Undomestic Diva

How to fake a fondant cake

It's so easy even an Undomestic Diva can do it! Ha. Truthfully: Y'all know I can't cook or bake (hi, Mr. Fireman) and I am not the least bit artistic yet I can fake a fondant cake. It's no Charm City creation - that's for sure. But it's good enough for my boys and that's my target audience. And if I can do it? You can.

I set out to make a Jack Skellington cake for L-Dub's 7th birthday because Nightmare Before Christmas is his absolute most favorite movie ever. Ever, EVER.

Print out a detailed photo or make a sketch of your idea. You will need to know what you're doing before you do it so you don't over or under buy fondant and so you make enough cake, etc.

Bake yo' cakes. You will need A LOT MORE cake than you think. Because you will waste A LOT MORE cake than you will want to admit. Here I baked six 9" inch round cakes.

If you're stacking cakes, you will need to 'top' the cakes... make them level by cutting the rounded tops off. You can buy a saw-like tool to do this but honestly, I have one and it's easier to use one of these long serrated cake knives. 

Icing is your glue. Before stacking your cakes, spread a blob-o-icing on each cake except your top cake.

Stack your cakes, trying to make sure they don't lean to one side or another. For stability, you can add dowels (or cheap trick: kabob skewers) after you've cover your cake in fondant.

Add your top cake with the smooth side up for easier crumb coating. (More on that in a few!)

Carve your cake. I needed a sort-of round cake (think pumpkin-shaped) so I took that same serrated cake knife and started carving. Yes, it will look like a mess but you're not done so don't be discouraged.

Here's where you start seeing ALL THAT BAKING go to waste as you cut away a ton of cake you won't need. (Tip: save your cake scraps in case you need to 'piece' together shapes or missing chunks later.)

Carefully move your cake from your messy area to its final destination (plate/platter/cardboard wrapped in foil is awesome for bigger, heavier cakes). Yes, it will get messy but you can easily wipe away crumbs, icing, etc.

Ice your cake. This is what is referred to as crumb coating since it will not look pretty and smooth -- it will have crumbs mixed into the icing and be messy. That's ok. It won't be seen. Put an even layer of icing around your entire cake. (Tip: Put store-bought icing in microwave for 10 seconds before using to make it easier to slather on.)

Make room in the fridge! Very carefully put your cake in the fridge after crumb coating for a solid hour. It will make it easier for you to smooth on the fondant.

Make sure you clean a large, smooth surface. No rogue crumbs (crumbs now become the enemy!), no bumps or grooves, etc. This is where you're going to roll out your fondant.

You can spend a bajillion dollars in the one baking aisle at Michael's with all their nifty tools. HOWEVER, if you're like me and lacking a bajillion dollars, you can make do with only buying a few of those tools and faking it with a few items you already have around the house. These are a few tools & ingredients you will definitely need for the next steps.

Fondant: I have made my own (marshmallow), bought the Wilton brand (I do NOT recommend) and this time, tried the new line by Charm City Cake's Duff at Michael's and was very pleased. It was extremely easy to use. (Tip: You can dye fondant use gel colors HOWEVER if you need a color like red or black I highly recommend buying fondant already dyed in that color.)

Fondant rolling pin: Your wooden rolling pin isn't long, smooth or heavy enough. It's worth the investment.

Cornstarch: A must-have. This keeps the fondant from sticking to everything from your counter to your hands to the rolling pin.

Crisco shortening: Good to have on hand if you end up needing to work with the fondant more than a few times. Cornstarch can dry it out and a touch of Crisco on your hands while kneading the fondant will help bring moisture back into it. (I found I didn't need it with the Duff brand fondant.)

Piping gel: Depends on your project and what detail you will need to add but a good idea for details smaller than fondant can handle.

Fondant smoother: Helps smooth fondant/remove air when you apply it on cake.

Wilton decorating tools: You can skip these if you want, but I find them really helpful especially the more cakes I do. (Using one of those Michael's coupons... good deal.)

