I'm taking the Wilton's class at Michael's.
I know what you're thinking, and you're right. Yet I'm doing it anyway.
Had the first class tonight, and I can already tell my cake will be the stuff of Cake Wrecks. Watch out! I'm gonna post photographic evidence of the mayhem.
So why am I taking this class? It's not like I don't have enough on my plate with my grad degree and all the extra work that I have now that it's converted to an MFA. But I realized I have no friends locally. I have two means of making friends. One is a local group of writers, but they're far away and meet once a month. Then there's the local spouse club, which makes me twitch just at the thought. It's a very young group, which isn't bad, but they're very…excited. At least the ones I've met/seen speak. So damn excited. And that makes me nervous. Plus their first gathering when I got here was an 80s party. Yeah, I *lived* the 80s, and it sucked. Why the holy fuck would I want to stuff shoulder pads in my frumpy dress, tease my hair into a permed mess of freakish altitude, stack and alternate my colored socks, and listen to music that's 99.9% synthesizer? Come on, chicas. It's when Mom Jeans were invented. Ewoks were hot. Ghostbusters was a funny movie. George Michael wanted our sex. It was an era best forgotten.
Back to the cake class.
In short, I figured it would be nice to learn how to make a damn Transformers cake for my sprog's birthday while meeting women who might or might not be as bitchy-snarky as me. If nothing else, it'll be fab coming up with carrot crotch-rockets for mini-baby-picks or barely legible writing that says Congradulashuns With Flowers…or…We'll "Miss" You're Simle! Keep an eye out. For once, there will be Cake Snark instead of Navy Snark, since the Navy right now is treading lightly on my good side. For now, anyway.
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