Frosting

There is frosting on everything. I mean everything. Ocean turned 6 and we held our first real birthday party. Can we talk about fiascos? I made pool noodle light sabers. We had a piñata. A piñata for the love of god. In my living room. I consumed adult beverages. I shopped and slaved. I cleaned and decorated. I decluttered. I fretted. And afterwards I collapsed. Somehow, through the days of preparation, party frenzy, and severe post-festive malaise, two dozen cupcakes grew legs and dropped their greasy, sugary calottes all over my house. I picked up my glasses today, and wiped them on the hem of my shirt, an habitual gesture that signifies getting down to business. I put them on my face only to discover that I was peering through a vanilla cream haze. Whether this nefarious smear originated on the glasses or the shirt is anyone's guess. I just know that the frosting is everywhere.

Also, for your viewing pleasure, here is a Lego dude stuffed down the hole of a pool noodle light saber (edited to add that no such picture exists since the light saber mysteriously disappeared...to the goat pen? the dog's digestive tract? behind the dryer aka no man's land???). The raw materials for said light sabers were harder to find than an ear bone in a sand box, given that it's mid-February. Do Chinese slave factories go on toxic foam noodle production hiatus for the winter? Or are the assholes who own Target just sitting on a stockpiled hoard of pool noodles to torment overly-ambitious moms who bite the bullet and drag their asses from big box store to big box store in the fruitless pursuit or joyful childhood memories?

To make up for how stressful the whole situation was, I give you a photograph of a five year old putting a grown man in an arm bar. Gleefully, I might add. It always makes me giggle, anyway.