly could have happened, but here we are.
Normal girls with souls ADORE weddings. They smile and squeal and glow when the subject is broached. I, on the other hand, wince and ask that we never speak of it again. I have asked my entire office to pretend like nothing is happening and to stop asking me if I’m nervous, excited, ready, stressed, etc. I’m pretty much just pissed about the whole thing. Would someone with a soul really feel that way? I think not.
Here’s why I’m not cut out for this shit: I’m a perfectionist and I work in the graphic design industry (on the writing side, but I still do press checks). That means that I am trained to see flaws in everything. As a pessimistic perfectionist by nature, this training is to the detriment of anyone who attempts to help me with anything. I feel like a failure if every little detail is not just so…and I hate being so picky. I am incredibly grateful for the help I received from my friends and family through all of this, and incredibly sorry that I have been such a baby about it all.
My family keeps telling me to stop stressing and enjoy this final week. This is supposed to be the happiest time of my life, and yet, not even the thought of finally being married can bring a smile to my face. The thought of punching a few of the groomsmen does, but that’s another story. I feel like I don’t even know who I’m marrying. This last week or so has been fraught with arguing, and I’ve been so busy that we haven’t had much time together. Mr. T spent the whole of yesterday praying to the porcelain gods, so he was anything but helpful.
I’m tired, I’m broke, I’m so busy I can’t get my head to stop spinning and I’ve been puking after almost every meal. And I’ve got the squishy poo…I upgraded from full-on hershey squirts yesterday, but my plumbing still leaves a lot to be desired. If it’s not coming up, it’s shooting down, and I’m tired of cramps and headaches. The worst part…my heart is breaking that Grandma isn’t here. If she could just flip me the bird one more time, I’d be so happy. But no…I’m spending my last few days of preparations picking out which picture of her I want on my bouquet and next to the memorial candle. It’s not fair. If I’m this emotional five days out, how am I going to survive the actual day?
I want to be happily in love, excited about my wedding and not mourning the loss of my favorite person. Is there a drug for that? If so, could you drop some by my house? Maybe I should eat some catnip, that always seems to perk Kitty right up…
Please come back to me. Just for a couple of weeks. It’s okay if you wait until tomorrow night to return – I understand that my undercarriage resembles some sort of mutant wildebeast, but that will be resolved tomorrow at seven. And when you come back, please bring Xanax. Trust me, you’ll be glad you did.
This post has no rhyme or reason. It’s just a little virtual vomit from my brain.
If I could be a superhero (or, in my case, super villain to some), I would want the power to mentally send calories and fat to other people and particular body parts. For example, I could sit down and eat an entire pepperoni and black olive deep dish pizza and mentally send some of the fat and calories to my boobs, and then divvy up the rest amongst my enemies, celebrities and skinny whores. And I wouldn’t send it to their boobs, oh no. I’d send it all to their arms, back and stomach in disproportionate amounts to make them look ridiculous. And the power would apply to existing fat I already have. I’d just say, “Belly bulge, Angelina Jolie’s left armpit!” “Back fat, Paris Hilton’s upper right arm!” “Spare tire, Pam Anderson’s cavernous hooha!” and it would be so. My super alter ego would be called Vindictiva. Or Rancora. Or Acrimonia. And my superhero (or villain) sound effect would be the loudest belch ever. It would be known as the belch of despair to those that oppose me. Muuaaah. Muuuuah. Muuaahahaha. *belch*
Sometimes I think I was born without the capacity to feel emotion like regular people. I mean, I feel pain just fine, and sadness, and anger…I guess it’s just the positive crap I don’t have. I don’t mean to be so cynical, but it’s really just in my nature. I should be ecstatic about planning my wedding, but I’m not. I don’t even actually feel like I’m planning anything special, or even something for me. I’m just going through the motions and I have no idea what to expect in terms of my reaction to that day. And I’m really excited to be going to Jamaica, but I don’t FEEL excited. I don’t get all giddy and smiley and shit. I’m not a normal girl. It doesn’t bother me most days, but lately, it really has. I’m fine with not having the mommy gene, but is it normal to be physically averse to the presence of children? I really have a physical reaction to children. Sometimes I shudder, sometimes I get ill, sometimes I just have to walk away, and on the rare occassion, sometimes I’m just fine (these times are very few and far between). If things like getting my pre-ordered copy of Harry Potter in the mail can make me so blissful, why can’t things like wedding planning do the same? I’m a freak. Oh, well.
