The boob cake was a wild success beyond my wildest dreams.  

It’s surprising that my dreams are so tame.  In the world of my dreams, everyone is so pious and uppity that they wouldn’t dare eat something as gross and uncivilized as a cake that looked like two breasts, two unattached-to-a-body breasts, complete with two areolas.  The world of my dreams is nothing like the real world, the world in which I toted two flesh colored mounds of sugary bread into a room of people that were dying to rip into them. 

As the Birthday Boy held the breasts-on-a-cookie-sheet up to his own chest, grinning from ear to ear, to pose for pictures, someone from the back of the room yelled, “NO MOTORBOATING, DUDE.” I had been previously unaware to the astronomical number of possible breast-cake jokes.  Allow me to assure you, there are many. 

As person after person turned down Grandma’s Triple Layer Red Velvet Cake in lieu of my from-the-box boobs, I began to feel really guilty for stealing grandma’s show.  So now I’m not only a Boob Chef, I’m also a Grandma Spotlight Stealer, and because of that fact alone, I had to sleep 11 hours last night. 

Guilt. It can be exhausting. 

Now I have to go. Scout has been chasing sunbeams reflected off her collar in the living room for the last 20 minutes, and Cruz is currently drinking from the toilet in the bathroom.  Both of my (dumb) animals are in need of saving.