So the week of hell Birthday Week trundles along mercilessly, so much to do so little wine time.
When you add in some extra dramas, getting rid of little fuckers defecating in my blog A-FUCKING-GAIN and a dress fitting for the oldest and surliest bridesmaid in the history of forever, I am seconds away from cutting a bitch.
Oh, I haven’t been for the dress fitting yet. That is this afternoon. And I am thinking I will probably have to go cause there is no way in hell I am gunna be able to come up with a better excuse than exploding ovaries, ruptured appendix and a dipping sauce of bloody pus filled abdomen this time.
But kudos to my body for a particularly SPECTACULAR reason to miss getting some woman putting her hands all over my body and writing down numbers that are usually measured in athletic carnivals.
The hundred metre belly.
The two hundred metre sprint around the junk in your trunk.
Needless to say I am NOT looking forward to it. I saw emergency surgery as a fucking REPRIEVE.
Yesterday was my Daddy’s birthday. And the cake was pure awesome. I even ate half a piece and those of you that know my pure unadulterated hatred of cake would know that is some kind of fucking MIRACLE.
Maybe it is cause the cake had coffee in it.
Here is the cake:
cherry ripe mud cake with chocolate ganache
Recipe from here – for my international biatches it is in Aussie measurements.
Then I went on to bake 4 cakes and a dozen cupcakes and make decorations for Boo’s party while fighting the urge to go and hide with the dust bunnies under the bed.
I have more of the same today. Plus the whole humiliation of learning how many cubic feet of junk I have in my badonkadonk.
It is just all awesome ALL THE FUCKING TIME round here.