Twix A Box and a Hard Place

An enthusiastic I'm assuming young man named Brad sent me a grocery store sized box of crunchy caramel-dripping candy bars on behalf of Twix. I ate one and felt the need to drive around town until the other 35 were gone and out of reach. I didn't have to drive far.

I hilariously attacked the box after a manicure when I'd gotten enough open with a dull scissors to see what was inside. I then turned into a far less co-ordinated version of Edward Scissorhands, snipping at every possible angle while holding my nails aloft. Long story short, manicure ruined, Twix consumed in inhuman manner in a parking lot while two women watched from a car in what was either shock or admiration.

That hit of sugar sent me straight to a computer to rave about the first candy bar I've had in I don't know how long. The devilish milk chocolate draped over the crunchiest bit of heaven to hold up a pillow of caramel—my cell phone vibrates—it's my dad, he locked his keys in his car. He gives me only a name of a road and hangs up. This particular road is long enough to connect to another town.

When I called back, he to be told that he was on a hill, then, by a bank (which bank and for that matter what kind of bank, the place where I have no money or an upward slope? ).  After circling the parking lot of a savings and loan he used in the seventies, I found him strolling out the front door, cup of coffee in hand. He had no problem posing for the photo as all Dempsey-Olsons are trained to do at birth.

My mother, being a Farino, came out when she heard the words "candy bar" and grabbed a handful for the "girls at the dentist's office." I didn't ask, but questioned the sedition of bringing two handfuls of candy bars into a dentist's office. Yet I knew that's what she was going to do, those candy bars right there. Love the expression on my dad's face.

As long as I was in the old neighborhood I thought of of Jackie and Bob.

Since I haven't given one of our best taste testers (in the blue slippers) much to do since last summer I decided to drop by her kitchen, which smelled of garlic, oregano, and the caliber of artichoke you'd crawl over your starving sister to eat with your bare hands. I got rid of another handful in the Clementi kitchen, but after I left I realized some pretty serious sweet tooths—teeth?—would be up for a birthday party, I should have left more. The party is for my Uncle Phil, whose real age no one seems to know. I'm going with 100. Ish. 

Off to Aunt Em's who called to say she had the perfect birthday card for Uncle Phil. Read it, it really is. And the inside says "To hell with the cake...Bring on the girls!" which, if you know Uncle Phil, and chances are you do, is spot on.

I finally returned to the computer which was doing something spastic when I got back, and am glad to say there's nothing left to tempt me but a lone Twix wrapper (which I'll lick in private later).

Taken with three different cameras, two of them emergency point and shoots.