Once again, I shamelessly rely on my old standby for a topic.
Monday morning, I doled out my world-famous Christmas Chex Mix to select co-workers. In one building, anyway. My little elf, The Pony, was sent packing a poke of plastic containers into his school.
I felt a teeny bit guilty, putting The Pony under such pressure. He was in danger of being ripped fetlock from fetlock. A pack of wild jackals would show him more tenderness than teachers wanting Chex Mix. They become addicted.
Picture the poor Pony as a young, male, Elaine Benes, walking alone. Instead of Gramma Mimma's napkins stuffed with mutton in the pockets of a borrowed coat, The Pony has seven tubs of Chex Mix in a plastic bag. He is not followed by barking dogs, but by salivating faculty. I worried that he might jettison the sack to make an escape.
Oh, I've tried to teach my free customers to fish. I've provided the recipe so they can spend hours of their own time creating this crunchy concoction, and enjoy it year-round. That went over about as well as handing out poppy seeds to heroin addicts. When teachers want Chex Mix, they want it NOW! It's like Christmas crack.
I distributed my wares at 9:15. By 1:30, I had an email and a phone call asking if I could supply a refill.
Make it stop.