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.
Mikey took this picture. He also styled this shot and all the others we took this afternoon. I’ve deleted the ones with me stretching my leg behind me, squatting, and looking down into the camera (hello, multiple chins).
Today I went to my first media event (look at me! fancy!) at etnies in Lake Forest. I was invited thanks to Suzanne Broughton of Alive in Wonderland, but I’ll go into that later. Right now, I am recuperating from the stress of being social, leaving the house, and worrying about what to wear in a room full of people I was sure would be far cooler than I. Yesterday I spent most of the day preparing outfits like they were exhibits for trial. I had four: 1-A, 1-B, 1-C, and 2-A. 2-B and 2-C (outfits 5 and 6) were eliminated early on in the process without the help of my jury, which pleased to no end The Mister and the people I emailed last night in desperation.
Might I recommend everyone buy an inky-blue velvet blazer this season? I received many compliments on mine today, which is always nice to hear when you are worried about the size of your thighs.
In keeping with tradition, we continue with our series of WORST HALLOWEEN PICTURES EVER. The Mister and I love the peacock costume and when Mikey wore it, he loved it, too. But Nicholas? You would have thought I was poking his testicles with hot pokers the way he was protesting–and if you ask my brother in law, putting a boy in this costume isn’t much different.
Lucky for Captain Testosterone, I had Mikey’s old puppy dog costume shoved in the back of the closet underneath a pile of swim suits and beach towels. After I shook the dust off, I crammed Nico’s near-three years of toddler into a costume sized for an 18 month old. Have you ever seen a terrier wear capris? You have now.
In other news, if you are old enough to, I don’t know, claim dependents on your taxes, don’t trick-or-treat at our house because The Mister and I will call you out on your douche-baggery. Just ask the twenty something year old guy who strolled up wearing jeans and a sweater.
“Trick or Treat,” he claimed as he held open a bulging pillow case. The Mister was not impressed.
“Dude. What are you even supposed to be?”
Twenty something year old guy delicately extended a foot in The Mister’s direction to show him his worn Vans. “I’m a skater dude.”
“Well, skate or die, bro. Happy Halloween.”
Want more proof of our hostility? Track down the Suburban filled with twelve families that would stop at each block, walk a few houses, and then drive 20 feet to the next block. I’m sure they will advise you to heed our warning. Hey, we all know I’m the laziest when it comes to exercise but, really? You can’t walk on Halloween? If you’re feeling a bit weak, start gnawing on the Smarties bouncing around in that Santa Claus-sized sack of candy and chase it with a Jolt or whatever it is you have rolling around under the seats of your Halloween Chariot. In other words: YOU HAVE GOT TO BE KIDDING ME.
So, The Mister gives the lazies their candy with a healthy dose of stink eye. I can almost see the slides of power point presentation on juvenile diabetes escaping out of his ears like steam. Even then, there was no need for them to worry until the forty year old matriarch of this band of sedentary travelers moved towards The Mister like a barge heading into the Panama Canal.
“Now, come on! What? Who? What are you?”
“Nah, I’m not trick or treating.”
“You’re not?” At this point The Mister could only look pointedly at her outstretched bag of candy.
“Nope. I’m collecting.”
“Collecting?!” Collecting? Like a bookie? Is this the mob? Was she planning to shake us down for some bite-sized Snickers and some Reese’s Peanut Butter Cups?
“Yeah, for her. She twisted her ankle.”
Her. I see. Just one quick question: WHO IS HER?! Is Her in the Suburban? Is Her a child? A dog? A figment of our imagination? Whoever Her is, we know she has a bum ankle. I can only assume the weight of two hundred pounds of candy collected in 3 hours over 20 city miles crushed Her’s bones like dry twigs. Much like you, you behemoth woman, have crushed our hopes and dreams that there exist people out there who won’t go to any means necessary for some free candy.
Don’t even get me started on the young couple who were trick or treating with the sleeping 6 month old…
