I said I'd bring cupcakes to the girls' preschool diploma day party. But what people sometimes do not understand is that when I say I will bring cupcakes, I will deliver. I will deliver cupcakes baked in my own oven (okay, yes, from a boxed mix) and decorated by my own cramping hand. If need be, I will stay up 'til one in the morning to complete this task with only amusing e-mails from Miz Barbara Jane to keep me company. I will not place the said cupcakes on throwaway serving dishes; I will arrange them on three very pretty, all-white pedestal cake plates. I will cover them loosely so as not to muss the little stars of frosting that punctuate their tops. I will drive 10 miles an hour to ensure their aesthetic safety.
I'm fully aware that hardly anyone will care, but what can I say by way of explanation? For some perverse reason, I care. Here is the exchange between me and one of the dads at the party:
The Dad: It would never occur to you, would it, to just go buy cupcakes?
Me: Well, it would occur to me, but I wouldn't do it unless some sort of emergency happened.
The Dad: Why not? I mean do the kids even give a shit? Do you think they even give a damn if you made them or if you bought them?
Me: (pointing to my daughters who are serving the cupcakes with completely exaggerated pride) Look. Look at them.
The Dad: (looking) Okay, then. Well, that's something.
There's a certain logic to my actions. I think.