On the first day of school I noticed in Mikey’s classroom a name tag for a little boy named Harvey.  Now, Harvey isn’t exactly a popular name, but that isn’t what made me do a double take.  What gave me pause was that all through elementary school (the same one Mikey attends) I went to school with a boy named Harvey.  I knew this Harvey had to be my Harvey’s son.

Sure enough, we bumped into each other at the Halloween festival and laughed about the odds of meeting up 24 years later, in the same place where we last saw each other.  Life is funny that way.  You know what else is funny?  Bake sales.

Bake sales are the classic way in which churches and private schools raise funds, and I remember looking forward to them as a kid–the exception being the part where I stressed over what my mom would make.  The thing is, these days, people don’t bake.  Nope.  They pick up donuts, buy things from the supermarket bakery, or drop by Marie Callender’s for a pie, but they don’t bake.  For the bake sale.

I bake.  There was no way I was going to drop off something from the store.  Harvey, apparently, felt the same way.  I posted my progress on Facebook in between Oatmeal Bars.  He updated me on his brownies and oatmeal raisin cookies.  Together, our smugness stretched across town, fragrant with the scent of home baked goods.  When Harvey dropped off his four dozen brownies and oatmeal raisin cookies the next morning, it was all he could do to keep from smirking at the dozens of pink donut boxes.  Likewise, my vegan oatmeal bars (raspberry and apricot) were happily received since it meant the kids with egg and dairy allergies could actually participate in the bake sale.  When I got back to my car, I looked in the rear-view mirror to make sure my halo was still on straight.  It was.  It was shiny, too.

Later, Harvy and I discussed our superiority on Facebook.

Later still, Harvey picked up his sons at school.  He asked his oldest how the bake sale went, and what he bought.  Brownies?  Oatmeal Raisin cookies?  It would be a toss up–they were both pretty fabulous.

“I had a cake with cream inside, wrapped in metal.”

I know what you’re thinking, and you’re right.  Oh yes, he did.  Harvey’s older son bought a Ding Dong at the school bake sale.  And he loved it.  He loved it more than the Ding Dongs he has in the cupboard at home, apparently.

Even later still, Mikey climbed into my car, the sugar high making him both spastic and catatonic.  I asked Mikey how the bake sale was, and what he bought.  Raspberry Oatmeal bars?  Apricot Oatmeal bars?  It would be a toss up–they were both pretty fabulous.

“I had a white cupcake with a huge thing of frosting that went like this {pantomimes tornado} with a plastic tree on top.”

I know what you’re thinking, and you’re right.  Oh yes, he did.  My son bought a store-made cupcake at the school bake sale.  And he loved it.

Harvey and I drove our children home, our separate cars propelled quickly across town by the force of our deflating egos.

Some people long for wealth.  Or fame.  Or true, everlasting love.  I just want to face a camera head on without fear of double chins.  Granted, even thin people have double chins.  My best friend was once married to a man with a chin so weak that no amount of diet or exercise could chisel that jaw line into anything more defined than a turkey wattle.  It turns out his weak chin reflected an even weaker character, so the fact his face resembles a plate of flan pleases me to no end.

I, on the other hand, have no desire to look like custard.  So after years of study, I have perfected the art of hiding my double chin.  A talent many of you have witnessed first hand.  The techniques are simple, but work best when you are either taking the picture or comfortable enough to tell the person taking the picture what to do.

Technique #1: Lose weight.  This technique sucks, is rarely any fun, and is impossibly  hard.  But, it’s also the most effective.  Le sigh.

Technique #2: Hide it.  This is where you hide your double chin behind any number of props, including, but not limited to, hands, cameras, turtlenecks, small children, and your husband’s shoulder.

Technique #3: Crop it. Seriously, pull the camera in tight. Conversely, take a regular picture and then crop it with photo-editing software. Either way, get in real close and get rid of that wiggly beast.

Technique #4: Lift it. Stand next to tall people. Lift your chin up just so, as if you are trying to help out the composition of the picture by positioning yourself more in line with the rest of the subjects in the photograph. You’re not, of course. The only composition you care about is the adipose tissue dangling from your jaw.

{Me and The Mister, at my brother’s wedding, before I lost 40 pounds.}

Technique #5: Position it. This is a hard one, but one that when done well, can fool a lot of people. If you do it often enough, you can even fool yourself, a disappointing truth that becomes apparent when you see candid pictures of yourself at a baseball game and all you can think is, really? Damn.

