Prize Fighter

Not only am I clumsy - dropping things, running into things, tripping over my own feet - I bruise easily. When a bruise appears, I usually have no recollection of what caused it, since it didn't hurt at the time. My husband has given up asking me where bruises came from, since I almost never have an answer. (Side Note: this is why I don't wear shorts. Black and blue shins are just not fashionable.)
But some injuries are memorable, especially when the mishaps seem to come non-stop. In a matter of a few days, I had bruises on my forehead, my arm, and my chin.
Wednesday - Forehead injury: My two-year-old and I were settling in for a nap. I laid next to him to read a book - a required naptime calming procedure with my rambunctious boy. But before I had a chance to open the cover, he began rolling around. He rolled to the right, then when he rolled back to the left, conk! right into my temple. I know his head hurt too, but I was the one to yelp first. Guess which of us ended up with the bruise...
Thursday - Arm injury: I had to take my poor flu-symptom-suffering 11-year-old daughter to the doctor. Not feeling well myself, I decided the easiest way to keep the still-quite-healthy two-year-old under control was to keep him in his stroller. For some reason, the stroller had been put into the trunk upside-down, making it difficult to take out, and with it some random junk from the trunk (heh, heh) fell to the ground. By this time, my daughter had gotten out of the car and was watching me struggle. She wasn't watching me closely enough, though. Once the stroller was out, she tried to close the trunk - with my left arm still inside it, trying to put back that random junk that had fallen out.

"AAH!" the parking lot echoed, "What are you doing?! NEVER close this trunk unless I say it's okay!" I realize I was yelling at a sick child, but at that point, I'm not sure which of us was more miserable. She certainly wasn't the one with a rapidly-developing bruise on her forearm.

Friday - Chin injury: There I was, sitting on the couch, minding my own business, when my two-year-old (yep, him again) came over to play with me. I reached out to hug him, resting my chin on his cute, curly little head, when he jumped. His cute, curly little head hit the bottom of my chin, which hurt me, but not him. A little while later, a little purple circle appeared on my chin. Sigh. Being so little, you wouldn't call him a bruiser by looking at him, but he definitely is. And looking at me, you might suspect I am a professional prize fighter, but I definitely am not.

Dancer

When I was 5, I took ballet lessons. I have no idea if I was any good, because I also stopped taking ballet lessons when I was 5, so I barely remember it. I do know that the lessons did not have any lasting effects, because I am hopelessly devoid of grace or fluidity when I walk from my desk to the copier, let alone when I dance. These days, I no longer even bother attempting to dance while sober. This limits my dance opportunities to a handful of occasions per year, which is really in the best interest of all mankind.
I have known this about myself since about middle school, and though I would attend nearly every school dance, I wouldn't actually dance. I would go to stand on the wall with my friends and talk about boys. When a song came on that I just couldn't resist, I would dance badly anyway, hoping everyone else was enjoying their dancing enough not to notice me. My senior prom, when dancing to "YMCA," my date complained, "I can't keep up with you, you keep changing your beat." I blamed it on my shoes being too slippery on the dance floor.
I've been watching So You Think You Can Dance for several months now (thanks to its back-to-back seasons) with unmitigated envy. I am awed by the absolute control some humans have over their own bodies, while I stumble just playing Dance Dance Revolution. While I was watching last week's episode, my toddler glanced at the TV and then began mimicking the dancer's moves. He was really trying, and was able to accurately copy a couple of her steps. I called my husband in to watch.
"Look, that's the same move! He got it right!" I bragged, "He's going to be good at anything he tries." And I will be proud of him in all of his endeavors, but I can't help but feel a twinge of jealousy. If he is a good dancer, it won't have anything to do with my gene contribution. Hopefully when he's a professional dancer, he'll give his poor mother lessons.

Coloradan

I live in Colorado, where we have two seasons: "Mildly Warm" and "*@#!ing Cold". These seasons last all year, as what should be summer is peppered with many cold days, and winter can be mercifully relieved by a warm day. Many people who live here enjoy the mild weather, but I wish it were warmer. This year, we've had far less of the Mildly Warm season. We are just now entering what the rest of the world would call "Fall," and have already gotten some snow. I am not happy.
But since I am clever, perhaps I can outsmart the weather. I'll embrace it; prepare for it; even appear to enjoy it. On one of the first cooler nights, I picked up soup and a hot pumpkin spice latte for dinner. The other day, I bought a new sweater. I have even started shopping for the kids' Halloween costumes. See? I'm ready. Mmmm, soup. See? Enjoying this. Are you getting this, Fall? I'm done with Summer. No need for any more warm days this year!
What's this, weather reporter? A mildly warm, sunny weekend? Nooooo!
(wink, wink) I may have just pulled this off.
I've lived here for 15 years, which in most careers is long enough to be considered a professional. But as I sit shivering under my electric blanket, in flannel pj's and fleece socks, in September, acclimatization continues to elude me. I accepted long ago that I just don't have what it takes to become a professional Coloradan.

Cake Decorator

For my daughter's eleventh birthday, she decided (after many, many changes of mind) on a backwards birthday theme. There were some good ideas floating around the interweb tubes:

Eat under the table! Eat dessert first! Hang droopy balloons from the ceiling and put the streamers on the floor! Then I struck idea gold: meatloaf cupcakes with mashed potato icing. Brilliant! I'll make dinner look like dessert, and dessert look like dinner.

Since the birthday girl didn't want meatloaf, we decided on macaroni & cheese, in a casserole dish, frosted with mashed potatoes, to look like a cake. Then, I searched for cakes that resembled food and found one I believed myself capable of: a pot of mac & cheese. The baker didn't provide much instruction, but it appeared to be a couple of layered round cakes frosted with gray icing, and licorice handles (very nice touch). The top was scooped out a bit to form the lip of the pot, then had the orange noodles piped onto it. I could totally do that. I was pretty sure, anyway.

   I've made cakes before, but I never make birthday cakes.  I knew it wouldn't be too difficult to make this cake, but step one was to bake round cakes, and I do not own round cake pans.  I only recently acquired a muffin tin (thanks, Mom).  Step two was to layer the round cakes and frost them with gray icing, but my good friend who loves cake decorating warned me how difficult gray icing is to make.  To sidestep these hurdles, I decided to bake the cake in a glass bowl, which I already owned, and could then use any color frosting.  Great! So simple!

   The tragedy here is that it was simple.  So, so easy...except that I realized I don't know how to smooth out icing.  The bowl looked terrible, and every attempt I made at smoothing it just shaved more frosting off and left ragged edges.  I did what I could to minimize it, but it was still rough-looking.  The noodles, on the other hand, turned out wonderfully.  In fact, the cake did actually fool a couple of guests who thought the food was in a stoneware bowl.  An ancient, handmade stoneware bowl, maybe.  They were probably just trying to make me feel better. 

Of course, the important thing here is that everyone loved the concept, and the cake tasted great (it was still cake, after all).  I still think the cake belongs on Cake Wrecks, except that I am not a professional cake decorator.

This would belong on Cake Wrecks, too, if it were a real cake.  It should be noted that it is difficult to write from a ketchup bottle.  Also, a completely unrelated bit of advice: if ever faced with the option, don't put birthday candles into a still-warm casserole.  That said, I have no idea how those wax bits ended up in the mashed potatoes.