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…

I know I have many readers who don’t have children.  I can only assume my adventures as a less than perfect stay at home mom provide some sort of birth control, wherein I promptly shrivel ovaries quivering in anticipation after reading, say, Amanda Soule.  Well, allow me to be of service once again by dolling out little pointers here and there that other moms may neglect to dispense.

There is a proper way to get on and off an escalator with a stroller.  Actually, there are two proper ways to get on and off an escalator with a stroller, one better than the other.  Not only are there two ways, the technique also varies with the type of stroller in use.

But first, the rules.  There is really only one rule, and that is that you should not do this if the escalator is even a bit crowded.  As you will see, the process is fraught potential for disaster.

Technique No. 1 {For use with heavy and light strollers}

The Heavy Stroller

If you have a large, heavy stroller you can approach the escalator head on.  The choice to pop a wheelie as you get on is your choice, but definitely do so once you and the stroller are securely on the escalator.  As you approach the bottom of the escalator, keep the front wheels up.  Drop the front wheels onto the floor once the back wheels hit the escalator return (I have no idea if that’s what it’s called, but I’m talking about the part where the escalator disappears into that little tunnel thing) and start walking.  Sometimes the back wheels will get caught in the return (enough–that’s what I’ve decided to call that thing) and if they do, your stroller should be heavy enough that you can plow your way forward.  If not, lift the back wheels slightly and move forward on the front wheels.  Easy.

The Umbrella Stroller

An umbrella stroller is the cheap, hammock like device your parents stuffed you in as a child.  They are ugly, cost less than $20, and frequently used for travel.  A rookie mom would never touch an umbrella stroller because they are, again, cheap, ugly, and cheap.  Then, one day, rookie mom goes on vacation or Disneyland or someplace similar.  Loath to take her $400 behemoth, she buys an umbrella stroller to use, “just this one time.”  Uh-huh.  Whatever you say, Lindsey Lohan.  Because once you do the one-handed fold and toss in 2.3 cubic feet of space, you’re done.

Now, as handy as these strollers are, they are light and flimsy.  They don’t have the weight behind them to plow through a crowd, let alone an escalator return.  So, for that reason, you should get on the escalator backwards.  You get on the escalator first, umbrella stroller second.  You will naturally pop a wheelie in order to do this.  When you reach the bottom of the escalator, you disembark first and pull the stroller (with both hands) behind you, wheelie style.  Only when you and the stroller are both completely off the escalator do you put the front wheels on the ground.  Easy.

You don’t ever want to try going down an escalator with an umbrella stroller ahead of you, at least not with a 27 pound toddler in the hammock.  You’re just asking for trouble, which is why I muttered an expletive when I found myself doing exactly that a couple of weeks ago.

A complete and total rookie mistake made while I was trying to kill time before I could pick Mikey up from school.  I watched the return approach and appraised the situation.  Thirty pounds of Nicholas, a 3 year old umbrella stroller, and an escalator from the 70s.  I was screwed.

I did the best I could.  I popped a high wheelie and pushed.  Hard.

A reader once asked me how I could admit to so many embarrassing stories on my blog; how I could confess doing things she wouldn’t admit to anyone.  Well, I have three reasons.  Number one, I think most of the stories are pretty darn funny, and if you can’t laugh at yourself, you can’t laugh at anything.  Number two, I’m not perfect, and I wouldn’t want to give the impression that my life is a pile of love notes and freshly baked bread.  Number three, there is no way on God’s green earth that you can convince me that I am the only mom who has done something really stupid like take an umbrella stroller down an escalator.  So, knowing this, I know that you know exactly what happened when I popped a high wheelie and pushed the stroller hard.

That is, absolutely nothing.

It didn’t move.

Maybe the front wheels  moved.  In opposite directions.

So I activated the emergency landing sequence.  I kicked the ever living heck out of the undercarriage in an attempt to lift all four wheels off the floor.  And, like most emergency sequences, it worked to a certain degree.  One half of the stroller moved forward, meaning I then had to repeat the sequence for the half that remained behind.  Unfortunately, I was out of time and I had to hop a bit to avoid the stroller.  So I hopped.  Or, rather, I did the famous dog leg.  You know.  I’ve seen other moms do it.  The dog leg is when  you have to kind of hop/step over your stroller so that you are alongside the stroller.  It’s not unique to escalators.  I’ve seen it used in public restrooms, restaurants, and Gymboree stores nationwide during Gym-Buck time.

