“Piece of cake” is such a farce.

It seems impossible that July is halfway gone.  You know what that means, right?  August is looming, and what a wretched thought that is.  I really hate August. The only good thing about this upcoming August is that my family will be visiting for the first bit of it.  I enjoy having house guests, especially the familial sort.

Family Wedding PhotoThese guys are all great, but the real highlight of their visit is going to be my fat little nephew (not pictured {he was baking in my sister’s oven at the time this photograph was taken}).

Toddler on SlideOh wait, there he is.  Dang, he’s cute.

After August comes September, of course.  That means school will start and mercy, won’t that be like biting into a cupcake filled with rancid dog crap and fermenting maggots.  With a cherry on top.

Can you tell I’m a bit depressed to see summer coming to an end?  Poor Kyle thinks it’s crazy that August is so life-sucking to me, but he comes from a place where school doesn’t start until September.  He’s never known the two-ton dread of back-to-school sorrows that native Arizonans do.

pallet of bricksMy back-to-school sorrows feel about like this.  Image from here.

In honour of the impending doom, I skipped town last week.  I went with Poor Kyle on a business trip to Oregon for a good dose of soul soothing.  I always feel healed after being in Oregon.  It’s like chicken soup for the soul, Oregon is.  That’s what I’ve always said.

Unfortunately, I didn’t feel inspired or motivated to take any photographs on my trip.  I was in a bad way after falling off the detox wagon, and I felt sick to my stomach most of the trip.  I kept eating Butterfingers™, too, which really didn’t help the situation.  And I don’t even like Butterfingers™, because of the mysterious ingredient that never fails to bind my teeth together and give me lock jaw after every chew.  Stupid Butterfingers™.  What a worthless candy bar.  I’m a fool for eating them.

So yeah, I detoxed for three or four days until I became overwhelmed by a few home improvement projects around the house, and then all hell broke loose.  I was eating Subway (the sandwiches, not the establishment) and drinking DDP like the world was going to end.  I didn’t exercise on account of being dead-dog tired every night from hours’ worth of painting.  I didn’t even wash my face for three days in a row.  And yes, more than one pimple reared its ugly head in revolt.

I fully expect to try the detox again someday, though.  Maybe in August.  It’s not like life could get any worse by then, right?  I hate August.

And just to make you smile, here is photographic evidence of my most recent attempt at a lovely layered cake.  Did you know I have a vast collection of ADORABLE cake plates—I mean truly, I own some of the cutest cake stands known to man—and never once have I made a cake worthy of my stands?  And believe you me, it’s not for lack of trying.  I just suck, is all.

Failed Cake 2

Failed Cake 3

I’ve never understood why people say “piece of cake,” if they expect a task to be easy.  It’s like “a walk in the park.”  I don’t LIKE walking in parks—it wears me out, quite frankly.  And creating a lovely, proportioned, not-too-sweet-but-not-too-dense-and-heaven-forbid-not-too-dry PIECE OF CAKE is really no piece of cake at all.  It’s one of my lifelong culinary foes.  Twenty {nearly} three years old, and I can’t bake a nice-looking cake to save my dadgum life.

Failed Cake 4

It was more like a mound of crumbs slathered with frosting (delicious frosting, at least) than an actual cake.  My mother-in-law said, and I quote, “I’ve never seen anything like it.  I’ve never seen a person make such awful cakes.”  It was her birthday cake, so I guess she had a right to say that—anyway, it’s not like I had deceived myself into thinking it looked good.  It was fugly and there’s no denying it.

Sigh. It got to the point where I could either cry or laugh about my epic fail, so I cried and then laughed, and now I’m blogging.  (Those are the three steps to grieving, you know: Cry about it, laugh about it, and finally, blog about it.  Works like a charm.)

At least the cake stand is lovely.  Money can’t buy me cake baking skills, but nineteen dollars and ninety nine cents can score an ultra-sweet cake stand to keep me in denial about it.

Failed Cake 5

Failed Cake 7 Stupid August—it’s looming ahead and throwing off my chi.

I don’t even like cake.

Happy Monday.

About Camille

I'm Camille. I have a butt-chin. I live in Canada. I was born in Arizona. I like Diet Dr. Pepper. Hello. You can find me on Twitter @archiveslives, Facebook at facebook.com/archivesofourlives, instagram at ArchivesLives, and elsewhere.
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