This is what 4lbs of white buttercream fondant looks like - straight out of the tub. It's hard and unpliable. Read the directions on the tub - microwaving as directed will make your life much easier. Trust me. ;)

Remember how I said cornstarch will keep fondant from sticking to what you don't want it to? Super important. Sprinkle a bunch all over the surface where you're about to roll out the fondant.

Spread out the cornstarch - leaving no area untouched, including the rolling pin you're going to use.

This is two pounds of fondant.

And this is four pounds. Doesn't look all that different, does it? I show you this because it's imperative to know that fondant doesn't go far. It seems ludicrous to put FOUR POUNDS! of fondant on a cake but a) you're going to and b) a lot of people peel it off anyway. (And yes, after ALL THIS WORK people will peel it off and just eat the cake beneath it. Know this.

Knead the fondant until it's smooth and pliable.

Roll out the fondant on your cornstarched surface, careful to spread in as round of a shape as possible. This is harder than you think, but, you will not want to have to start over because you end up with a weird shape of fondant that doesn't cover your cake on all sides. The moment the fondant starts sticking to the rolling pin, re-cornstarch it. CORNSTARCH IS YOUR FRIEND!

This will be your biggest challenge: Picking up the fondant to carry and lay it over your cake. Fondant is a) heavy and b) stretches when you lift it and c) is an asshole. Drape it over your rolling pin and be sure your cake is very close by.

If your fondant cracks/breaks/falls apart guess what? You get to start over. Knead, roll out and try again. It always takes me a few tries and several F-bombs.

If you don't look like this by this point, you should go into the fondant cake making business. Also? I hate you.

Somewhere under there is that cake. Er, all those cakes. Now it's time to very gently start shaping and smoothing the fondant over the cake.

Be careful cutting away at the fondant. Just like with the cake - you will have lots of scraps of fondant. But you don't want to cut too much because 'piecing' fondant is not as fun as it sounds and doesn't always look seamless. So cut a little, tuck, cut a little more. Lather, rinse, repeat. Except that rinse part -- fondant HATES water. Good to know. (Tip: Never refrigerate fondant or a fondant covered cake.)

THIS is when you can add dowels (see Michael's baking aisle) or kabob skewers for stability if necessary. Make sure they're cut to fall just-below the heighth of cake so they don't show.)

Two pounds of black fondant. This time, two pounds was more than enough as I was just using the black for decorative pieces. Gloves would have been a bright idea, however.

If you aren't artistic (I am NOT) then this is where your print-out comes in handy. Use it to mimic when attempting to cut-out your accent pieces for your cake.

I used my Wilton tools to cut out my accent pieces however you can also use a toothpick or kabob skewer. Tip: Dip your cutting tool in our beloved cornstarch first so that it does not stick to the fondant as you are cutting.

To adhere fondant to fondant, all you will need is water. AND ONLY A TINY BIT! (Remember: fondant hates water - however it does act as a glue.) I used the cornstarch cap to put a tiny bit of water in it and used my finger to 'paint' the backside of the eye with just a little water. (You don't want it to drip.)

I gently pressed the eye on the cake, holding it still for a few seconds, careful not to move it (black fondant runs and leaves color on the white fondant, I learned) before letting go. Tip: Don't press hard - you will change the shape of the very pliable fondant you're adhering.

Once my fondant accents were added, I used a rolling Wilton tool to make a slight indent where I planned on piping the mouth. (A toothpick can do the same.)

Started piping along my self-made dotted lines, using barely-damp (fondant hates water!) Q-tips to quickly wipe up mistakes.

Attached mini Santa hat via toothpicks and ta-daa! done.

And enjoy.

In the Cosmos

 

Go ahead and belly laugh but I'm just being real: I subscribed - not bought an issue, but full-on subscribed - to Cosmopolitan magazine.

In my defense, dearest people of the Internet, I honestly believed it would bring me good blog fodder. I mean a "21 Naughty Sex Tips" article? Really, Cosmo? How many times have you printed that in some version or another over the past decade?

I might have started off with a bit of a cynical attitude. I'll give you that.

But, ok, here's the deal. Here's where I get honest at the expense of you pointing your finger and laughing in. my. face. until your ribs hurt.  Every single month? I find at least a few - if not several - articles, tips, tidbits, WHATHAVEYOU that make me go "Ohhhh."

