Fine. Yes, after Peanut’s birthday party I piped the extra frosting onto toast to eat during a Top Chef marathon.
Okay, I’ll admit it: I packed as many books as I could into a huge box because this time we’re paying someone to move us and I want my money’s worth.
Yes. You caught me. I actually drove one of my children to his first soccer practice, which thereby begins my tenure as a soccer mom. And as we drove home and I realized this, I threw up in my mouth a little.
Fine, I’ll come clean about yelling at my husband during our five-year old’s birthday party. Okay, I yelled at my mom, too. And almost one of the kids. But he did kick me. The kid, not my husband. The latter’s
only primary sin was putting the cupcakes I had meticulously decorated with four colors of handmade cream cheese icing into a cool oven for safe keeping. On the top rack. While it was in broiler position. So when I rushed to the kitchen for cupcakes to keep the five-going-on-feral children from destroying my house and each other, I ruined all the frosting pulling them out. Totally my fault. Except clearly his fault. Everyone knows you leave the cupcakes on the counter where the cat would never dream of licking them, or the fridge where the baby would never stick his hand in and pull them to the floor. Not that the cat got to the ice cream sandwiches, nor the baby to the grilled cheese. No. Of course not.
And that is why I’m carefully applying icing only toast. Not because I have a stress eating problem. Because I have Post Traumatic Birthday Party Stress Disorder and need to do something right today.
Now where are those candy eyeballs so I can make this toast look like a friendly, animated, ass-enlarging monster?