Varsity Vocals applications were due today. I was out walking Molly around 9:30 am (she refuses to get out of bed before the crack of nine; it is her one redeeming quality), when I see what is obviously a college kid (I spotted his hooded sweatshirt with pushed-up sleeves from halfway down the block) standing at my front door, trying to hand-deliver his group’s application.

I yell out to him and head over, thrilled that, for once, I am showered and dressed appropriately for one of these in-person deliveries. I even managed to remember to ditch the dog poop bag. Never mind that Molly is all over the place, and this kid was probably expecting an office building, and here I am, some crazy-seeming lady yelling “IS THAT FOR VARSITY VOCALS?!?!” from seven houses down.

I make my way over, say hello, and we get to chatting. I ask him what school he’s from, assuming maybe Loyola, or even DePaul. He responds:

University of Northern Texas.

That’s right. Apparently, his group realized the application deadline was today, and they really wanted to get their materials in on time. So, instead of contacting us to ask for a one-day extension and overnighting their materials, the group leader (who flies free because his mom works for American) hopped on a plane at 5:45 in the morning, flew to Chicago, and took the L and then a bus to hand me his group’s application.

The real kicker here is that the application form is online, and he didn’t have the entry fee together yet (had to get a check cut from the school blah blah blah). So this kid literally flew in from Texas to hand me a burned CD with MP3 versions of his group’s audition recordings. (Which, needless to say, he could have just emailed to me.)

It was one of the greatest — if not the dumbest — things that I have ever witnessed in my long history in a cappella. Such a sweet kid. And so very cool that he cares so much. It was a nice reminder to me that what we are doing with this silly-seeming small business really, really matters a lot, to a lot of people.

Beware, all ye souls who enter here!!!! … for a haunting and twisted Halloween tale awaits. (For those particularly faint of heart, it is advised that you skip directly to the photos at the end.)

November 1 is the deadline for college a cappella groups to apply to participate in several programs run by my small business, Varsity Vocals. And, because we are talking about college students here (and a cappella singers, no less!) this means that, every year, 98 percent of the hundreds of applications we receive are delivered to my door between October 30 and November 2.

Every year, without fail, some group from a nearby university procrastinates so long that they have to hand-deliver their application. (And, to be honest, it is always a group from Northwestern. As a rule, the more competitive the academic institution, the more ridiculous the antics of the a cappella groups. It is always the Ivy League students whose members (and, yes, members’ parents) try to engage me in the most asinine, illogical arguments about, for example, why their group should have won the entire tournament, instead of taking last place in the first round of competition. See here, here, here, and here.)

Anyway, every year, without fail, a Northwestern group shows up at my doorstep. They are always a bit startled to discover that Varsity Vocals Headquarters is, in fact, a residence, and there is no lobby with a doorman or secretary with whom they can leave their application materials. They have to actually ring the bell, and a person will answer.

And that’s where it gets really scary.

Inevitably, these poor, procrastinating souls are completely spooked when The Head Of The Company and A Cappella Queen Of The World, Madame Yours Truly, answers the door herself, wearing head-to-toe spandex yoga clothes or equivalent, without makeup, completely sweaty and disheveled, dog barking and lunging maniacally.

Today, I answered the door braless, in mismatched pajamas, puffy-eyed, unshowered and Medusa-haired, and once again completely physically and mentally unprepared to interact with any human soul but perhaps for the UPS delivery guy (who I always think is the only person who could possibly be ringing my doorbell, and who always sees me at my worst anyway).

This year, to make matters additionally hair-raisingly, spine-chillingly scary, I am visibly pregnant. Those poor students took one look at me, blanched visibly, dropped their application packet and turned and ran.

Next year, I can’t imagine things will look better, considering I will have a 7-month old in tow. Spooky, scary.

