COM. MARGO!
My baby shower was Saturday, and I’ve never experienced such an overload of cuteness. Tiny dresses and outfits; cute bedding and blankets; a tiny bathing suit; adorable children’s books—it was enough to make one want to have a baby. Good thing I’m already having one. Now we just have to hope the ultrasound didn’t sneakily hide any boy parts…
The shower was really fun, even though the rainy, humid day precluded our plans to have it outside in our beautiful, flower-laden yard. Socializing, a delicious lunch (chicken salad on croissants, green beans, green salad, fruit salad, deviled eggs, cheese and crackers), dessert (cake, biscotti, chocolate-covered strawberries), and gift-opening made the time fly by. I’m really glad I had a chance to be home this week, and for everyone to see me in all my big-bellied glory. It was enough to make someone want to exclaim, “Com. Margo!”
“Com. Margo” was apparently the message the cake bakers at the local grocery store thought appropriate for a baby shower, as this was the message that greeted my confused father when he went to pick up the cake that morning. “Everything look okay?” the baker said, briefly lifting the cake-box lid. Dad glanced at the cake and said, “Fine.” Then he said, “Wait a second.” I received a somewhat frantic phone call from Dad, asking what Mom had requested as a message for the cake. “Congratulations, Margo,” I said. Dad hung up before I could say anything more.
It turns out that when Mom ordered the cake, the woman taking the order had written “Con. Margo” in the message area, simply abbreviating “Congratulations.” The cake decorator, who apparently lacks both logic and imagination as well as handwriting-reading skills, transcribed it exactly as written, but substituting “m” for “n,” not bothering to stop for a moment and wonder whether “Com. Margo” made any sense whatsoever in the context of pink flowers and baby rattles.
“I thought it was strange,” she agreed when Dad pointed out that “Com. Margo” was not the message we’d ordered, let alone a phrase that had any actual meaning. “I thought it was French or something.”
Or something, indeed. They managed to fix the cake quite nicely, and no one would have been the wiser had we not told the story to everyone we could.
Yesterday, I flew back to California, my two weeks of respite on the East Coast over. It was very strange to both be in and leave Connellsville, knowing that the next time I’m there I’ll have an actual baby, not just a baby bump. Until this weekend, I’d been focusing my time-measuring on the time left until the shower. Now we’re left with just one more big event to anticipate: the baby’s arrival.
The shower was really fun, even though the rainy, humid day precluded our plans to have it outside in our beautiful, flower-laden yard. Socializing, a delicious lunch (chicken salad on croissants, green beans, green salad, fruit salad, deviled eggs, cheese and crackers), dessert (cake, biscotti, chocolate-covered strawberries), and gift-opening made the time fly by. I’m really glad I had a chance to be home this week, and for everyone to see me in all my big-bellied glory. It was enough to make someone want to exclaim, “Com. Margo!”
“Com. Margo” was apparently the message the cake bakers at the local grocery store thought appropriate for a baby shower, as this was the message that greeted my confused father when he went to pick up the cake that morning. “Everything look okay?” the baker said, briefly lifting the cake-box lid. Dad glanced at the cake and said, “Fine.” Then he said, “Wait a second.” I received a somewhat frantic phone call from Dad, asking what Mom had requested as a message for the cake. “Congratulations, Margo,” I said. Dad hung up before I could say anything more.
It turns out that when Mom ordered the cake, the woman taking the order had written “Con. Margo” in the message area, simply abbreviating “Congratulations.” The cake decorator, who apparently lacks both logic and imagination as well as handwriting-reading skills, transcribed it exactly as written, but substituting “m” for “n,” not bothering to stop for a moment and wonder whether “Com. Margo” made any sense whatsoever in the context of pink flowers and baby rattles.
“I thought it was strange,” she agreed when Dad pointed out that “Com. Margo” was not the message we’d ordered, let alone a phrase that had any actual meaning. “I thought it was French or something.”
Or something, indeed. They managed to fix the cake quite nicely, and no one would have been the wiser had we not told the story to everyone we could.
Yesterday, I flew back to California, my two weeks of respite on the East Coast over. It was very strange to both be in and leave Connellsville, knowing that the next time I’m there I’ll have an actual baby, not just a baby bump. Until this weekend, I’d been focusing my time-measuring on the time left until the shower. Now we’re left with just one more big event to anticipate: the baby’s arrival.
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