1 Car accident
1 Case of Whiplash
1/2 tsp Concussion
3/4C Working Husband
2 pkg Child
3 Teeth pulled
Combine all of the ingredients in a bowl of overworked husband. Add to this a rattled brain, but make sure it bounces first off the front of your skull, then finally once off the back to rest back in it’s proper place. This will give your reality a slow quality that makes everything that much more interesting.
Bake all of these ingredients inside a borrowed family member’s car. Before completing the directions, allow your daughter to vomit bacon and chocolate milk all over the back seat. Make sure to note that first she will deposit said contents into a paper bag that will give you the false hope a bullet was dodged. Just as you open the car door to exit the vehicle, the bag will break, dumping contents all over the seat upholstery, her car seat, and your iPad.
Dare yourself not to let the F bomb drop right on your child’s head.
Do your best to clean up the chunky mess. Repeatedly pat yourself on the back for not adding to the vomit mess while cleaning up. .. because you know if the husband were here, it would be a double-decker shit cake.
Do your best to remember the perfect combination of cleaning steps. Fail at least two. Give up and dump baking soda on the whole thing.
Now bake it all in the sun.
Heave your oversized vacuum cleaner down the steps with your whiplash-suffering-ass, free to cuss to your heart’s content since the vomit fountain is now safely inside the house near a toilet half naked and covered in a blanket because you refuse to take the time to escort her up the stairs and into her room where the boogey man and all manor of ghosts and goblins apparently live
Curse the day. Curse your husband for not being there to help. Curse the school for not having a better pick up option, curse the car accident and the moron that caused it, curse the cafe you thought would provide a welcome respite in the chaos of your new tornado of life, and then remember you still have to pick up your 4th grader from school and your muscle relaxers.
and come hell or high vomit, you WILL pick up those pills if you have to crawl over fiery, glass-filled pools of piranha.
Be sure to frost your cake with the icy thoughts of resentment at the realization your husband is leaving for a business trip the next day.
Or just throw your hands in the air, your head in the sand, and down a bottle of ‘fukitol’ with a chaser of Grey Goose.
And there you have it, Shit Cake.