I don’t understand why people can’t ride their bikes on the sidewalk when one is available. I understand that it’s inconvenient to pedestrians, but I think it’s far more dangerous to get hit by a car than by a 32 year old guy running down the sidewalk or that group of ten year olds walking home from school. What do I know? I stick to the sidewalk and I don’t care if it’s against the rules.
I get an email everyday between 3 and 3:15 from our secretay notifying me that fresh coffee has just been made. I truly hate that Starbucks shit, but I still drink it. I think I’ll stick with tea today, though.
I love buying shoes, but I despise wearing them. I just want to go look at them all lined up in my closet. I don’t actually want to put them on my feet. I keep slippers at work for this very reason. In fact, when I took this job, I told them I’d only accept the offer if I was allowed to wear slippers all day. They said yes and we had a deal. In fact, our new client loves them so much that he made a note of my shoe size so he can buy me a new pair when these die, and part of my wedding gift from the girls here was a pair of hot pink monogrammed spa slippers. If my feet hurt, I will not be productive. Achy feet make me angry. You wouldn’t like me when I’m angry…
My idea of the perfect lazy day would be sleeping in until the Price is Right starts at 11:00 and being served nice hot Steak ‘n Shake in bed (mmm…Frisco melt with chili and cheese fries). From there, I’d move to the couch and watch a fun mix of the Smurfs, Rainbow Brite, ALF, Punky Brewster, Fraggle Rock, She Ra, Transformers (old and new) and Harry Potter. Someone would bring me a hot fudge sundae with extra marischino cherries at some point. I’d read some Harry Potter and Charlaine Harris while soaking in a bubble bath. For dinner, Mr. T and I would enjoy some deliciously fattening chinese food and several bottles of Adam Puchta wine. Then we would cuddle and watch a comedy. Due to the chinese food and wine, we’d probaby fall asleep before the movie was over. Aaaahhhhhhhh…I wish this could happen.
I wish some rich person would give me tons of money to travel all over the world with Mr. T. Jamaica will be my first trip out of the country. I am dying to visit Australia, Costa Rica, Puerto Rico, Bora Bora, Greece, Bangkok, Shanghai, Italy, Spain, South Africa, Ireland, Norway and so many places that I’ll never be able to afford. Especially with the dollar trading as it is now…
Why don’t I have any mad skillz? I can’t draw, sing, take amazing photos, paint or anything. I’m not even that great at baking and I wish I could be a baker. When I grow up, I want to have a winery and a horse stable with lots of land for horse riding and a bakery on premise. Is that too much to want?
I just found out somebody wants to advertise on this site. It’s an online engagement ring retailer. How insane is that? That’s weird to me…but bring it on!
I’m tired. So here, have this:
I’ve had it with drama. I will have no more of it. Consider this a public notice that, from this day forward, there will be NO.MORE.WEDDING.DRAMA. It is my goddamned day and I will do what I want. You will not dissuade me, discourage me or dis me in any other way without getting punched in the kidney. This weekend was exhausting but much needed, as this is the first time I have felt like I can actually have the day I want and everyone will simply have to deal with it.
Friday, I finally asked for my raise. The convo went like this:
Me: So, what are the chances of me getting more money in the very near future?
CD: Pretty good. I just need to talk to a couple of people and I’m happy to do so.
Done and done. Painless. I officially grew a pair that night, and at 9:00 AM on Saturday morning, I was sure glad for that. Biodad calls and says that we need to get together and talk about “some wedding stuff.” I said I’d come over later that day and immediately went into panic mode. Biodad doesn’t officially know that my stepdad J is walking me down the aisle, but if he didn’t figure it out on his own, that further intesifies his retardedness. But he and C (my stepmother who I “lovingly” call stepmonster, although in an effort to stop the drama, I will now just call her C) have an uncanny knack for making me feel guilty for being the child of divorce. Funny.
So I head over there and the convo kicks off with biodad telling me how appalled he and his family were that his name did not appear on the invite. Um, what? Did you give me tons o’ cash for this? Nope, J did. So his name gets top billing. Deal with it. He says that he’s still my father and deserves that respect. I sidestepped the nasty comments hanging on my tongue and simply said that it was not done out of spite, but out of etiquette.