Oh.

Oh.

Ohhhhhh.

*epiphany*

You would think at the ripe old age of 30 I should know whatever there is to know about a) men, b) relationships, c) make-up and d) sex but apparently shit changes and trends and technology and OH MY GOD I now thumb through Cosmo's pages nodding along, eyes wide open, jaw sometimes dropped, a few particular pages dogeared like I were 14 years old hiding in my bedroom trying to learn about things, mom, I didn't care to learn about at 14 years old I SWEAR TO GOD.

I mean, until my recent Cosmo binge, I for one didn't know "what men want most at 9 pm" but thankyouverymuch June Cosmo for making me blush.

*sets alarm clock*

*looks around for a man at 9 pm*

*hits snooze*

Aww, well.

The September issue promised to let me know what my "vajayjay" was "dying to tell (me)." And sure enough, well. *nods in appreciation*

Protips: Buy yogurt, pee after sex, give your vibrator a bath and don't wear jeans so tight. YOU'RE SO WELCOME.

I've also learned how to not just hide but *erase* dark undereye circles, shrink my inner thighs in 6 minutes per day! (don't look, I haven't actually tried that yet) and read - READ - that *cough* vibrators have come alooooong way technologically speaking. *cough*

Laugh all you want but holy hell, I am now a wealth of information. Do I have any use for it? Not so much. But if knowing is half the battle... well... dammit, bring on the war.

Risky business down South

Fancy this: I took a little risk and bought an airplane ticket across the country to chase a job I won't like, I'll love. Did I get it? I don't know. Perhaps it was crazy on my part. Maybe I was a bit tenacious. But I'm not sorry. How does the quote go? "The person who risks nothing, does nothing, has nothing, is nothing and becomes nothing." I'm still holding out hope. I'm trying on this whole 'have faith' thing for size.

And you know what? In my adventures from here to there and everywhere in between, I had an amazing time. I got to see my family, meet new friends, bar hop in Savannah (a city I've always wanted to go to), see Hilton Head Island and manage to not ever find the ocean (I know, I know), crash a tweet-up and turn up in the local newspaper the next day, eat an entire pound of crab while grown men watched in astonishment, drink beer out of a tube served by pretty women in kilts, learn the tomahawk motion at a Braves game... and I did every bit of it with my sister RV who made it all the more fun.

My trip down South in three and a half minutes:

Pass the bronzer, bitches.

Just shimmying into my new workout pants and taking my two boobs and wiggling them unnaturally to form one *powerful* uniboob via a sports bra made me feel stronger and more confident and as though I COULD DESTROY THE WORLD! Which is ironic since I then immediately turned from my Hulk Hogan HULKAMANIA! pose in the mirror only to walk into a partially open door.

Baby steps.

I've threatened to start an exercise regime many-a-times before - and even made a pitiful attempt or two in the past - but this time, it's so on. You see, I've got mad competition. And I like a good challenge. The back story behind it all is what one might call that of the Batshit Crazy variety, but in short, my friend Tamara in TX got herself hooked on this TV show "Steel Divas" about female bodybuilders (normal) and bam! next thing you know, she's down like 15 pounds, boasting over the phone about lost inches while I'm eating straight out of the Baskin Robbins Rocky Road pint container with a plastic spoon, staring at the sagging skin of my inner thigh (where I dropped a marshmallow) thinking OH HAIL NO BITCH, I CAN BE FREAKISHLY MUSCULAR TOO.

Pass the bronzer, bitches.

Actually, I don't care to throw on a teeny-tiny neon bikini, bleach my hair a pretty shade of gold and charbroil myself in a tanning salon after spending every day benchpressing a small continent a la my good friend Tamara. (You should see her flex.) I just want to tone up and maybe even try some of that 'cardio' everyone thinks is so great for you.

Of course, starting an exercise routine for me isn't about looking up exercises or diets or BMI. Nah. It's about finding the perfect music playlist, discovering you can't find your iPod since you moved, buying a new one, finding the RADDEST slap-bracelet for it, buying new workout clothes (because the ones you bought for your last Get Fit! attempt are used. Once.) and then spending a couple days at the pool tanning your legs so you look good in those workout pants which ended up being capris.

