More sassy cake-porn

I've failed. Failed miserably. I tried to make a cake wreck, but I failed.

Not because my cakes aren't fugly. They're just not cake wreck level of fugly. They don't have misspellings, carrot-riding baby parts, piles of decidedly disgusting poo-like swirls, cupcake designs, or overt stupidity. They're just...meh. They're Safeway Bakery.

Last week, I had a nasty flu bug that tore me up, so I missed class. Tonight, however, I learned how to make a rose. And then I learned many, many times how NOT to make a rose. And then I got it. And here are the results:


Sorry for the pathetic photography. I couldn't get the light right in the room to save my effing soul, and my head was pounding too hard to care about finding tissue to hang *just so* over my spas-tastic flash.



Also, poor, sad little cake took a beating on our return travels.

I did learn something cool. To get dark, awesome, real looking leaves? Use chocolate frosting and add green tint. Voila. I'm so trying that next time.

I'm taking this cake to my elder sprog's school tomorrow so the kids can omnomnom during their snack recess. I volunteered there today, and I'm depressed again after thinking perhaps the principal wasn't lying to me when he said they'd get that classroom "humming." I'd heard things were better. What I saw? Not better. Well, he broke up one of the boring parts with a thirty-second stretch, and then the kids were back to their workbooks. But even an evaluator who was sitting in for 20 minutes (and not even the juiciest part) had an incredulous look on her face while she scribbled in her notebook (and I totally peeked at what she was writing...hooo boy!).

I'm actually a little bit livid because of the number of kids who were NOT in class...and how many of the missing ones I later saw elsewhere. Which means they probably got transferred to other teachers. And my kid did not.

And that. Is NOT. Okay.

Here comes the pissed off snarky bitch. That principal better watch the fuck out. I'm gonna sugar up all the Kindergartners and then descent on his office like a fury of unholy, screeching bean sidhes. And then if he doesn't give my kid a real teacher, we're outta there.

Monterey Bay Schools

For anyone looking to get some information on how the school system here in Monterey is, I've got plenty of news for you. However, I'm exhausted from dealing with the steaming pile of bullshit that is Monterey Unified, so I'm going to bed. I'll write more when I'm less likely to spew four-letter chunks across your screen.

For now, I'll leave you with this: the district is FUCKED (or, as a certain Gunnery Sargeant from my college is rumored to have spelled, FUKD), the schools are operating on a worn, tattered, cheap nylon, made-in-China shoestring budget. The principal at the school my unfortunate sprog is attending has yet to show me he's worth his salt, since he's somehow managed to hire the single most incompetent teacher I've ever had the misfortune to meet, and that person is my son's teacher. It's truly horrifying.

Oh, and there are three Kindergarten rooms. Two are huge rooms full of blocks and paints and easels and flash cards and books and pillows and toys and role playing items and chalk and you name it and two bathrooms and a water fountain. The third room is half the size, an old trailer containing about a fourth of the supplies, no room for anything crazy like painting or easels or play dough or clearly unimportant Kindergarten nonsense like that. Also? The only water fountain is across the playground. The only restroom is past the tantalizing purple slide, up two flights of steep concrete stairs, and very much out of range of a teacher who is legally required to remain in the room with the bulk of the students, so five-year-old Kindergartners are required to use the buddy system to make potty breaks. Also? The teacher isn't likely to believe the kids actually have to go and will often make them wait inordinate amounts of time before releasing them. My own kid nearly wet himself today and was near tears about it.

This. School. Sucks.

If you're moving here with the military and want your kid to go to the only good school, move to the housing in La Mesa. Even if you're in the super shitty, toxic, *retro* 900sq ft housing, your kids will be MUCH better off. Live off housing, and you're fucked because everyone and their aunt is trying to get their kids into La Mesa. Especially the ones who aren't military.

My First [Ass] Cake

That title's a little weird. I haven't created an asscake, though I imagine that could be fun. I also didn't have time to create a deliberate Cake Wreck (tho' please note the wee poo spots - thankyouverymuch). This was a semi-deliberate cake wreck meant to practice using the star tip wutwut. The icing was way too hard for the first two rows of green stars, but after I broke three bags, I finally managed to get it soft enough to use.

My husband got into the finished product before I could snap a picture, so you're seeing a partially-digested version. Enjoy!

Hang On To Your Pattycakes, Folks!

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.

Hang onto your pattycakes, folks

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.