He then hands me a court transcript from 1997 when my mom took him to court due to him not wanting to pay my sister’s child support AND room and board while she was in college. The end result of the battle was the judge lowering child support for BOTH of us and Mom was rightfully angry about that. Biodad never has made much money and therefore has used that as leverage to pay minimal child support. Whatev, that’s between the two of them. THEY got married, had two kids and got divorced. Let’s keep this in mind – NOT MY FAULT. I am the child here. I tell him that I don’t need to read this – it’s in the past and all focused on money. The root of the issue here is that J RAISED me, not him, so I have a stronger connection to that side of the family. I told him that I am now 26 and have officially been an adult for 8 years and if he wanted a relationship, he needed to put in the effort. Again, I’m the kid. I can’t babysit a relationship with two fully grown adults if they aren’t willing to put in the work.
C starts in on how my mom threatened to punish me if they pursued a relationship with me (not true, but I can’t convince them of that so there’s no use wasting my breath addressing that issue), and I abruptly cut her off (go, balls!). I told her, again, that that was in the past and if she truly believes that happened, that she at least needs to realize that my mother no longer controls me. I remind them again how old I am and told them that it’s not fair to expect that I’m the only one here capable of pursuing this close bond they apparently want to have with me. I don’t think C ever got that, but biodad did. He FINALLY admitted that they need to reach out and be in touch with me more if a parent/child relationship is to ever be established. I told biodad that J is walking me down the aisle and he accepted that. I told C that she can help my sister M get dressed before the wedding but then she needs to vacate the bride’s room so I can have some peace. They even offered to give me some more scrilla for the wedding.
So who knows what’s to come? Perhaps this is a turning point in my life, one that will lead to a drama-free (or at least a low-drama) future where my divorced family can play nicely in the sandbox and share me like adults should. Perhaps my hopes are too high, but the wedding rules have been established and that’s what really matters right now.
A note to divorced parents around the world – grow the fuck up already. Do you not realize how your selfish, childish behavior negatively impacts the children you decided to bring into this world? They did not ask for this or sign up for this. They simply shot out of uteruses (uteri?) into dysfunctional situations beyond their control. They live lives filled with guilt and bear the burden of blame for something that should never be placed on their shoulders. You fought the custody battle and ended up with this agreement, one where the child is simply a pawn to be moved back and forth at your whim. We simply wait for Dad to show up at 5:00 every other Friday and suffer the arguments based on dirty clothes and running late. Our ears hear the hateful things you have to say about each other, and cause us to feel guilt about loving each parent. It fucks with our heads and our emotions. It’s not fair. Sure, you didn’t plan this, but you DID do the deed that brought us into the world, and it is now your responsibility to make this as easy on us as possible. In the process, it will make your life more difficult. Find solace in your friends, but make sure those conversations take place well out of our earshot. You made this bed – YOU lie in it, not us. Don’t play the victim. Don’t pretend like your life was so hard as a result of what the other parent did to you. You did this to each other, and you need to own that. You can’t call 24 hours before a family event and expect us to be available. We have our own lives. We work hard to build happy relationships that bear no resemblance to that which led us to this point. We don’t need your approval to live our lives the way we have managed to see fit. It was a hard road that led us here, and we are proud of the progress we have made and the successes we have enjoyed. We are successful in spite of you, not because of you. Now that we are all adults, leave the past where it should be and move forward.
PS – You will not ruin the happiest day of my life. If you cause one ounce of drama between now and then, I will absolutely punch you in the kidney.
Ok, honestly, I have zero desire to re-live my adolescent years. My awkward phase lasted waaaaaay too long and my nicknames ran the gamut from Thunder Thighs and Jolly Green Giant (although I have never been green) to Lightening Lips and Little Miss Giggles (I don’t mind the last one, laughing burns calories and makes me feel better). I was the first girl in my class to wear a bra, and the boys learned how to snap it very quickly. So the post title is misleading, but for a few brief, sweaty hours on Friday, it was good to be a little kid.