So. If you are taking the picture of yourself, with or without a tripod, position the camera at slightly above eye level. Forehead level is best. Then, every so slightly point the camera down so that the aperture of the lens is pointing at the spot right between your eyebrows. It will be a subtle shift, but necessary if you want your entire face in the shot. Next, more positioning. Drop your chin slightly, push your shoulders back just a touch, and elongate your neck as best you can without looking like an invitation to vampire. All of this is easier to do from the side, by the way.

These techniques are guaranteed to swipe ten pounds off your face. When you consider the camera also adds ten pounds, it’s a bit of a wash, but let’s not think about that. Occasionally, the techniques don’t work, or aren’t enough to combat your natural tendency to look ridiculous. Case in point:

Problems: Hair is wonky. Shoulders scrunched from trying to contain wild dingos. Chin tucked very, very low in an effort to position face closer to said dingos. Smile is plastered on, and looks every so slightly defeated. Camera is positioned dead center, aimed at nose.

Solutions: Edit the crap out of it on Picnik. Increase the exposure. Take down the highlights. Add a 1960s effect to the image. Try taking picture again.

Problems: Hair. Still wonky. Teeth appear bucked thanks to talking through smile at person holding the camera. Camera still pointed at nose, which is looking downright bulbous thanks to your habit of scrunching it up when you smile like a bunny sniffing the wind for predators.  Still wrangling dingos. Grip on dingos too tight, pushing up hovercraft boobs high enough to create two additional chins.

Solution: Edit, edit, edit. And laugh. And realize with trepidation that you will one day look at this picture and think you look young, and that in the end a little double chin isn’t that big a deal.

I aced my typing class in high school.  I had perfect positioning, my hands cupped over the typewriter with the confidence of someone able to hold imaginary ping-pong balls with the youthful pads of their palms.  One day, after a particularly artful display of clerical wizardry, my teacher, Mrs. McGuire, approached me.

“You know,” she said, her gravely voice reaching down to me from her imposing 5′11 frame, “you have a real talent for typing.  You should consider a career as a secretary.”

I am hard pressed to cite a group more encouraging, more filled with hope for the future, than high school teachers.

But Mrs. McGuire did have a point.  I’ve always had dexterous hands.  I am good at putting things together and taking them apart.  I am the mom you want when your shoelaces are impossibly knotted and you are running late for school.  I played the piano (and the constant practicing, recitals, and rigmarole that entails) for eleven years, until I took up competitive tennis and developed callouses on my palms so thick I could stick pins in them without feeling a thing.

I say all this not to brag, but to justify how I can palm a basketball with my monstrous paws.  It’s true; I have hands larger than many men.  My fingers, stretched long from years of piano and prodigal typing ability, extend knuckles past the dainty tips of the women I know.  Likewise, my palms are larger than average, a fact I used to my advantage every time a nutritionist told me to use my palm to determine portion size.  My friend, Tiffany, not one to miss a freakish characteristic on the body of another, once noted that my fingers reminded her of E.T. “Every time you point I expect the tip of your finger to light up.”

At least they aren’t man hands.  They are feminine in shape and almost graceful in appearance when manicured, which I admit is never.  But, still, graceful or not, their size comes at a price, and that price is bangles and bracelets.

I have an alumni event tonight.  The type of event where you show up over dressed in hopes people will believe you dress like that normally.  What, this old thing? I used to wear this during finals, don’t you remember? The type of event where you lie about what you do and how much you make, knowing the person you are talking to is doing exactly the same. The type of event where a nice set of bangles would complement my black cowl neck top nicely.

But it is not meant to be, me and bangles.  Knowing my tendency for circus like proportions, I headed over to Lane Bryant and found exactly what I wanted: silver, but not shiny, simple enough to wear with any number of outfits, and under $20.

Unfortunately, the set was too big.  No sooner did I put them on and drop my hand did all seven bangles slide down and off my wrists into a tinkling pile on the floor.  The same thing happened with every other set I tried.

Aha!  I’ve lost so much weight that my palms and wrists have shrunk to a normal size, meaning I can now wear bangles like everyone else!  Not so much.  I went to 5 different “regular” stores and a few national chains, and while I could slide on the bangles, I couldn’t take them off without grimacing and grunting, causing Mikey to ask me more than once if I had a tummy ache.  “No, Mikey,” I gasped as I ripped off a bangle with a sharp edge, “Mama just has hands like an orangutan.”

This week my mom called me to ask if I was still writing my blog.  I told her yes, and gave her the address.  The next day she called me in a downright chipper mood to tell me she was very proud of me.  I was not so shocked that I couldn’t ask her why, but it was close.  She told me that she stayed up past 1:00 am reading my blog.  That I was a very good writer.  That the pictures of the boys were lovely.  That she loved everything about it.  And that it was very obvious to her that she had a large influence in my life and talent.

