Caking & Baking, Lifestyle Rants, Witty Rants

POSTpartum Depression

I know that it’s Sunday- at least that’s what my calendar claims. I know that it’s 8:17 pm right this very moment- at least that’s what my phone tells me. I know that I’m pissed off about the fact that I’ve been summoned forced respectfully not really given a choice but to labor on “Labor day” (which makes so much more fucking sense now because LABOR DAY, literally means a day of laboring. Like- all hail the SOFA KINGS because this is SOFAKING-STUPID! If ya’ll wanted a 24 hour vacation from LABORING, you should’ve called it something else. And I don’t have the energy required to come up with a pun for said “something else” right now so just take a step back. I will cut you) tomorrow and that I should quote on quote “refer to my employee handbook” if I felt the need to challenge the labor-law fuckeries in Florida- at least that’s what my boss said.

What I don’t know though, on the real for real, is how the fuck I’m still functioning. even breathing. Is this what it’s like to be a crack-head zombie? I ask myself, as I sit here, pondering, weak and weary but before a midnight dreary…legit feeling like an actual zombie on crack. Dead-ish. Famished for human brains carbs. Half-walking-half-tripping over my own feet. Pupils dilated. Freakishly zoned out and staring blankly, blinklessly (!!!MADE-UP-WORD-ALERT!!!) out into a vast, horizon of who-the-fuck-knows-whatness (!!!M.U.W.A.!!!) <— !!!MADE UP ACRONYM ALERT!!! M.U.A.A. ?

Ok that is enough Elizabeth Jeanette. E-NOUGH! Go back to your foxhole and think about what you’ve done!

And That’s about as petty and lunatic-like as THAT got, considering that it’s now Tuesday-supposedly. I don’t trust anything anymore. I’m still sleep deprived and everything still seems shady. And yes I’m finishing a two day old post. I have to be brutally honest here-at third glance, I almost didn’t want this little bastard anymore. The guilt that comes hand in hand with the half-assed birth of a draft that never truly sees the light of the world slams into the weakened infrastructure of my subconscious with the catastrophic force of a category 5 hurricane. The shame that merrily skips alongside me like a shadow of death sent by Satan to taunt me for the rest of my days- all because of yet another unfinished post left to rot in the dungeons of my draft-box- is unbearable.

So I was ready to throw in the towel plush-blankets. I almost abandoned this baby. I was prepared to lay her in a wicker basket lined with plush blankets and drop her off at the nearest fire station with a heartfelt note attached:

Please take my baby. I’m suffering from severe POSTpartum depression and I can’t give her the words she deserves. The world is cruel and no one will like her. No one will leave her comments because she’s ugly and deformed. Her grammatical-reflux is severe and surgeons have done all they can to fix her typos. I can’t silence her cries at night. I almost deleted her- I almost took her life, and I know now that I need help too. Please give her to a loving writer. She deserves a chance to be published. She deserves to be laughed at. She deserves to be a statistic in this world. She deserves to be shared by people all around the world. Her body has so much to give.

And now John Legend JUST started playing on the radio and was JUST like “what’s going on in that beautiful mind?!” And I literally just glanced at him inside of my car radio and whisper-sung “all of me-needs allll the theraaa-pyyyy. I AM crazy and I’m out of my mindddd. Is this the end or the beginning? Because I need to sleep some more, Satan is winningggg…” John just made me lose my train of thought. Fantastic. Choo-choo John. Choo. CHOO.

But this past weekend was just pure fuckery guys as you can probably sense (if you have the sixth sense for dead people or zombies on crack). I had 3 cake orders to fulfill and I honestly didn’t even start BAKING till Thursday (total cakes to bake= SIXTEEN and I use a standard oven mmmkay?) which is an utter cake-lady fail in this hustle especially if you fucking work full time and have offspring to keep alive. I know I’ve mentioned that I’m a PRO-crastinstor (badum-tssss) but I really fucking overdid it this time.

I closed my eyes for a total of 4 hours between Friday and Sunday and faintly recall swallowing a whole baked potato and firecracker shrimp at Flannigans,  and consuming about 76 cups of coffee which failed miserably. I also vaguely recall standing in the make-up aisle of a Walgreens while holding about 107$ worth of random ass cosmetic items all at once, and having thisconversation with my poor fiance as he literally just stood there, marinating in exhausted-shock, staring at me all like “wow. She’s losing her shit…” 

It went SOMETHING like this:

J: You’re holding more money’s worth of make-up than what you have in your bank account. You know that right? Do you REALLY need MORE of this stuff? You said you needed contact-lens solution. But uh….

Me: (as 26 items of mascara, face primers, foundations, eye-liner, 4 lip-glosses in the same shades, and a brow pencil start slipping from my grasp and trickling down the side of my torso, thigh, and hit the floor) Babe. Hear me out. You know how when I was in high school, and I use to go on “shopping sprees?”

