Many years ago–before her orange jumpsuit days–I was somewhat of a Martha Stewart wannabe.
Here’s one example: I spent days sculpting an elaborate firetruck cake and building a firetruck prop for my son’s birthday. Not only was the fire truck big enough to hold six children, it was complete with flashing red lights and horn.
The kid was three.
I could have given him a cardboard box and he would have been happy. Some (like the entire Western Hemisphere) might say perfection was my middle name. Read the rest of this entry