However, I am a real housewife of Orange county who, between job/dog/man/job/man generated dinner party/children/car dealership retardation/children's cars/job/what's for dinner/dry cleaners who you hope can do something with the wine you spilled on your husbands YELLOW (what is it with this color and me lately? ) linen shirt because you decided to wear it as a shirt dress. *sigh )/Businessville/Dad, I need a few dollars, you know, in between all the stuff one has to do keep all the balls in the air, I decided cookies needed to be made. They're for a client. What can I say?
I do live in Orange county, however, I do not have staff, and I do not live behind a gate ( please don't stalk me ). Cookies means, me, in the kitchen, in an apron, hurrying. See? Pretty? No? Well, they're full of butter. They don't have to be pretty. Sort of like a rich man doesn't have to be pretty.
At one point I said I wanted to be Paul Dean's daughter. I believe in butter. A lot of butter, but I don't believe it all belongs on my sitdownish bits and I've decided since cooking is so much work and so many people are so much better at it than me, I should let them help. It's not any better to make a money off your own suffering than it is to make money off other peoples suffering, which is why I didn't go to law school and won't become a stock broker. I do believe in butter, but I also believe in my barefeet, in the kitchen, in not being pregnant ( please don't get me pregnant ..i'm 47. i couldn't handled it. ) and as of today, I believe in cake mix... and champagne. Actually, I've believed in champagne for a while.
|They weren't my clients so they got cake mix cookies. Does that make me a bad person?|