The treat days are killing me
There is a box of malted milk balls on the table by my desk. Lynell’s candy jar is filled with leftover Halloween candy, and will be constantly half-full – like an optimist’s sweet tooth – for the rest of the season. Boxes arrive daily with summer sausage, crackers, spreads, chocolates, bars.
Sometimes the treats are homemade. Other times, they’re prepackaged with preservatives and archaic logos, their origination betrayed by “made in South Dakota” rustic charm.
And that’s just what we get from vendors. Factor in a couple of potlucks, a Christmas party, and a holiday “treat day” countdown, and there’s no wonder I roll home every night.
I like carrots too. But I certainly never see those landing on the break room counter. What, are they all being saved for the Easter bunny?