Candy Battle

I’ve finally spruced the joint up a little, thanks to the wonderful and talented man I force fruits and vegetables on every day. Yes, I admit it. I'm a vegetable pusher. Probably because growing up, my mother made sure we ate some kind of fruit or vegetable with every meal. In fact, before I was ten, you’d be more likely to see Sonny & Cher make an appearance at our house than sugared cereals and junk food. But when my brother and sister came along, you couldn’t walk through the kitchen without tripping over a Little Debbie Nutty Bar or a jumbo jar of nacho cheese dip.

I probably don’t need to tell you that we never had candy just hanging out in the cupboards; nor did we have a “family candy bowl.” (Not counting the junk food that my siblings campaigned for and won in the late 80s.) Which is why I’m still a little weirded out by a relatively new phenomenon in my life.

Candy at work. Ambrosial, plentiful, mouth-watering, serotonin-triggering, teeth-rotting, artery-clogging, wonderful candy.

Like many offices, mine has a candy bowl near the front door. In our case, it not only functions as an investment in a future with Type II diabetes. It also serves as a handy fecal bacteria distributor, since people pass the bowl on their way to or from the bathroom. The type of candy in the bowl varies from day to day, but usually, it features one of the triple-dipped chocolate-covered delicacies made by the candy shop across the street: cashews, raisins, almonds, malted milk balls, coffee beans.

Did you catch that? Right. I work across the street from a store that literally has the power to cripple you with deliciousness. If you don’t become an addict after eating any of their confections, you probably lack a soul and/or hate puppies.

Recently, one of my coworkers mixed things up by pouring a bag of Lifesavers Crème Savers and Werther’s Original hard candies into the office candy bowl.

After I got over the shock, the event triggered two unpleasant memories for me: 1) the time I swallowed a Werther’s Original candy whole in high school and it lodged in my esophagus for five choketastic hours; and, 2) a mild argument I once had with a flight attendant over my refusal to accept a Crème Saver candy during one of the in-flight snack distributions. I really don’t remember why I so adamantly refused that one tiny candy, but it probably started as a simple desire to avoid a weird aftertaste in my mouth for the duration of the flight but then escalated into a battle of wills.

It went something like this:

Flight attendant, extending a basket of Crème Savers in my direction: Crème Saver?

Me, trying to read a novel and breathe through only my right nostril because my neighbor to the left is a wall of halitosis in human form: No thank you.

Flight attendant: Aw, are you sure? They’re delicious!

Me, smiling distractedly: No, really. I’m pretty full.

Flight attendant, with traffic en route to the bathroom backing up behind her: Just one little Crème Saver? They’re SOO good!

Me, shaking head, still somehow smiling: No, I really don’t like them.

Flight Attendant: What? Nobody doesn’t like Crème Savers! Just try it; I promise you’ll like it.

Me, restraining hands in lap so I don't knock her candy basket across the plane: Sorry. I really don’t want one.

Flight attendant, pressing one individually-wrapped Creme Saver into my hand: Here. You can save it for later.

Me, wanting to tell her to stick the candy up her ass: *I-give-up chuckle* Okay, fine.

Flight Attendant: victoriously thrusts her basket before the next victim.

Me: reluctantly pops Crème Saver into mouth. Stubbornly enjoys it.


Anyway, if you’ve made it this far through what has turned into a long, convoluted story, thanks. I am suddenly starving, so I’m going to go eat lunch. Then I’m running across the street to get my fix.

(Thank you for helping me redesign my blog, J! You are one step closer to getting that X-Box 360 for your birthday next week.)