Slap bracelet for iPod Nano bitches!

You know, because everyone in the gym gives a shit what your shins look like when mascara is running down your cheeks and your hair is matted to your forehead. DON'T LOOK AT MY FACE ASSHOLE -- CHECK OUT MY SHINS! TAN MOTHERFUCKERS, AREN'T THEY? YEP. YEP.

SIDE NOTE: What underwear, exacly, are you supposed to wear with workout pants/capris? 'Cause the ones I wore today ain't it.

Now before you get all "You're so vain, you probably think this eyeroll's about you - don't you? Don't you?" on me because I'm all tunnel-vision on what I look like when I workout, give me a little credit. I'm the not the most confident worker-outter. I practically got kicked out of Kamikazee Kickboxing at MMA because I nervous-talked my whole way through it. Well that and I kept trying to get everyone to ditch with me. "But I'll buy the first round of shots!" So venturing down to the Sweat Box where no one gives a shit but I think they do is nerve-racking.

As it turns out, my anxiety was somewhat legit. Of course, no one cared about me or what I looked like. But I did make a total ass of myself. Business as usual, I know. But apparently, there is some gym etiquette I need to learn if I'm going to get into shape. 

1. It is apparently not a treadmill competition. So, you, the new girl in the gym, probably shouldn't feel the need to out-run (especially when you don't run. ever.) the woman next to you. You also shouldn't feel the need to out-incline her or outlast her. Because you can't. And you won't.

2. Don't stare at your feet while running walking fast on the treadmill. You will lose your balance. 

3. Don't try to look in the mirror across the room at yourself while on the treadmill. You will lose your balance.

4. Even if your attention span is this big, resist the urge to dance on the treadmill to mix things up a bit. You will lose your balance.

5. If you're in your non-race with the woman next to you who is not even aware you're competing to win at nothing and therefore going faster than you really feel comfortable going, don't try to redo your ponytail. You will lose your balance.

6. Don't stop the treadmill abruptly. You will face-plant the control panel.

7. Elliptical machines hate short people.

8. Apparently, it's quite easy to pull the handle off the elliptical machine. Also? You will lose your balance when you do this. Every time.

9. Just when you get the hang of the motion of the elliptical ocean, the stupid thing will tell you to switch directions. What an asshole.

10. 30 minutes to an exercise machine is 90 minutes in the real world.

11. Don't touch the machines that look like modern torture devices. If you don't know what they do or what they're called or even which direction you stand? lie? sit? on them, you probably have no business attempting to use them.

12. No matter how many times you look, your ass will not have become noticeably more fit during your oh-mi-gawd-that-was-a-lot-of-sweating workout. Even if it was a whole hour long.

And that was day one.

For day two, I'm going to venture back into the world of yoga. You know, where NO talking is allowed. Like, at all. Good luck to me, right?

Ladyscaping

About the only thing more awkward than getting a down there wax is talking about it so, hello, welcome to my blog, you should know better by now. What? You think it's tacky to discuss ladyscaping in a public forum? Try carrying on a full-blown conversation with your wax girl while she's all up in your lady cave ripping tiny little hairs off of you for money.

There are two major issues on the table (ahem) here. 1. The fact that you're trying to have a conversation AT ALL with someone who is staring into your babymaker and, 2. Trying to keep your voice at a consistant tone when she rips that strip off of you. If you were a man, your testicles would have just rescinded right on up in ya because: HOLY HELL.

"So, you moved?" she asks as she nonchalantly applies hot wax and a strip.

"Yeah, I just moved into a new pla--AAAAAY-ce [loud breath] um, over by the park."

"Oh really? What's it called?" She applies more wax, another strip and ignores your watering eyes.

"It's Sweetwater SpRIIIIIIINGs." Your left leg kicks involuntarily.

"No way!" she's way too emphatic about this news as she continues killing you slowly, hair by hair. "We live in that same complex!"