As you recall, I had a date with my best friend (and her two friends E & S) to go see a free concert downtown featuring none other than my beloved Boyz II Men. Although they were down a boy (and are now men), it was still the most fabulous concert I’ve been to in recent history. I would like to personally thank St. Louis mayor Francis Slay for providing such a wonderful night of entertainment, which was ended equisitely with a fantabulous fireworks display. Ahhh. Here are some highlights:
I knew it was going to be a fun night as soon as we got on the MetroLink platform. MexiMullet. Need I say more? Okay, I will. I was the most fabulous mullet I have ever seen – it was a short hispanic guy with this beautiful straight, thick, shiny black hair…in a rockin’ mullet. Awesome. We tried to snap a pic, but that little hairy guy was fast!
A potentially homeless but definitely crazy man approached E and asked her to trade her almost empty bottle of beer for his half empty bottle of water…wrong on so many levels, but the interaction was hilarious.
I wanted to save my cash for beer, so I stood in the only food line that accepted credit cards in order to blow $6 on egg rolls from hell and some dried up crab rangoon…and quickly managed to drop scalding hot grease down my dress. Deep fried boobage, anyone? Yowza.
This concert drew an extremely diverse crowd and I wish I had brought my camera to capture some of the horrific fashion we saw. I can now confidently say that my back fat pales in comparison to most of that encountered in public, and more women need to be aware of their repulsive overgrowth of adipose tissue that is visible in those hideous halter tops they are wearing!
Although many of the outfits made me want to puke a little in my mouth, I was apparently one of the few people that night who managed NOT to puke. That’s an exaggeration as I only SAW one person toss his cookies, but that was more than enough. Better yet, after the spewer walked away, his buddies covered the pile with straw and we spent the evening watching people in sandals walk through said barf…gross, but oddly entertaining.
The concert started AND ended with Motown Philly. I was so pumped when they started with it, but then got mad because, let’s face it, that’s their best song. Why waste the best song first? So I refused to leave after End of the Road and sure enough, they came back and hit the Philly one more time. ABC BBD, indeed.
Best/worst for last…we were standing behind the CREEPIEST baby I have ever seen in.my.life. Remember this video?
Yeah, the baby looked JUST like that. Seriously. Beady, bulging eyes open so wide I have no idea how they stayed in that misshapen baby head. And it stared at me ALL NIGHT. I was so freaked out.
The night ended with the longest MetroLink adventure of my life, and a few things happened on the way back to our station that really pissed me off. First, we are all CRAMMED into this train and this group barrels in at the last second, separating me and Ms. B. We could still see each other and it wasn’t a huge deal, but then they decided to converse over the two of us. Again, not horrible until one of the guys (with a quasimullet) says something about the potential for the train to be full of *shuddersatthethoughtoftypingthisword* faggots. WTF? Okay, A, that is a truly horrid word. It ranks right up there with the N word because both are words steeped in hatred and prejudice. B, HELLO! You are in what we fancy edjumacated folks like to call PUBLIC. There probably are a few gay and/or lesbian people on this train, and even if not, any one of us could have a loved one who is, so keep your bigoted mouth shut. When his conversation turned to NASCAR, I was less than surprised (sorry to stereotype here, but he truly was your textbook redneck assface).
Then we finally get to our stop (which seemed to be the stop for everyone else on the Metro) and start walking to our car. I notice an older woman who is mentally challenged walking alone, so I slow down so I can walk by her and make sure she makes it down the stairs and across the tracks okay. I worked with Special Olympics kids in HS, and I have always had a special place in my heart for those with disabilities, so I tend to feel protective of handicapped people. This lady was so sweet, just smiling and waving at people on the Metro as she slowly and deliberately limps down the platform. Then a young woman around my age turns around abruptly and YELLS at this woman to “hurry the hell up.” I bite my tongue and make a comment to Ms. B about making sure there’s no home game the next time we take the Metro. The lady laughs and chimes in to agree. So we are all three walking together. We get to the tracks (keep in mind, her supposed caretaker is a good 20 feet ahead of us and not even looking to make sure she is okay – she walks pretty well, but unsteadily, so someone should be with her for the stairs and tracks) and walk slowly across. The girl turns around to yell, “Come on! Keep up or I’m leaving you here!” I was still trying to behave so I said, “No worries, we’re good!” and the lady replies with, “No, we’re great!” We laughed and the girl seemed to slow down and wait for the lady. We were heading different directions, and although I was loathe to watch the lady leave with this horrible excuse for a human, I had no choice. I watched as they crossed the street and headed away. It seriously broke my heart.