In other horrifying Halloween news, I chose today to go shopping for new undergarments (having come to the startling conclusion that my usual bras have slowly and inexplicably started to shrink). I was measured by a perky twentysomething sales girl who couldn’t have weighed more than 90 pounds (that bitch) and who brightly announced that my bra size now officially has the word “double” in it.

I let out a blood-curdling scream in my head and then wept openly in the dressing room. With all due respect to the lovely large-chested women in my life, of whom I have always been quite jealous, it was unnerving for the typically flat-chested girl in me to learn that there is, in fact, absolutely nothing that feels sexy about trying on a thick-strapped, grandma’s girdle-looking support brassiere with cups big enough to cover your head.

Fortunately, there is always comic relief, even on the spookiest of days:

(If you must ask, I didn’t wear a costume to the Halloween party I attended this year, although I did roll up my jeans to reveal my black- and orange-striped knee socks. Several guys asked me what I was supposed to be, and I answered, “A crabby pregnant lady.” They seemed scared.)

Edited to add: In defense of my lingerie department outburst, and upon subsequent personal reflection and Internet searching, I realize now that the twitty little salesgirl had only brought me the most heinous, supportive garments she could find. I think a second shopping trip is in order.

Remember February? Yuck.

Once you become the owner of a small business that operates nationwide, the days of simple tax returns are over. Lookee what arrived in the mail for me today:

My tax return is HUGE. Unfortunately, my tax refund is not. Apparently the quantity of pages in your tax return paperwork is in no way correlated to the quantity of bills in your tax return refund.

In fact, this year, it looks like it’ll be Christmas at the IRS in at least a dozen states, courtesy of yours truly. And you didn’t know how they were going to fund the health care bill!

Fortunately, Zappos delivered a little bit of happiness today, too. Ah, much better.

I want this dog’s life.

Never light a cigarette at a gas station, lest you should ignite the few drops of gasoline that have spilled en route from tank to pump, or the gallons that have choked unstoppably forth from the nozzle when some yuppie idiot girl on her iPhone pulls it from her car before it’s done pumping and without making sure the nozzle lock is off — and as she stands there, unable to figure out how to make it stop, looking around idiotically for help, the highly flammable liquid spews and splatters all over everything (her car, her yoga pants, her knit Ugg boots, and yes, the ground), and her fluffy little dog leans out the window and sneezes in protest at the chemical smell, as if trying to tell the idiot girl to just shut the damn thing off already — before, finally, the gas station attendant comes rushing out to help, and they both proceed to wipe out on the little lake of gas that has formed and is, surprisingly enough, quite slippery.

And never use your cell phone while operating a gas pump, lest you should be that very girl.

Now, does anyone know how to get the smell of gasoline out of my boots? They’ve already been through my washing machine twice …

Bad dog mom that I am, I had almost forgotten that today is Molly’s birthday!

I always think her birthday is in February, but that’s actually the anniversary of the day we drove 20 hours round trip in a sleeting-sideways blizzard to pick her up in Missouri, Rob grumbling the whole way there about how he doesn’t want a non-human living in his house, and then the woman pulled from the back of her Suburban this quivering ball of fuzz, sopping in its own vomit and urine, and Rob took one look, gasped audibly and exclaimed, ”Look at that face!” the way only a man smitten with an animal baby can. And then Molly clung fearfully to me the whole way home, and I didn’t just tolerate it but almost kind of liked it, and it occurred to me that that is the way mothers must feel about their babies’ poop — not only is it just not that bad, but its endearing to the point of being pleasant. Almost. Especially if the poor thing is sick and frightened and clinging to you for dear life, and all you want in the world is for her to know she’s safe and to wag her tail.

Happy Birthday, Molly! Today you are three years old. Now that the Terrible Twos are behind us, I expect you will comport yourself with the civility and decorum befitting of your age.

To that end, instead of complaining about how horrendous of a little monster you can be, I’ll share some footage of you being the very dear little doggie that I love.

Click here to view the embedded video.

Click here to view the embedded video.

Happy birthday, Molls!

… from your favorite deranged bumblebee.