"Oh. Wow. That's OWWWWWW. I mean, cool. That's cool." My mascara runs down my cheek.

"Sorry. Did that hurt?"

"Um. A little?"

No, it didn't hurt a little; it hurt like mad. Like I must have been MAD to think this was a good idea. Like, I'm MAD at myself for paying money for pain. It made me want to stop halfway through and try convince the world that the whole Flock of Seagulls hair cut finally made its way down south.

In the few lulls in conversation I find myself desperately seeking new topics to talk about - anything to distract me from the unpleasantness. But nothing comes to mind. Well, nothing appropriate. It's probably not right to talk about her job. "So? Vaginas, huh?" And food is out of the question because... well, ew.

[Riiiiiiiip.]

"So. You like your apartment?" It's all I've got.

Two thousand rips later and I'm certain my ab and thigh muscles have had the best workout of their life AND I've learned that while I have only lived in my new place a whoppin' two weeks, someone here has already seen my ladyparts. Like, upclose and personal. Well that took less time than expected.

Santa Monica in photos

In between storms, literally and figuratively, Miss and I took in a few hours of a sunny Santa Monica including the Third Street Promenade where we window shopped with our non-dollars and walked the Pier where we saw a very pregnant Pink rubbing her baby belly.

And no, neither Miss or I were arrested... we merely gawked.

Miss and I took in the awesome fashion at Third Street...

and I admit to having a bit of a meltdown when I encountered the 468th cropped t-shirt.

Miss found a fantastic outfit to wear out the next time she has somewhere fancy to go

while I drooled over this hot number for summer...

After the fashion fest we headed to the pier

You can buy this print (sans signature) here.

where we encounter THE ONLY MALAYSIAN CONTORTIONIST!

At least, that's what his cardboard sign claimed. Check out the sparkle!

We perused the souvenior stores and realized we, uh, live here so postcards aren't really required...

And squeeeed a little when we saw this. BIG!

Then we stopped to take our own photo. Of course.

And what's the Santa Monica Pier without a photo of the Ferris Wheel?

You can buy this print here.

Now bring on the rain... But only the literal kind, please.

Don't stalk-block me, thankyouverymuch

We have a little problem. Every other day when I venture on to Facebook there's a new frantic status update from 78 percent of my friends in all caps, panicked, urging me and the rest of the world to OMG PROTECT YOUR PRIVACY! BLOCK ALLYOURINFO.COM BY GOING TO PRIVACY > SETTINGS > DELETE! ANYONE CAN SEE YOUR INFORMATION THAT'S REALLY JUST COMPOSED OF YOUR NAME, CITY AND A TOTALLY BULLSHIT HOUSE VALUE BUT STILL YOU SHOULD FEEL VIOLATED, SCARED AND PANIC! COPY AND PASTE THIS IF YOU DON'T WANT DOLPHINS TO DIE!

Eye to the roll.

Worse, are those of you using apps on Facebook that tell you who has been looking at your profile page. Then telling others to CHECK IT OUT! SEE WHO HAS BEEN VIEWING YOUR PROFILE!

Um, isn't that the purpose of Facebook? To stalk other people via their profile pages? And, uh, I'd kinda like to read your shit without you telling everyone I did, thankyouverymuch. I mean, I think I have a right to my Facebook stalking privacy. Respect it, asshole.

You people, blocking these harmless little websites that are often wrong anyway (I know your house isn't work $1.5 right now, sorry), are totally stalk-blocking me. How am I supposed to stalk you if you go and block your shit? Or worse, embarrass me by outing my snooping? This is being very uninternety and frankly I'm ashamed of you.

Also, you can friend me here and like me here. If we're already friends, you're probably blocking me right now. NO BIG DEAL, I've already read allllll your likes, comments and seen your mobile uploads. Or something less stalkerish.

Hands in the air if you send texts better suited as emails and just don't care

So I have this little... problem. I don't like to abbreviate. Which, by very definition, makes me a horrible texter. <-- Even that word? Texter? Feels icky as a former newspaper employee. Also? It sounds dirty. Texter. He texter and she didn't like it. See?!

Also, I obviously have a problem with going off on tangents and never returning. More on that another time.