It was my last chance at getting off the escalator with any sort of dignity.

It was an epic fail.

Things were looking good until the toe of my right sneaker got caught on my enormous hobo bag hanging off the stroller.  Stupid hobo bag.  There I am, at the bottom of the escalator, hopping up and down on the landing pad with the toe of my shoe caught in the strap of my purse.  The purse was like quicksand, by the way.  The more I moved my foot, the more I sank into its leathery depths.  And!  Remember!  (Not you, rookie mom.  You, the one with the umbrella stroller.)  Think about where those stroller handles hit.  Exactly.  Now I am hopping on an escalator landing with my foot in a bag and my “particulars” practically straddling the right stroller handle.

This all happened in the course of 10 seconds, as disasters often do.  The only thing happening faster than my eminent demise was the rate at which my brain fired neurons.  I activated Emergency Sequence 3.5A, which as any seasoned mom knows, this means it’s all about to hit the fan.  I knew I had to propel the stroller off the landing or Nicholas would, once again, find himself nose to the ground and strapped in a stroller.  With the strength of 40 Dr. Kegels I hopped, pushed, and propelled myself off the landing.  Of course, it wasn’t pretty.  I had one foot in my bag, you see.  So, like a boat with a broken rudder, I moved forward in circles, donut-ing my way onto the store floor.  Starksy and Hutch would have been proud.

Now on the open floor, I had enough room to easily extricate my foot from the bag.  But, first, I looked up to see my score.  I was expecting to see employees holding numbered cards (all 10s, please!), perhaps a few managers laughing in their coffees.  But, no.  The store was deserted and no one witnessed my ingenuity.  Thank goodness.

Technique No. 2 {For use with heavy and light strollers}

Take the elevator.

Remember when I said Apartment Therapy had the most critical readers?  Well, it turns out readers of their children’s publication, Ohdeedoh, are far more friendly.  Sarah Rae Trover kindly featured my RED SHARPIE OF DEATH incident on Ohdeedoh and no one mentioned my disaster of a living room!  (Thank you, Sarah Rae!)  Of course, it could be that the Sharpie all over my sofa and chair drew the eye away from the clutter, but still.  You don’t even know how happy I was no one asked why I had sunscreen next to a box of kleenex on my secretary because, honestly, I have no idea.  I only noticed it after I put it online for the entire universe to see.

{Side note from The Mister after reading Sarah Rae’s way too nice words: I am many things, but The Queen of Clean isn’t one of them.  At all.  Ten years counting and not a crown in sight.  Ever.}

And the entire universe has seen my sunscreen and kleenex.  THE RED SHARPIE OF DEATH has been twittered about, emailed, and linked to on blogs, facebook, and mom boards in Russia.  Thankfully, everyone has been very understanding about an incident that was, really, entirely my fault.  Yes, if I could sum up all the comments I have read and received, I believe it would be something like, “Holy crap!  It happens.  Better her than me.”

Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’m going to go toss that sunscreen in a random drawer so that when summer comes I won’t be able to find it and I’ll have to buy a new one.

People, I have been dying things since my first gray hair at 25.  I have never once failed at dying something the color of my choosing, not counting some ill advised blonde highlights in the 90s.  I even successfully dyed an aqua Ektorpt arm chair a deep navy with nary a blotch or fade throughout the many yards of fabric.

But this?  This is just WRONG.  The black didn’t take.  Twice!  And I followed the instructions to the letter because I am the sort of person who treats instructions as is they are something Moses carried down from the mountain.  Instead, the ottomans look as if I tied them to my bumper and drove the freeways for three months.  Yes, they look like those sad stuffed animals attached to the back of a motorcycle: forlorn, dirty, and just a touch creepy.

Looks like I am going to learn to sew, and quickly.  I’m almost afraid to paint my door, for fear the paint should turn purple before my eyes.

Well, that was easy.  <———Sarcasm.

I intend to write a post about my 53 step, 14 hour process (patent pending) for removing Sharpie ink from fabric, but it will have to wait until my biceps stop trembling and I can bend my fingers at the knuckles.