So although the evening ended on a rather sour note, rocking out to Motown Philly and pretending to sing into a hairbrush made for a pretty entertaining evening. I am officially pumped for New Kids on the Block. I am so ready for that jelly.
At the risk of sounding unfashionable, I never want to have babies (yeah, I know it’s not a newsflash). I mean, getting knocked up or adopting foreign offspring seems to be the cool new thing to do. If I see one more magazine cover with a preggo lollipop or beaming celeb family staring at me, I might puke. Brangelina, enough’s enough – no more babies! Jessica Alba, sorry, but your hotness factor has plummeted since you became a human incubator.
Definitely count me out. This is one trend I will willingly forgo. I don’t think I have ever wanted children. I mean, there were a few days where, for maybe an hour or two, I thought I might actually want a smushy faced mini-me (as long as it came with only X chromosomes – no Ys need apply). But those days can be counted on one hand and are in my distant past. I admire my mother for raising us and not killing us. I admire women who aren’t so dismayed by today’s society and environment that they still have the urge to bring innocent life forms into the world.
But let’s face it. Parenting is much harder now than it was even when I was little, but especially when compared to the era in which my parents were raised. Kids today are fat, lazy and rude as hell. Common courtesy has taken a back seat to instant gratification. It’s gotten to the point that I don’t even enjoy shopping all that much any more. Everywhere I go, there are screaming, hyperactive, snot faced brats enjoying free reign over my shopping territory. Seriously. If you can’t teach your child to behave in public, LEAVE THE DAMN THING AT HOME. Hire a babysitter. Can’t afford one? Then why are you out shopping?
I mean, it really irritates me that someone else’s decision to engorge their carbon footprint has to affect me in my everyday endeavors. If I want to enjoy a nice relaxing night out with Mr. T, I shouldn’t have to suffer through some whiny-ass teething kid in the process. Take that shit outside! I get that restaurants are public, and to be honest, a lot of kids I encounter are pretty well behaved. It’s just the bad parents that really bother me. No, it isn’t cute when your toothless wonder screeches repeatedly as you laugh. No, I don’t want to tell you how cute that thing is because you happened to make eye contact with me. No, I have no desire to play peekaboo over the booth seat because your sociopath 3 year old finds it amusing.
But back to the point at hand. Just because Hollywood decided the baby bump is, like, so totally in right now does NOT mean that everyone has to drink that water! It really seems like babies are all the rage right now, and it’s not logical to me that mini-peeps are a trend. It’s like small dogs. Paris and Britney got a few and then all the world had to have one, too. Now there are so many small breed dogs in shelters because teenage girls got over it and didn’t realize what a commitment they were in the first place, and it’s disgusting. Sadly, it’s easy to give up an animal for most people (something I will never be able to understand), but these new baby things are permanent. Well, for 18 years at least…good luck with that.
I’ll stick with my chow and my cat. And please don’t ask me to babysit…
Let’s break this down:
1- I am terrified of clowns. They serve no useful purpose, their need to spend that much time with children is suspicious and the face painting creeps me the hell out. And they all want to kill me, I just know it.
2- I realize that The Joker is actually a jester and NOT a clown, but that’s a fucking technicality. It’s the face painting that really gets me, so it’s all the same in the end.
3- I have not seen The Dark Knight and have been debating on whether or not I could handle The Joker and his entourage. Last night sealed the deal.
Around 4:00 AM, I woke up in a sheer terror, covered in sweat, with that hot feeling of fear and dread coursing through my body. Why, you ask? Because we left the TV on and I guess there was a Batman preview on that tapped into my subconscious and ignited the worst nightmare I’ve had in at least a week. Somehow, I was kidnapped by The Joker (yes, the Heath Ledger one, but that was just extra scary because I knew in the dream that he was dead) and he had telepathic powers and used them to kill another girl. His scary painted face was so evil and he was going to kill me next. I woke up before that happened obviously, but that was enough for me.
So…sorry, Christian Bale. I won’t be seeing you any time soon. It’s sad, really. I thought I could handle it and really wanted to see Heath Ledger’s performance, which has drawn amazing reviews. Too bad I’d have to be sedated for weeks afterward.
