Last night, a Boy Scout came to my door, selling tickets to the troop's annual fundraiser. I bought two because it's a house rule that we buy anything from little kids going door-to-door.
I mean, I remember having to sell worthless junk to neighbors (Re-enactment: Looking down, sporting a ten-years-too-late Dorthy Hamil haircut and swooshy pants because for the entire year of fourth grade I refused to wear jeans. "Hi, ummmmm. I'm Ali and uh, would you like to buy some wrapping paper for um, for Henry School? Ummmm. It's $12 a roll." Giggle. Gap-toothed smile. Extend hand for cold, hard cash.) and the painful awkwardness of it all. I feel for these kids.
I'm also fairly certain that today's tech-savvy youth are building some kind of crowd-sourced map of the 'hood, with alerts based on what houses are creepy, who gives the best Halloween candy, and who buys wreaths and popcorn and miles from local school kids. I just don't want to get egged. Not that I've ever seen a house on my street get egged, but I like to mitigate my risks.
Anyway, after I paid the Boy Scout my $10, I checked out the ticket for this wondrous affair.
The ticket stated there would be all I cared to eat pancakes, which is cool enough.
Also, there would be ham - all I cared to eat. Naturally.
And all the applesauce I could handle. Because what goes better with ham and pancakes, people? NOTHING.
This is going to be the best night ever.