The last sentence I expected–the rest I didn’t.  I quickly crunched the numbers, and since the four preceding unexpected sentences outnumbered the predictable concluding sentence, I decided to stand there shocked, amused, and thrilled beyond measure.

After repeating repeatedly (and then some more) to The Mister what she had to say, I proceeded to use my abundant and varied talents to make homemade bread.  I measured, weighed, poured, and mixed.  After that, I kneaded, all the while a smile on my lips.  Writer and domestic goddess?  Why, yes.  Yes I am.

Later, after the novelty of the baked bread’s golden crust wore off, I decided to stroke my writer/domestic goddess ego even more by presenting Mikey with proof of his mother’s love (and superiority.)  He eagerly picked up his piece of (perfectly) toasted bread and took a bite.

“Well, Mikey?  How is it?” I was all but buffing my fingernails on the lapel of my mom uniform.

“This bread…” He started.

“Yes?” I smiled sweetly.

“This bread tastes funny.  Kind of like stinky, icky, gooey marshmallows.”  He dropped the bread on his plate, verdict delivered.

“WHAT?!  What do you mean?  Do you really think it tastes like stinky, icky, gooey marshmallows?  Do you even know what stinky, icky, gooey marshmallows taste like?”  I said, trying to ignore the sound of hot air slowing hissing out of my deflating head.

“You’re right, mama.”  Mikey said, thoughtfully.

“Thank you.”  I said, somewhat mollified.

“It definitely tastes like diaper rash.”

I decided to finally tackle the boys’ pink bathroom with the vast amount of money we made at our garage sale. First on my list was to paint the double sink cabinet. You know the one. It’s a charming shade of dinge and has two pink sinks. Perfect for creatures with testicles!

I sanded, primed, and removed doors and hinges with 50 years worth of layered paint. (More on this unspeakable chore later.) Then, I chose the perfect yellow-green paint color, until I put in on the cabinet. I was back at Home Depot before the paint dried. No, really. Then I returned home and re-primed the cabinets, drawers, and doors and applied one layer of new, less offensive paint to the sink cabinet. All of this took seven hours, including lunch, trips to Home Depot, and sobbing gently into cupped hands.

As you can imagine, I was quite the mess by 4 o’clock when I realized I had to prepare dinner. My sweats, threadbare t-shirt, and hands and arms were all splattered with paint. I knew I should tidy myself up, but I decided if I was going to walk around town with the look of exhaustion, I might as well give people an idea of my day. You know, just in case they don’t read my blog.

I made the rounds at my VONS. Pre-roasted chicken. Check. Brie cheese. Check. Mozzarella. Check. I made my way over to the tomatoes.

I wouldn’t call myself a connoisseur of the juicy fruit, but the other day I tried some “Sugar Plum Roma Tomatoes” from Trader Joe’s. These little gems are so sweet, I truly thought I had accidentally sprinkled sugar on my salad. (I haven’t had sugar in almost a week, so accept my estimation cautiously.) So, there I was, checking out the tomatoes in hopes of finding something similar. I found one that said sweet, and was willing to take a gamble. Suddenly, another mom sidled up next to me and picked up a box and brand of tomato I originally snubbed in my search. Not to be out-tomatoed, I reached out for a box of my own. In slow motion, I saw my paint splatted hand upend a box of grape tomatoes, and out of the corner of my eye, watch it plummet to the ground. Stupid gravity.

But I was not to be waylaid, and continued to read the new, previously overlooked tomatoes. I read ‘Super Sweet,’ and new I had a winner. I heard the other tomatoes crash to the ground, and new I was a loser. The mom next to me looked down at the 92,000 grape tomatoes rolling around the floor like marbles and said, “Ooooh.”

Which I took to mean, sucks to be you.

Today, my feathers remained smooth and unruffled. I never once removed my eyes from the better tomato package and said in her direction, “Eh. Nothing to worry about.” In my head I said something along the lines of, crap.

The woman leaned over conspiratorially. “You know, you’re right. Someone will just clean it up. There’s usually two guys working this department, anyway.”

Except that I, unshackled from the bonds of sugar {ahem} did not wait for the pimply faced teenager to mope along with some broom or mop. Oh, no. Not I of boundless energy! Instead, I crawled along on my hands and knees and picked up every last inferior grape tomato and returned it to its plastic cage. Then I carried them to the register, and confessed to the 22 year old working the register.

