I should have known better. Tuesday, I found myself with a sweet tooth, so I went rummaging through Grace's Valentine's candy stash. While certainly not as prolific as the Halloween stash, the Valentine's candy bag, thanks to Grace being enrolled in two different schools, was impressively filled. Surely, she would not miss a few stolen pieces. Among the sticky lollipops and chalky "Be Mine" hearts I spied a full-size Baby Ruth. Jackpot. I'm not really sure who doles out full-size chocolate bars to their 5-year-old's classmates, but Jackpot nonetheless. All was well until Wednesday night when Amanda, also feeling a chocolate craving, asked me if I wanted to split the Baby Ruth her co-worker had given her on Valentine's Day. Oops.
In our nearly eleven years of marriage I have made enough boneheaded moves to learn Amanda's looks of anger and disappointment. Sometimes you get what I call the Glare. This is when you stupidly try to explain yourself. Sometimes you get the Flare, the tiniest flexing of her nostrils, as she breathes in, weighing the idea of choking you. This is when you don't even consider trying to explain yourself. Sometimes you get the Glare and the Flare. This is when you get in the car in pursuit of a replacement Baby Ruth.
I am exaggerating (a little) about Amanda's reaction, but that should have been the end of the story as we laughed as I headed out the door for a new Baby Ruth. I told you earlier, I should have known better. Leaving the driveway, I considered my shopping options. There are three convenient stores within two minutes of my house. I don't usually shop at any of them considering they are all poorly lighted, populated with shady characters and filled with questionable aromas of indeterminate origins. Needing just a candy bar, however, I figured one of these was preferable to the chain gas stations or grocery stores ten minutes away. Nope. The first place was seedy, smelly and had a register that wouldn't read my debit card. The second place was seedier, smellier and filled with blank eyes and vacant stares. I'm pretty sure the dreaded Zombie Apocalypse is here; instead of feeding on human flesh the walkers are simply feeding on smack, meth and 24 oz. beers. Unfortunately, what store number two was not filled with was Baby Ruths. Aisles of snacks and munchies, not one Baby Ruth. Store number three, while better-lighted and having a friendly proprietor, also sold no Baby Ruths.
Now nearly fifteen minutes into what should have been a four minute errand, frustration is starting to set in. Instead of being 10 minutes into the next episode of House of Cards, I am on my way to the chain store. Imagine my surprise when it turns out WaWa also doesn't sell Baby Ruths. I ask the employee stocking the candy shelf from a giant cart of snacks if they sell Baby Ruths, maybe I am just missing them. He just looks at me and shrugs. Seriously? Does the owner of Scary Store #1 have some sort of Comcastian monopoly over Baby Ruths in this town? Now, completely perplexed and regretting my weakness for candy a day earlier I do what I should have done at Scary Store #2 (Or would have done if not distracted by the fear of stepping on a used needle.): I go all in on the sweets, grabbing four different candy bars and a doughnut for good measure. Surely, something in my newly purchased sugar cornucopia will appease the Wife. Fortunately, the register reads my debit card just fine. I am smiling until I read the total price. $6.66. Ah, Baby Ruth you were a devilish snack choice, indeed.
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