The Story of the Hot Tamales

Last night, after a day of shivering in bed with a fever, the only thing that sounded good to eat was Hot Tamales.

I gave Chris and Wes my request and they fought  their way into the local Target past the gaggle of last minute Christmas shoppers to pick up some food and antibiotics.  I put the seat back in the car and waited miserably.

When we returned home (almost FOUR hours after we first left for urgent care) I grabbed the box of candy and began to shuffle off towards my bed.

But there was something wrong with it.  It was a BRICK.

I shook it.  Nothing rattled.

"What's this," I held the box up to Chris and Wes.

"I picked out the hardest one for you," Wes said.

I have yet to decide whether this was an innocent, 9-year-old's comment, or a calculating, passive aggressive strike against me.

"It's HARD, because it's ruined.  It got WET,"  I yelled.  I was SO looking forward to that candy.

I continued, "SEE???  SEE,"  I jabbed my finger angrily at the obvious water damage.  I ripped open the box and displayed the hard, red lump inside.  "SEE," I screeched.

I shuffled off and crawled into bed.  I felt sick.  I felt out of sorts.  I felt disproportionately sad and pissed about this freaking box of Hot Tamales.

I didn't know what the damage was caused by.  It could have been water.  Or as far as I knew, it could have been anti-freeze or urine.

I didn't care.

I laid on my side and peeled off the Hot Tamales individually and ate them.  I ate almost half the box before I turned my attention on the sweet Chex Mix.

I worked hard for those buggers.

And they tasted good.