doctored together with frosting

I somehow volunteered to be the prototype for a new makeover show at work. This means that all my hair has been chopped off and dyed much darker (ironically a “dark dark chocolate,” as instructed by our producer), and a yogi guru was recently sent to my house to give me an inner transformation. This involved him going through my refrigerator and assessing its contents.

“You’re a sugar monster,” he said. “Yep,” I admitted.” I am.” “So basically, you’re just looking for another sugar monster.”

Yep. I am.



Luckily, all of my “transformation” was recorded, and luckily, the footage will never air. In addition to being diagnosed with an intense sugar problem, this week’s cake barring was full of other exciting firsts. I had two gay couples with me (one male, one female) and a guy asked me TO DANCE WITH HIM. Said guy also had a beanie hat and long ponytail which isn’t totally my thing, so I politely declined. My friends and I had chosen the One-Eyed Gypsy downtown because of its proximity to the theater where we had just seen my friend Joel’s amazing play. (Czech it out: My other super talented friend Annabeth directed it!) The One-Eyed Gypsy might be my favorite bar in LA– maybe not necessarily for cake barring, as it’s too loud for long conversations– but it’s super dreamy bohemian, catering to a Baz Luhrmann breed of people. There were friendly and funny bouncers, a huge stuffed buffalo, stained glass, big tables, skee ball, a photo booth, and best of all: the best band ever. Vibrohouse plays on the first Saturday of every month.

I offered their saxophonist some cake around midnight, but he said he was more in the mood for tacos.

one eyed gypsy boys

ignore the blonde vampire in the back

My friend Sean was very aggressive on my behalf, creating nicknames for boys standing nearby, then chanting them as motivation for me to approach them (“SHORTS!”) He was happy to eat more cake under the pretense of attracting more attention to its display, and would become enraged when boys didn’t want cake (“THOSE IDIOTS!”). He would size up small groups. “I think they’re a little gay… A waste of cake,” he would determine. Even though I spent most of the night chasing down guys to offer cake to with no big results, it was nice to be so buoyed by friends, and oddly empowered by what I like to refer to as my 5-year-old haircut. I haven’t looked this way since I was 5, but I think it’s making me more adventurous. That’s right– I’ll order a hard cider. And almost finish it.

“Tonight is gay cake. Gayke,” Sean said at the end of the night. Next week will be Straighke.


sean looking fierce

This week’s cake was supposed to be a pinata cake, but due to a lack of necessary equipment (a domed bowl), I put together a different concoction using 13 things from my kitchen cabinets, and it was doctored with frosting in the car. I’ll try the real deal another time. And earlier this week I met some incredible 8th grade girls, who gave me some more great recommendations for recipes and lots of sweet encouragement (and some much-needed reassurance that there are good up-and-comers in the world).

empty plate

no more cake (and no more hair)

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