If you were to receive a text from me, your phone would suddenly sound like it was malfunctioning, hiccupping one text alert after another, several in succession, all because my text is the length of a small novel, sans abbreviations of course.

Example:

Hey, it's Megan. I was thinking about this the other day (because something you said made me think of this so I just had to tell you now) and we should really plan on taking a trip somewhere this summer. Maybe somewhere beachy? I don't know. Do you think that might be too pricey? Maybe we would be better off going in the off-season? Or do you think we should do something different? I don't know why I'm even mentioning it; I'm not sure I can even afford it, but I thought I'd run it by you. I'll email you later so we can talk about it more in-depth because it's so hard to get your point across via text, you know? Hope all is well!

Yeaaaah. True story, fake text.

Someone more textual than I (and I realize that's not at all what textual is supposed to mean, but c'mon, for the sake of this post, let's go with it) will send me a text every once in a while and my Blackberry will let out a lone *CHIRP* letting me know someone had something, um, more brief to say.

Example:

OMG ur whack. rofl ;) xoxo

It would take me like eight sentences to say that same thing and I could never even attempt the "ur" in place of you are or you're without getting an eye twitch.

But get me on the phone - or worse - I hear the beeeeeep on your voicemail and I suddenly have nothing to say. Well, nothing coherent.

Example:

"Uh... This is Megan. [nervous pause, pace the house two very quick times] It's like, shit, what day is it? I don't know. ANYWAYS! Yeah! Call me. It's Megan! [nervous pause, pace the house two very quick times] Um, so, bye! [slam the phone down]

[Come back two minutes later to realize I never hit 'off' on the phone; this is 2000-something, not 1985 - we don't hang up phones without pushing a button anymore, MEGAN.]

This is why my cell phone voicemail outgoing message is still the automated one that came with my Blackberry. THE PRESSURE! I mean, you only get one (fine, endless opportunities) to get the message right, but do you do the creative thing? the professional thing? the play-it-cool-I-don't-care-that-you-called-'cause-I'm-cool-like-that thing? *brain short-circuits*

Also, this kind of thinking might explain my blog posts. Come to think of it.

What would Eminem do?

What would Eminem do? I thought to myself as I sat wedged next to a man wreaking of urine and tap water in the back row of a comedy show that was, ironically, lacking jokes. Sure, a few of the opening acts had tried hard. A for effort! I suppose. One guy, who should have clearly been the headliner, killed it and then was immediately followed by a girl who had to stop after every. single. joke. (I'm being generous here) to find her punchline, I thought, but in actuality she was just catching her breath from laughing at... herself. She was that funny. Her signature line? "ANYWAAAAYS!" Yeah. That.

I didn't have spaghetti for dinner nor did I feel like puking it up but I did know that if I were Eminem (and let's face it, the similarities are not that far off - male, female; 40-ish, 30; recovering drug addict, full-fledge coffee addict - I could go on) I would grab the mic like a vandal and bust out some lyrical genius for the people who forked over their hard earned $10 that night.

(By the way, Daryl, I owe you $10.)

Yes, somehow comedy and freestyle rap became fused and once the show everyone came to see ended it was time - at least in my mind - for the real show to begin. There the mic still sat, lonely on the stage, calling my name. Or maybe that was my friend who needed me to group-bathroom-trip-it with her, I don't know, but what I do know is my body gravitated toward the mic, removed it from its stand and that's when my inner Eminem shivered in sheer joy to realize the damned thing was still on, full volume, and I issued my challenge to the comedy show host to come throwdown with me.

And so we did.

Well. I showed up with my lyrical madness and he just kept mentioning "Megan from the Internet" like I was some sort of web porn star who had been on Rachael Ray. (Don't be surprised if you have to pay to subscribe to this website beginning tomorrow, I might as well milk that little rumor for all it's worth; mama has bills to pay.) His material was lacking and frankly, I expected more from a "comedian." I, on the other hand, had plenty of zingers to hand out and doled them out one after the other with a swiftness even Warren G could appreciate.

At least, that's how I remember it.

