With trickle of Kit Kats from Target it started, like rain drops on a tin roof in the tropics. Then, monsooning, candy passed by kids on the playground, at the Halloween bake sales, in orange felt pumpkin-shaped bags, like heroin.
And they act like it. Like pee-wee addicts, my kids, they hoarde, cajole, walk the sidewalks asking huskily, "Got any Skittles? I've got the shakes, man, can't ride my bike right."
Amid all the talk of childhood obesity we still have: Big Candy. It's caramel covered, chocolate enrobed pecan turtles kind of nuts. Like Big Pharma. Like Big Tobacco. Business pushing candy cloaked in the charm of children going house to house begging.
"Be The Cool House," the sign at Target says. That's the trick. Buy the full-sized Butterfingers. No one wants to be the one on the block that passes out pencils. But you can't have it both ways, Ken Burns "Prohibition" taught me that, Epidemic of Diabetes, and Candy Freak.
But I try. Amid the nausea coming down from bag of Twix, I can't do the laundry right, man, I can't carpool. I am a candy corn. It is an affliction, I blame my mother, I might try to snort one one up my nostril, snort it, but not in front of the children.