Forgive me Father, for I have sinned. Here are your tomatoes.

The 22 year old was remarkably alert. Instead of slowly rolling glazed eyes in my direction as I was expecting, he enthusiastically thanked me for my penance. I stood a little taller, and hoped everyone in line was listening. He went on and on about how regular customers would just let the tomatoes roll about the floor, and perhaps roll their cart over a few when they thought no one was looking.

I nodded my head in understanding, the weight of all the hot air inside making it all the easier to move it gently up and down.

I thought VONS should reward me for being such a very good customer. Perhaps a free bag of groceries? He suggested I run my VONS card and see what happens.

The brie was 20% off. I’ll take it.

On Thursday, April 16, 2009, I stopped snacking and eating sugar.  Well, sort of.  I eat a fruit every morning.  And if I am really craving a sweet treat late at night, I drink a glass of Crystal Light.

I drink a glass of Crystal Light.  Hi, my name is Pathetic and I will be dining alone.  Table for one, please.

I went from eating fistfuls of popcorn and the occasional Reeses Peanut Butter Cup (Thanks, Easter!) to absolutely nothing.  Consequently, I’ve been a raging lunatic most of the week.  But, I’m complicated.  It’s not just white hot rage that has me crashing the hopes young children just because it’s fun to watch them cry. No, Mikey, YOU CAN’T have that chocolate bunny for breakfast!  HAHAHAHAHA!

No, my rage is a product of two things: withdrawals and intolerance for days on end pain.

Today is the first day I haven’t woken up with a headache since Thursday.  I’ve read sugar withdrawals (headaches, depression, anger, etc.) can last up to seven days, sometimes more, so I consider myself lucky.  I expect the sudden urge to kick a kitten only sporadically from here on out.  I credit the garage sale we had on Saturday for my speedy trip through detox.  So may losers, so little time.  I sized up each person that walked up our cracked driveway with the razor-like precision of a person without faults.  For one day only, I was perfect.  And ruthless.

Bonus points to the cocky Guatemalan guy who let me work out my childhood issues.  Dude, you thought you were bargaining for a set of four prints from Target, but IT WAS SO MUCH MORE.

That brings us to the present.  A beautiful day in southern California, and I’m eating strawberries and plain yogurt.  Happily.  I’m going to try my hand at some home improvement projects, do some writing, and enjoy my children more than I have the last few days.  Today is going to be a great day.

I have a theory that a respectable number of people who read my blog work in the legal profession, either as attorneys, paralegals, legal secretaries, or similar. Am I correct? If so, what do you do and how do you like your job? If you don’t feel comfortable commenting, please feel free to email me.

I’ve been working around the clock on my practice. My main focus has been finding mcles hours (mandatory continuing legal education), of which I need 25. The reason I haven’t committed to any courses already is because I’m still deciding what to take. I’ve talked to my friends, and everyone has their own opinion.

OPINION 1: Take courses in the area of law in which you hope to practice.

This means I have to decide on a specific area. Simple enough, you would think, but it hasn’t been easy. I initially considered a practice in Intellectual Property law (trademarks, copyrights, licensing, etc.). But, because I’ve been away from the law for a while, I would prefer to work with a mentor. No one I know practices this type of law, so this idea, for now, is on hold.

For obvious reasons, I’ve also been considering Bankruptcy law. {Hello, economy!} This, by the way, was one of the hardest classes I have ever taken in my life. It was impossibly theoretical and abstract, at least as taught by my professor. Canned briefs might have helped me (they’re like cliff notes) but I was stubborn and refused to buy any. I hear the practice is easier than the study, and I do have a friend who will partner up with me in this area and she is actively looking for a mentor for the more difficult cases.

In an ideal, dream world I would be an independent research attorney. Basically, it’s a court position, but in a private practice setting you research various points of law and, if needed, draft the necessary motions, petitions, briefs, etc. I love research. I mean, love it. For me, finding the answer to a question (or issue) is the same rush of adrenalin other people get when shopping or designing or jumping out of an airplane. My friends have been great over the years, and when an issue arises that they don’t feel like tackling, they send it over to me. This, however, is how most firms use paralegals. No one wants to pay an attorney (even at much lower rates) when they can send it to a paralegal, or so I’ve been told.

OPTION 2: Take whatever is cheapest and be done with it.

I have some friends who want me to take a 25 hours mcle bundle for $199 and call it a day. But what on earth do I want with classes on criminal and real estate law? Nothing, that’s what.

CONCLUSION

Here I sit, counting points and mcle hours trying to determine my future. No pressure. No pressure at all.