Welcome, to the Piece O'Shit Bakery!

Tuesday

2:30 p.m.: I'm excited. I'm about to leave work and go home to bake things for the campus bake sale on Wednesday. Images float through my head of a flour covered kitchen with rows of freshly baked cookies. I image I might take pictures for this blog and maybe, just maybe, I might be able to fake those lovely home bliss blogs. You know, the ones where the mother of six cares for her immaculately decorated home while she spins her own yarn, bakes bread, and cans fresh peaches -- all while her adoring children cheerfully paint or care for ducklings and every picture comes out bright and glowing. Yes, I desperately want to be one of those "moms/bloggers/crafters."

8:37 p.m.: Dinner is done. The kitchen is spotless. I just put in some chocolaty Toll House Squares. They should be ready to cut and cool by 9. Now I'm mixing Peanut Butter Bars.

9:00 p.m.: Toll House squares look done. Pull out of oven, cut into their golden, chocolaty tops, and WTF? They are all runny inside. Stick back in the oven.

9:03 p.m.: oh damn! Burned on the top and still runny on the bottom. Swear profusely. Dump into trash.

9:07 p.m.: begin baking PB bars.

9:20 p.m.: Fuck me. It happened again-- burned on top, not baked through. Repeat this process again.

10:15 p.m.: Throw pan across kitchen. Blubberingly wander into the living room and start telling Inky about how I feel like the Julianne Moore character in The Hours; somehow my inability to bake is linked to my failure as a woman and I just want to go to a hotel room with a copy of Mrs. Dalloway and a bunch of pills.

10:20 p.m: Inky runs to Food Lion for some Pillsbury slice-n-bake cookies.

11 p.m.: go to bed

Wednesday

6 a.m.: Wake up and start baking.

6:15 a.m.: In a bout of recklessness and rage stick arm into oven. Ohhhhh..... the bottom coil is completely cold.

6:30 a.m.: Bake cookies in toaster oven, six at a time, for the next 2 hours.

Fuck domesticity. I'm going to spend the rest of the week reading!