J: Blank stare. No blinking.

Me: I used to spend like 400$ and buy an ENTIRE fucking wardrobe right? Man! I bought everything! I bought so much shit! But it was cheap! It never lasted me. I was all “quantity over quality” back then babe! But I’m turning 32. THIRTY-FUCKING-TWO!

(He looks around slowly to see if anyone is witnessing my wide-eyed, loud-mouthed, body-trembling rant. The coast is clear. Phew!)

Do you KNOW what that means? Do you?! It means change. It means that now, I’d rather spend 400$ on less, but REALLY good clothes that will last me for a long time because that’s what mature, responsible 32 year olds should do right? You end up saving money in the end! Think about it. Same thing with makeup. I can’t just wear CHEAP makeup now, my skin is NOT 18 years old. I can’t get away with that shit. And no, this is NOT Macy’s makeup. It’s not Chanel or Armani. But it’s the best I can get here at Walgreens and I want the BEST. Are you following me?

J: Blank stare. Half-Smirk. Pivots. Walks away verrrryyyy cautiously.

It was the first time he’s ever heard me rant about something so stupid and meaningless with such reckless demeanor. Especially in public. I do NOT do well with any form of public humiliation. Goes to show JUST how done I was.

So I broke night twice, and harder than Kim Kardashian broke the internet.  And I said  the words “I quit. I’m never taking another cake order again. EVER!!” for the 6,765th time since I started over-booking my schedule with unrealistic orders because I somehow at some point swear I can totally handle whatever comes my way, and I’m usually over-caffeinated and feeling temporarily superhero-ish when I feel this type of way and book said unrealistic orders. “I’m a badass” I tell myself as I pencil in these orders. “I fucking hate my life!” I tell myself at 6 am when I’m still battling the intricate details of a design after not sleeping, eating, or showering, and looking down at my KANKLES every 2 seconds to check if they’ve exploded from over-swelling.

But I never really ACTUALLY quit. Because

I’m a cake ninja. Fuck with me.

Enough said.

Except the part where I absolutely fucking failed at my attempt with cake pops. That’s up next. Stay tuned. And prepare yourselves because I’m going to be flooding my blog with posts to make up for the past seven-ish days worth of mental shit-storms that have been forming and gaining strength in the Gulf Of the Fox’s Brain. Put up your mental shutters and brace yourselves. Stock up on the Xanax and enjoy the ride. The impact is going to be tragically phenomenal. WordPress is officially in a state of emergency. Good luck finding water. More on THAT to come too.

I’m also NOT hinting that one of my next posts will consist of hurricane rant. If this drunken ratchet of Irma pays us a slutty visit and fucks us while we are unprotected- there will be all sorts of chaos, bastard baby shit-storms, and apocalyptic type of diseases like “Zerointernetsyndrome”, “Nohairdryer Virus”, “Myfakeguccipursedrowned Disease”, “Icouldntupgrademyhouseinsurancethedaybeforethehurricane Infection” and oh the shit that Miami will experience is going to be out of control bro. Out of con-fucking-trol so just sit and wait.

11 thoughts on “POSTpartum Depression”

  1. So, you had a nice relaxing weekend, eh?

    Is it too late for me to put in a birthday cake request for myself? I’d want a Toy Story themed cake that is 2 layers, where Woody is falling off the first layer but is holding on by a rope or Slink the Dog (whichever is easier for you to do). And on top I want Rex the dinosaur holding his arms as high as he can. Thanks!

    No one writes a rant like you. This was…something.

    Liked by 1 person

    1. Hahahahahah 😂😂😂😂😂😂😂 best order ever! Lol! Challenge considered! And thanks. I have to agree. I’m one in a million when it comes to ranting. I’ll take my trophy now please. Thank YOU! Lol!

      Liked by 1 person

    1. “That’s how I roll” BAHAHAH! I can’t with you! See this is how it became a “success”- I don’t EAT CAKE! LOL.. Never really been into cake. Just fell in love with art, and then I discovered i can bake a mean, moist cake! Now, I taste my “scraps” when I torte the tops off, just to know what people are in for and MAN. Good shit. lol. Without the taste, no one ever comes back so it was important that i SOMEHOW start “liking” cake! and THANK YOU! It’s comforting to know we can make each other pee on demand. LMAOOO

      Liked by 1 person

    1. Omg 😂😂😂😍😻 thank you thank you! You’re blog is at the TOP of my to-do things in the next couple days it’s been suchhh a crazy last few weeks! Thanks for stopping by!


Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in: Logo

You are commenting using your account. Log Out /  Change )

Google photo

You are commenting using your Google account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s