I Am Not Betty Crocker

8 days! 8 days without blogging! How is this possible? What life shattering things have I been up to that prevented me from posting on my beloved blog? Building houses for the homeless? Proselytizing the benefits of yoga pants to new mothers? Hiding in my basement watching “The Following”, “New Girl”, and “The Voice”?

Actually, I’ve been trying to enter the Pillsbury Bakeoff Contest, while also hiding in my basement. (I’m a little creepy sometimes.)

It’s true. It’s absurd, but it’s totally true. PILLSBURY BAKEOFF. See, I’ve have several life-long dreams of mine come true: 1) have a family, 2) write and publish some books, 3) travel overseas, 4) be a professor.

I also wanted to sell Avon makeup, but I gave that one up a while ago since I can’t even pencil in my eyebrows without looking like I’m permanently surprised.

But my #5 on my Dream List is to Be In A Bakeoff Contest. Like, I want to go somewhere that’s hot and musty and put on an apron and high-five septuagenarians and talk about pie and constipation. I want this. I dream of it! I’ve thought of entering cooking show casting calls, but I’m really not a chef. I’m a good cook. But I haven’t perfected any recipes like a perfect chili, and no one really wants to know how I make my polenta.

But Pillsbury! Maybe, maybe I could crack open a crescent roll pack, though the exploding can scares me, and weasel my way into a competition. So I’ve spent the last two weeks forcing Kealoha to eat creations that require 7 ingredients or less, 2 of which come out of a can. He’s been a trooper.

And I’ve also been working on my memoir. Which I’m about to pitch at this here writing conference I’m attending. If the book doesn’t sell, I’ll be back home in the kitchen, dreaming of being the next Betty Crocker.

I bet Betty Crocker was on Valium, that’s why she’s always smiling. That’s right. She was high.