Certificate of Merit

I graduated from Course 1 of The Wilton Method of Cake Decorating. I have a real certificate that proves it. I plan to laminate it soon. It's currently on my fridge, announcing to all who see it to bow and kiss my feet.

And the teacher said that if we complete all three courses, then go to work in a bakery, we'll be paid more than the other damned fools who didn't sign up for those classes at Hobby Lobby.

Goals in life up to this point:
1. MASTER the art of cake decorating.
2. Develop a personal challenge with other classmates, even if one of them IS my mother.
3. Own a bakery, or if I don't make it that far in the agenda, pretend that my boss is really my apprentice.
4. Somehow get on the Oprah show, pass out samples of my baked goods, then become famous.



Hey, the certificate doesn't say you have to be GOOD to get through the course.

It's winter, my least favorite season of the year. This is the time in which my ultimates goal are to shave as little as possible for an extra layer of warmth, and to dream up springtime projects so that it seems like spring is tomorrow instead of whenever the groundhog decides it is.
In addition, this year I have actually made the decision NOT to shower everyday. I'm an every-other-dayer. I'd like to believe that I'm either
a)a hippy
b)a crust punk
c)European.
The fewer times I have to be naked in my 60 degree house, the better.

I thought this plan was working out fine, until yesterday.

Friends came over to eat pizza last night, and after they left I went to brush my teeth. I looked in the mirror at the nastiest, dirtiest hair I've ever seen. "Ga-rOSS! Did they notice? I thought ponytails were fine for day 2! Gah!!"

European or not, I have GOT to bathe more. Everyday it is.

But just to make me feel better, here is a list of things more greasy than my hair.
- as delicious as they are, Sonic's tater tots... I mean, you feel kinda gross after eating them
- my dogs, though Adam says they're supposed to be that way in the wild
- the movie about grease, which is just lAme
- Michael Jackson

Yoga is so good to me.
And this is weird, because I'm not the yoga type. I'm the high-strung-obsessed-with-my-ovaries-wish-i-could-eat-a-pound-of-sugar-each-hour-on-the-hour-type.
I'm good at tree pose, and my downward facing dog really IS turning into a resting position.

But I fart every single blasted time.

I go into class thinking, "hey, self, just do some kegels, tighten up the buttocks, and breathe."

And then I fart. Not one of those, "hee hee, I hope no one smells that even though it was quiet."
It's a low, rumbling kind of fart.

And then there's laughing. Not from the other yogis - NO, because they're totally fine with the meditation and the breathing and the posing. It's ME. I giggle and can't stop. So then I have to look around to see if anyone has noticed my awkward behavior. Last week my teacher threw her sweater at me.

Then later? I tooted when she corrected my position. So there's more giggling and an apology.

Next week's mission is to focus on my chi. Somehow my brain will convince my body not to let out the excess gas until AFTER class. In the car, where it's perfectly normal to fart and curse and pick your nose.

Army of Clowns

That's right... IIIiiiii made these.
And why so many pictures? Because they're pretty.

I wonder what the teenage years will bring.

ME:
spring and gardening
clem snide
staying up late
yoga
tv and a good cry
making cakes pretty
argyle socks


HIM:
fall and frisbee
mastadon
midday napping
bikes
people with guitars
cake for breakfast
throwbacks


HER:
summer and swimming
le tigre
waking up early
dancing like a banshee
charlie and lola
eating only the icing
cowgirl boots EVERYday

Biological clocks are REAL.

I've come to determine that there are actual priorities to be met in life. While this old ticker is still shedding minutes away, there are many things that I'd rather PAY someone to do... when I can afford it.
- clean up dog puke. This is probably the #1 most disgusting task anyone should have to do. Especially when it's the dog's instinct to regurgitate on the rug. Then there's double the cleaning.
- iron. For real - when will wrinkles become socially acceptable?
- clean the tub. I will seriously clean 1,000 dirty toilets before I become interested in cleaning the tub. There are fancy tools and gadgets JUST so that you won't have to come near a toilet. For the tub? You have to SCRUB that sucker. A lot.
- make lunch for the next day. It's a daunting task that won't go away. We always need lunch, we can't afford to buy lunch, we have to transport the lunch, then there's the heating of the lunch. I'd rather drive home to eat than to have to bring my lunch to work.
- bring the dogs in from outside when it's 20 degrees out there. Taking the dogs out is not so bad. But when I have to stand in the freezing cold for an entire two minutes while I wipe their paws? No good. I'll someday have a doorman. Or live in a place where it's always above 70 degrees.
All of the above are wastes of time. Vacationing, gardening, ovulating, and blogging. These are important.

