Because I am the type of person who wears Halloween-themed socks all throughout January (scratch that—I am that person. My friends actually staged an intervention for me. My first intervention, and it was over jack-o-lantern socks), someone needs to tell me what happens to candy canes after their season’s over. Like, is it still socially acceptable to eat them? This seems to be common knowledge, yet I am still woefully unaware.
This first occurred to me the other day while I was sprawled on the carpet, trying to will all the Christmas tree decorations down via telekinesis. Speaking of which, for all we complain about the tree obstructing our paths, none of us is actually willing to expend any effort in taking it down ourselves.
… I wonder who’ll crack first.
Anyway, we have maybe forty candy canes, and I have no idea where they came from, or what to do with them. Not that I haven’t tried to get rid of them (without throwing them away, because that makes me feel wasteful). I love candy canes, but after eating two in a row, I’m good for a month. My rate of consumption can’t keep up with the rate we receive them—they keep multiplying every year. It’s like an infestation. An infestation of swirly festive preservative sticks.
So I opened the pantry door, intending to deal with these candy canes how I deal with most problems: by shoving them somewhere and forgetting they exist. Only, upon trying to clear out a space, I was accosted with the sight of something else I’d been trying very hard to forget: the prehistoric candy stash already in there, which included the pitiful handfuls of candy we were too ashamed to hand out That Halloween We Don’t Speak Of (the year we turned off all the lights and hid in the kitchen so no children would come to our door).
I closed the pantry and proceeded to put the issue off for as long as possible. Yesterday, I decided to do something about it.
Me: *gripping pantry door* This ends today.
Mom: Are you finally going to clean your room?
Me: I can’t live like this.
Mom: Your room is disgusting. I think you should go clean your room.
Me: A life governed by fear is no life at all.
Mom: Go clean your room.
Sometimes I wonder if our conversations are even held on the same wavelength.
I haul out our stash and dump its contents onto the table. A few Bank of America lollipops and mints we’ve scavenged from restaurants skitter out, and I gasp in horror. The rest, most of the candy, is STUCK.
I poke warily around the sticky mess in case I encounter a life form. Negative.
With effort, I extricate a pack of gum. It dates back to three and a half years.
A combusted chocolate bar. Five years. It feels mushy against my fingers, like the intestines of a rotten—
Me: *violently shoves the stash back into the pantry*
Noooot worth it.