Shit, I hate clowns. And 40 lb boxes of rape…
I think this should be a new regular feature – a peek inside my spam folder. I just love the juxtaposition of porn, penises and Jesus that fills my junk mail folder on a daily basis. Here are the highlights this morning:
Get your teeth 7 shades whiter (wow, that’s a nice round number)
Lets hook up – Greg you and me tonight (that’s just wrong…from teeth to a threesome? I think I’ll pass)
Mr.WangQin (not too weird, but I love the name Wang…it just makes me laugh)
Greg, Apply now (wait a minute, I see a trend…my email has my name in it, yet spammers now think I’m Greg? I don’t even know how that would happen…)
Greg talk in style (again with the Greg! And talk in style? Really? I’ll just leave that alone for now)
seek of god ministry church Deuteronomy 4:29 (at least Jesus doesn’t call me Greg)
You have won 2.5 million USD! (Whew, for a minute there I was afraid I won 2.5 million yen! What a relief)
No penises today, I guess. But it’s only 9:41, so I’ve got all day still. I have to make this post short, though. I have to find this Greg character and ask him to keep out of my junk…
Given our argument about my underwear last night, I thought this was appropriate. Apparently, my Mr. T pities the fool who thinks her fiance might double check the bathroom for underwear before letting his friends shower at our house. My closet is in the basement and I am always running late, so unless I know we’re having company, I generally don’t take my dirty clothes downstairs everyday. I tend to be a planner as well, meaning that I hardly ever have random, impromtu house guests and that I have time to de-panty the premesis before anyone arrives.
Mr. T, however, doesn’t believe in planning ahead and sees no need to help a girl out and check for skivvies before letting strange, penis-bearing individuals into our abode. According to him, I should always just be prepared for him to randomly have people over and thus never have underwear out. This is coming from the man who currently has every piece of clothing he owns on the bedroom floor, in spite of the hampers I bought him, so I don’t want to hear it.
Of course, he claims the issue is NOT the undies but the fact that I commanded him to check for them. Yes, I admittedly did say, “D is at the house? Oh, shit, make sure I don’t have any underwear laying around!” However, it was in a fit of panic and I didn’t mean to order him. It was a request for a favor, but that will never be understood due to my initial reaction. I am a commanding, ordering bitch whose fits of emotion most certainly cannot be chalked up to planning an unwanted wedding on her own, constantly cleaning the house by herself and dealing with the death of someone she loved more dearly than anything. Oh, no. It can’t possibly be that I’m overwhelmed, can it? Nope, I’m just a bitch.
I love these commercials. I have to share.
Wiggle room? I’ll show you wiggle room…
I want to be a baker.
Not the doughnut kind, I’m not getting up that early. No, I want to make cakes, cupcakes, pies, cookies and other fattening yums that make people smile. I think I’d have a good niche, but that will be my secret for now.
I’ve always enjoyed baking. I registered for a ton of baking related items, and actually got the greatest one of all last night…my beloved, much-coveted Kitchen Aid stand mixer…5 quarts…metal chrome…a thing of beauty. *sigh*
I came home a wee bit tipsy at nine o’clock from my work shower (my mom is a great DD, and I’m not talking about her cup size). I was so excited to start baking that I went to the grocery store immediately. I know, bad idea, even though it is exactly one mile from my house…and right next to the local PD…but I just HAD to bake. I don’t know if you have ever baked while intoxicated, but I fully intend to do this on a regular basis.
After taking some funny/borderline obscene photos of my new banana hammock (second favorite shower gift, followed closely by my cupcake tree), I mixed up a strawberry cake batter from a box (hey, it WAS already nine o’clock), added some strawberry syrup to the top of each round cake and put them in the oven. Then was the fun part – homemade icing. Yum.
Once the icing was whipped up, I put some in a small bowl and colored it pink. I then started my search for my decorating tools…I searched for an hour and a half and never found the damn things. I was so mad. And you don’t want to make drunk Sassy mad…I eventually decided to get a baggie out, cut off a corner, fill it with icing and make my own oversized polka dots for decoration on the cake. It turned out okay, but it would have rocked if I had my tools. Oh, well. It was still delicious.
I brought it to work as a thank you, and it’s gone. No more cake. I guess that just means I have to make another one, eh? I have big cupcake plans for next week. Think angel food cake, strawberring filling and fully decorated, summer-themed tops. Woot! In the meantime, here’s a sea cow for you.