I don't read directions before I dive into a project. For my first week of the cake class I was signed up for, I made all of my frosting "thin" consistency, then had to add about a pound of powdered sugar to reach "stiff." Also, my teacher (who should also perform live in infomercials) directed us to make a one layer cake for this week's lesson. I made two. With a lemon filling.
Because I had no more "thin" icing, I couldn't add more to my crumb layer. I made lemon frosting to match my lemon-filled lemon cake, and then fucked the whole thing because I had to borrow my sister's vanilla frosting to finish the rest. I was afraid to use too much, so you can see part of my cake. I compensated with polkadots.
This week we learned how to make pretty, perfect, uniform stars. My icing started to melt from the warmth of my hands, so it's a good thing we're not graded on uniformity. I compensated with the writing. I really wanted to write, "Screw you, ununiform stars," but then remembered that my 4-year old can read.

I'm not quite sure when this happened exactly, but I've become obsessed with the time of day, and which events should occur at which time. I am very much a believer in routine and a schedule, to the point where I refuse to go to bed before 10:30pm. There are too many productive things to do before that magic hour. And when I've run out of productive things? I eat too much and google things that don't really matter.
Tonight, it's 9pm, and I've finished everything I had planned. But it's not yet 10:30! So should I read a book? Write a letter? Naaah... Google!
I keep thinking of this reoccuring conversation about Girl Scout cookies and the name changes. Why aren't there any more Samoas and Trefoils? What about Do-Si-Dos? The only one they kept was Thin Mints. That's not so special, Thin Mints. I guess it's self-explanatory, unlike Tagalongs. Were the names keeping sales down? If the client can't immediately tell from the name of the cookie EXACTLY what they're going to ingest, I guess it was just better to change the names altogether. Apparently, there are two different bakeries that have the same recipes. Some scout troops sell from one bakery, some from the other.
Seriously, this is the most absurd thing I've heard of. But from my days as a Brownie, I think I might have to order next year from those who sell the traditionally named cookies. It's too late for 2007 - we already have a stock of Peanut Butter Patties and Caramel Delights. They're half gone.

Yesterday was one of those days when it was about to rain at any moment, and every ounce of my attitude was caught up in that negative energy.
I made my daughter cry like 6 times before 9:30 am. I made her take the hot pink lip gloss off before school, I brushed her hair too hard, I rushed us out the door, I forgot her blanket and animal to sleep with, I didn't let her pack the lunch. Okay, 5 times.
After feeling quite guilty, I'd periodically call home and find out if her day at school was okay, if she was happy, or if I had destroyed her entire being in a matter of minutes. I hugged her about 80 times when I got home from work and made up for things with glitter. And mazes. And 3 stories instead of the standard 2.
The universe is telling me now that things are getting better. It really IS raining now, and it's so quiet and nice here. My 100 pound lab is snoring, I'm the only one awake, and it's now one of those nights where creativity comes very easily.
Also, Girl Scout cookies help EVERYTHING.

It's 2 weeks into the new year, and I've conciously tried not to make any resolutions.
But there are certain signs that I NEED to make some, otherwise I'll forever feel like Miss Havisham, stuck in a rut without time.
- dog hair will overtake my house, and we'll have to swim through it to get out the front door
- one of these days, the first words to my daughter won't be, "can you just read a book for a little while so mommy can sleep some more?"
- "I need some fruit. Hmmm, pears, kiwi, bananas.... CHOCOLATE. YES. Chocolate will do."
- instead of speaking the Spanish I've promised to teach her since last year, I constantly hear very dramatic Spanish soap opera "spanish," complete with flailing arms and worried expressions. "Cobleeba sopleka TANOUSA! Sepauda combleeby panOTA! Mommy, roll your tongue again. Pleeeaaassse...."

So far, yoga is doing the trick. It's getting me back on track. If only I could muster up the energy to shave my legs. Sigh.