Oh, Sweet Pink Balls! You’re gross, even sprinkled with coconut.

My children love to go to the gas station, and it’s my parental ace-in-the-hole.

“Guys, if you let Mom take a nap, I’ll take you to the gas station.”

“YEAH!! OF COURSE, MOM, WE’LL BE SO, SO QUIET.”

“Okay, we need to run some errands – I’ll take you to the gas station first.”

“WHERE ARE THE KEYS? I’LL START THE CAR!”

They love the gas station because I buy them all sorts of crap. Because it’s cheap. And nothing says I love you, darling like cheap, edible crap. Usually they each pick out two items, plus a drink. The Tyrant likes Cheetos, Gatorade and gum. The Pterodactyl chooses bubble gum, a ring pop, two donuts, a bag of peppermints, Swedish fish and an Icee. To him, that’s two. And the Diva, after surveying every aisle in the store twice, complaining that there’s nothing she wants, and asking to be taken to Smoothie King instead, will pick out pretzel M&Ms and fruit punch.

So last night we promised the kids a trip to the gas station if they would go to the gym with us, and they happily complied. I stayed in the car while Hot Firefighter Husband went inside to oversee the carnage.

It was a normal expedition – except that the boy came back with Hostess Snowballs, those pink shredded coconut ball things with chocolate cake and white cream on the inside. And I am pretty sure I had a tiny little aneurysm right there in the front seat.

Me: Oh my God. That’s what Daddy let you pick out? Honey, those are gross. You shouldn’t eat that. I don’t think you’ll like them.

Hot Firefighter Husband: (LOUD THROAT-CLEARING) BUT HE MIGHT, RIGHT DARLING? ISN’T IT GOOD FOR HIM TO TRY NEW THINGS?

Me: SERIOUSLY? Oh, you’re serious…..okay, fine. Honey, you might really like them! Taste them! They’re coconut! It’s delicious!

HFF: (Talking to Siri, his iPhone girlfriend) SEND. A. TEXT.

Boy: Mom, can you peel off all the pink stuff? I think I’ll like the middle.

HFF: (to Siri) WELL. IS. THAT. GOING. TO. WORK. QUESTION. MARK.

Me: No, I can’t really do that. Just take a bite.

Boy: No, I don’t like —I SPILLED MY PUNCH! I SPILLED IT! IT’S SPILLING!

Me: PULL OVER! PULL OVER!

HFF: (to Siri) CANCEL. OKAY. I. AM. I mean, okay, I’m pulling over.

We used an entire roll of paper towels to clean up the leaking cup of fruit punch, by which time the Pterodactyl had lost all motivation for eating sweet pink balls. Hee hee hee!

But I hadn’t! Because even though, in theory, I’d rather eat moth wings that nibble on a Hostess Snowball, watching it languish on the kitchen counter made me hallucinate and think it was whispering, EAT ME! EAT ME! It was the culinary equivalent of a train wreck, and I simply had to take a bite after my frozen vegetable dinner. And, people, Hostess puts CRACK COCAINE in that stuff, so I took a second bite.

GROSS! GROSS, GROSS, GROSS! MADE MY STOMACH HURT! Then I had a beer, and felt much better.

 

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