Martha Stewart, I am not

Last night, despite the fact that I had a ton of homework, I decided to make cupcakes for Clooney to take to school for his birthday. And I wanted to make them look kind of nice, so I busted out the two-year-old frosting tips from their factory-sealed packaging and gave it a go. A little awkward at first, but better than usual. And then I put a few confetti sprinkles on there for good measure.

I put them into this big plastic container I had bought (again about two years ago) in anticipation of an opportunity such as this one. The contraption is called “The Cupcake Caddy,” and it has a handle and little circles (12 regular-size, or you can flip the plate over for 24 minis) to hold the cakes. I had made the mini-cakes, and they looked so precious beneath their protective plastic dome.

I was feeling pretty good about myself, even though I ended up doing homework until 10:30.

Then, after all that — the cupcakes…well, let’s just say that the Cupcake Caddy — not so good. It looked like the cupcakes had thrown their own party on the way to school, and a fight must have broken out or something. By the time we got there, (and mind you, it’s not a far trip; there are no hills or potholes along the way) most of them had put their petite icing heads together. I had to smooth over all my fancy work with a plastic knife Clooney’s teacher had on hand.

They tasted the same though, and that was a good thing.

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