In a move that will surprise no one, I stuffed myself with discounted chocolate late Sunday night.
Like taking candy from a baby, it was, my wrenching the Macy’s Easter chocolates from my husband. The man has a weakness for candy in all forms; and I feel for him, because honestly, there is perhaps only one day a month where I’m not kidding, hand over your chocolate.
Sunday was the day.
“But you told me not to give them to you!”
“I know what I said,” I countered, “but you know what a liar I am. Now give me the chocolates.”
“Give me the chocolates please!”
“No! You said don’t give me the chocolates, even if I ask you.”
“I know what I said,” I repeated, “just tell me where you hid them.”
“I promise I won’t touch them. I won’t eat them. I just want to know where they are so I know they’re safe.”
“You want to know that the chocolate is safe?”
“Yes. Seriously. You never know about this sort of thing. Maybe the cats got to it? Huh? Maybe they’re too close to a furnace vent or something? I should check?”
“Oh, for cryin’ out loud, Pearl, they’re in my underwear drawer, behind the good socks but in front of the concert ticket stubs. But you can’t have them!”
There was a dash to the bedroom, of course; and while Willie may be a full foot taller and a good 60 pounds heavier than I am, he is lousy at defending himself and practically powerless in the face of aggressive tickling. Oh, he starts out all gung-ho, but years of being mock-attacked by my brother has honed my devil-may-care, go-to-hell, warrior-style of assault.
Poor Willie. His love of sugar cannot save him. He clamps his arms against his ribs in a misguided notion to save himself and collapses on to the floor.
I step over his body to get to the chocolate.
Six milk-chocolate bunnies and a handful of gummy worms later (as a chaser), I admit I may have been a bit over-zealous.
So I called him today, after lunch, to let him know I’d been to Macy’s again: more discount Easter candy! Replacement caramel-filled chocolate eggs and gummy worms.
And so the games continue.