The Toxic Housewife

Today Mr. C dropped a piece of his half-eaten sandwich into the bowl of communal cashews at his grandparents' house.  You should have seen the shudders from the adults present. Last week, at the ex-in-laws', he touched a deviled egg from the serving dish, but didn't take it .  You could hear the cries of anguish from the next room, and I had to quickly and loudly assure all adults present that -- not to worry -- I would eat the offensive egg in question. I want to call these people pussies, except I have a feeling that might get me barred from any future family activities, and then where would I eat on Thanksgiving?

Ta-DAAAAH! The final cake from my cake decorating class looks almost edible, does it not?  Particularly considering that, underneath all the fondant, frills, and flowers, the cake looks like this:

 Here we have Mr. C hunting for eggs a few days ago; a test-run, if you will.  He actually sucked at it a lot less than I expected. 

See that?  See that right there?  That's the amount of space between the pile of dirty dishes Bee and S.B. put on the counter and the DISHWASHER I WILL EVENTUALLY, APPARENTLY, HAVE TO PUT THEM INTO.

Have I ever mentioned what terrible builders Bee and I are?  I think Bee thinks he's good, and he's definitely better than I am, but . . . still . . .

S.B.'s mom, Dee, and I have been taking a cake-decorating class together.  We're primarily using fondant and gum paste to make flowers and other frilly objects.  Since I am: 1) Lazy (and therefore highly unlikely to spend time decorating a cake unless it's for someone's birthday) and 2) the sole X chromosome in a home filled with Ys (who will most likely be unappreciative of a birthday cake topped with pink sugar carnations) -- I am highly unlikely to ever use these flower-making skills again outside of class.

Quick Poultry Update:  Our chickens continue to smell up the house nicely. There are people out there who claim

2012 UPDATE:  To all you Thanksgiving and Christmas web-searchers who are in a rush and just trying to figure out when your damn turkey is done, THIS POST WILL NOT TELL YOU THAT.   Sorry.   However, if you were searching for a post about suburban-mom-belly-piercings, read on!  And, once you've figured out how to cook your turkey (something, regrettably, I cannot help you with), please feel free to return back to this blog for some light-hearted entertainment while your bird bakes.   Thank you. I got my navel pierced as a 39-month anniversary present to Bee.  He had mentioned a few months before that he thought one would look nice, and I finally thought, "Why not?"  After all, it's not a permanent tattoo; I could just remove it if I didn't like it. We made an event of it: on a beautiful spring Sunday, we packed nine-month-old Mr. C into the car and set off all together to the nearest tattoo/piercing parlor.  We were gid...