The throwdown went on for many loops of horrible beat tracks ghetto-blasting from his DJ equipment and Mac (Whatever happened to mixed tapes? Can we talk about this tomorrow? The world was a better place then; I'm sure the two are connected.) until four police officers stormed the place and we both look at each other like "Wha? Are we that bad? Because, dude, I was OWNING YOU until Beat Track #6 just screeched to a halt. That thing I said about you selling water? That was funny, right? RIGHT?!"

Turns out the police were just looking for a stolen car and the guy who did it. I am still holding a grudge against that dude for ruining my 8 mile moment which because of his illegal activities only reached approximately 3 mile. Or something.

When this highly lucrative blogging career of mine fails me (at some point, we all have to fall, right?) I figure I can segue way into stand-up comedy/freestyle rap with very little disappointment. It's always good to have a back-up plan, right?

P.S. You know how you get into a confrontation with someone and in the moment, you say this or that but the next day you're like DAAAAAMN, how I wish I had said THAT or THIS? Well now you know my misery. The lyrics? They just keep popping into my head. I can't stop them. This is how Beethoven must have felt.

A badass birthday in photos

Alternate title: Why Jess Shouldn't Be Allowed Out In Public. Ever.

I have some kick ass friends. At a time when I couldn't need them more, I can't thank them enough for showing up, in more ways than one.

But enough of the mush, here's what happens when people stop being polite and start being... us.

Refresco!

Yeah, that's about how I suspect I'll feel toward a good portion of 2011.

We tried on some new shades...

Hmm... not it, not it...

Oh yes. WIN!

Target also offered a nice assortment of mountain-wear.

But it was NOTHING in comparison to Macy's Sister Wives Collection. (Trademark pending, I believe.)

I, on the otherhand, embodied a Russian spy.

Then we gathered with a bunch of others for sushi!

Followed by - naturally - Cheese In A Can! Which can only lead to...

a Just Dance 2 *DANCE OFF* of epic proportions!

The next morning, my actual birthday, Red Bull delivered this to my door. I am currently typing this from ceiling. WYYYYYRRRRD.

Which was perfect timing since Aaron and I (along with my mom and sister) were heading out the door to skydive). Wiiiiiiiings!

SPOILER ALERT: We survived.

But my badass birthday wasn't over. A limo picked up a group of us to head down to the Staples Center for the Lakers v. 76ers game...

I've just watched Jess 'Running Man' her way into the limo. You can read my thoughts.

We had to pay an extra deposit for the sake of the windows. See next photo.

Epic. Guitar. Leg.

Um. Okaaaaay.

The funny is not in my ridiculousness but in the timing of the ambulance you can see in my window. IRONY AT ITS FINEST.

No words. Just... Jess.

Two very urgent pit stops two freeway exits apart later, we arrive!

LET'S GO PHILLY! <-- May have been the words that almost got us into some trouble. Let's just say we felt a need to leave expediently.

I hope he at least gave her a ring after that. WINK.

Yes, Emmie looks terrified. You would be too. You saw what she just did to Kobe and then looky what she did to Phil...

This was immediately followed by screams of "OHMIGAWD MY TONGUE TOUCHED! MY TONGUE! IT TOUCHED. BLLAAAHHHAAAHHAAAH!" {direct quote}

I had a nice chat with Phil after, apologizing for my friend and having a good chuckle over how he and I seemed to have color-coordinated our attire for the evening.

Even from the cheap seats, we could see very clearly when the ref could not ("TRAVELING!") and may have, um, irritated? a few Lakers fans ("GET THE WINDEX, REF!") when we helped.

Now I normally *hate* surprises, but these sweet bitches really made my night with the "Happy Birthday Megan UD" flashing through the entire game.

I love these bitches. And I know. I can't stop making this face in every. single. photo. My drivers license? Identical.

She's only wearing 5 Happy New Year! hats. Only.

New Year's Eve countdown at Staples Center. It's gettin' kinda hectic.

HAPPY NEW YEARS... Jess' hand? Of course that's her hand.

* * *

Many, many thank you's for all the tweets, FB messages, texts, emails on my birthday as well. I'm very grateful this year more than ever. xo