There’s something about sugar highs. We seek them; we write songs, memes and jokes about them; we try to avoid them, yet they unyieldingly present themselves to us often. Attending the Bondville Fair, something I haven’t done in many years, I found myself to be the meanest carnival mom EVER.
“Mommmm! Can I puhlease have a lemonade?” I sidled up to the lemonade tent and inquired as to the price. “Ten dollars,” the man retorted, blank-faced. Ok, maybe for a gallon.
“For what?” I asked, pointing to the cups. “This,” he replied indelicately and without much patience. As he lacklusterly showed me the pint-sized cup, I inquired incredulously, “Does it have alcohol in it?!” This guy had zero patience for my kind of humor, and clearly none of his own, and told me if I thought it was too expensive, I could move on.
I said that I did, in fact, think it was too expensive (after paying $50 for entry to the fair) and I returned empty-handed to repeated inquiries of “Where’s our lemonade?” “Can I have a candy apple?” “No,” I replied. “I’m not driving home with hyperactive children.” They tried again.
“Can we have cotton candy?” I turned to the cotton candy tent and noticed they weren’t using any color. It was as white as sugar! I threw a curve ball and said, “All right,” and sauntered over to get some (also at vast expense). Cotton candy, candy floss — call it what you will, but it’s amazing.
You can shove an inordinately gargantuan.