My mother is like a cross between Martha Stewart and Edith Head.
Need a seven-layer, gold-leafed cake? Want it decorated with tiny, spun-sugar bluebirds? Is it the middle of the night? No problem.
If you said to my mother—look, tomorrow I’m having three-hundred people to my house for a huge Christmas celebration, and I didn’t plan at all and all I have is this Styrofoam turkey and some glitter? You would get the glitteriest, sparkliest, most spectacular turkey you can imagine. People wouldn’t even care that they couldn’t eat it because it would be so tastefully creative.
And I am like her vain and spoiled offspring who takes all the cakes and costumes and endless creativity for granted.
It’s not just that I lack technical skill. It’s that I lack patience. My irritation-indicator kicks…
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