Cake Wrecks, The Village People & Ax Murderers

7 Jun
The last four days have been insane. I’m not certain what day it is or how it is I am sitting at my desk. I vaguely remember sobbing over the cakes that were supposed to be perfect but were not. Somewhere in the blur is a graduation party, a bottle of Patron, our new home and a cop that looked like he just wrapped up a Village People video. And I woke up to a ten pound Crabbit on my head. Top that off with no free office coffee and a sore ass neck and oh my god we have a butt hurt tsunami. Strap on your ass hats and your rain rubbers because it’s about to start raining expletives.

Friday & Saturday…

I drove all over Old City. All over. Trying to get the rest of the fun we needed for The Girl’s and My Clone Niece’s graduation party. Outside of grocery shopping, my big party to do was to secure the cakes. Make sure they are perfect. My vision? A three-tiered cake, all different flavors with custom tattoos on them. Similar to this one I made for The Man’s 50th birthday party.
The Man’s & ACL Mike’s Bday Cake

Clone Niece had sketched out the cake tattoos and they were off to the be printed on icing sheets. Easy. Somewhere in the day I am informed by Lucky I Am Leaving Your Dumb Ass Nameless Bakery that they cannot make my Clone Niece’s favorite flavor, which is confetti cake. Really? You can’t make confetti cake? You’re a fucking bakery with a sign that says, “We can make anything you want”. Confetti cake is vanilla cake with freaking colored sprinkles in it that melt when baked and leave rainbow dots in the cake. I see the sprinkles on your shelf. I see vanilla as a flavor- maybe you could accidentally drop the sprinkles in the batter you bunch of ass hats! Just as an aside- the day before the party is sort of kind of too fucking late to tell me your head is too far up your ass to make what was ordered. So I bust a nut trying to get a different cake ordered. The Girl is with me. So we pick out three other cakes with specific orders: no whipped cream because it will melt, strawberries in the center of one and please freeze them so I can stack them on pillars, attach the tattoos and they will stay put until cake time at the party. Easy right? RIGHT? Nooooo…..

Looks like whipped cream to me.
Tastes and melts like it, too.
Awesome.
Strawberries? I don’t see no stinking strawberries!

I only waited eighteen long, tedious, sleepless stressful years and killed my own epic dreams so The Girl can have a perfect graduation party. I said perfect cakes, mother fuckers. Not shit that will earn us a Grand Fucking Champion Trophy from that Cake Wrecks site. Jerk Asses.

Friday night I go to my Clone Niece’s graduation. She graduated with honors and lots of scholarships. Because she is as awesome as awesome gets. She will also shank you if you cross her. Cute, huh! As I am walking alone from the event center to find my truck in the sea of fucktards that are stumbling about- I find myself behind a group of women in head scarves. Photo bomb anyone? Muhahahhaaa! I then quickly go ahead to the parking garage before jihad can be declared on my ass.
Saturday we party. And eat. Don’t go looking for those menu items on Weigh In Wednesday because I conveniently forgot what I ate that I wasn’t supposed to eat. After the party we go to Sister Bugs house. Somehow I become party to drinking Mike’s Hard Lemonade and feeling my Aunt’s third boob which is really a tennis ball in her shirt but still funny. Then some Gentleman Jack. I am informed later (as in today) by my Big Brother that I also am guilty of helping him drink making him drink a bottle of Patron. Strangely, I have no memory of that.  He does though, and his head still hurts and he may still be puking. Know what Big Brother, that’s what you get for feeding me bugs and dirt when I was four. I can bravely say that now since he is five hours away and can’t drive himself because he just had shoulder surgery.

Sunday…

Up at the ass crack of dawn, we hit the road to New City to find a home. We know what we want already. A cute little 1920’s pier and beam retro cottage in a trendy neighborhood. We arrive in New City at 1p.m. and immediately start looking at houses. Six houses. The first two houses are surprises and not pleasant ones. I ask where the houses in the  pictures are because the first two we were standing in look nothing like the pictures. I suggest to the listing agents that perhaps they should consider a career in graphic design since they have such awesome photo shop skills.
Another house claims to have a bonus room, second bathroom and a garage- all of which are rare in New City. Awesome! We are super excited to see this house. We get in and it’s looking good. Except I can’t figure out how to get up to the bonus room. No stairs? Am I supposed to spider walk my ass up the walls to get into the room? Realtor pulls down the attic ladder. REALLY? That’s how I am supposed to get into the bonus room? Oh , and there is no A/C up there. It was 102 the days we were there. 109 the weekend before. No A/C will be so worth the climb up the stairs and the ambulance ride to the ER after I fucking pass out from heat stroke and fall out of the carpeted attic only to crack my big monkey skull on the hard woods that have splinters in them. The Realtor seems to think it’s cute and funny. Hope she likes her black eye and my flip-flop print on her head. We go back to look at the two houses that look promising. I don’t remember the rest of the night. There may have been a couple of glasses of wine involved. And someone farted.

Monday…

We wake up and have biscuits, coffee and bacon waiting for us. I eat the bacon because it’s not like I am going to sleep anyway today because I am so stressed out and tired that bacon nightmares don’t even register as a threat. We go to look at another house. This one has uneven floors. Like hold onto the walls- Jell-o legs- on my god- the house is going to do cart wheels any minute -fun house floors. I nearly puked in it. That would have fixed the bacon nightmares for sure. No way and next. The great news is, we find a home. It’s adorable and I want to hug it. I love it. Wood floors, glass front cabinets, cool 1920’s architecture, tons of built-in storage. Bungalow love.
This is what is looks like when you walk up to it. Cute, huh!

This is what it looks like when I watch you walk up to it.
Dress cute, m’kay? And stay off the lawn . 

Then some assholio crunches the back end of The Man’s Infiniti. Let me just tell you a little bit about this car. He loves it. He looked far and wide for this car and it has every creature comfort you can imagine. We spent many a conversation discussing if he should spend the cash for it. I was always pro-Infiniti since he busts his ass and is uber financially responsible and should get an I’m A Superstar present every now and again. Plus it’s sparkly and shiny and I look cute in it. It is his real estate prize and his reward to himself for being an awesome Realtor. So when Dr. I’m A Clueless Fucktard ran his Pathfinder into the ass end of it and gave us fucking whip lash- well you can imagine I was certain a crime scene was imminent. Points to The Man for reaching over to put his arm between me and the dash board. Gold star, Baby!
Enter the motorcycle cop/ Village People member. Seriously. Cheesy 70’s mustache, too tight uniform and I’m a douchebag demeanor. It took everything I had to not ask him if the indian and construction dude would be joining us. Or break out in the Y.M.C.A. But I did not, mostly because my neck and back hurt. And it’s one hundred and fucking two degrees outside. I have no memory of driving us home.
Tuesday…
Sometime this morning I awoke to The Girl’s crabbitt on my head. I woke up because he was busy licking my eyeballs and biting my nose. Which I guess he thought was ok since I sorta rudely let him know that biting my toes while I was sleeping was not ok. Or my fingers. So I spring out of bed to get ready and can’t find the keys. Where are the keys! I need fucking keys to drive to work.
By the t.v.?
  Nope.
       In the office?
             Nope. Nope.
                     Kitchen?
                             Negative.
                                    Purse?
                                           Uh uh.
                                                  Pocket maybe?
                                                           Not a winner.
In the front door? On the fucking outside where an ax murder or hungry zombie could use them to get in, kill us, eat the Crabbit, shit on the carpet then steal the Infiniti and drive it all Grand Theft Auto style through some innocent children playing in the neighborhood????
Mother fucker, YES!!!
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