But today, I'm ready to kill Evelyn.
Today, she brought in her Halloween leftovers.
Now, if she'd brought them in on November 1, I would have been ready. I had sworn off all candy on November 1. I had vowed that I would never eat another bite of chocolate again.
If she'd brought them in on November 2, I could have stood up to the pressure. My will power can last 48 hours. Most of the time.
But SEVEN DAYS after Halloween? What sort of saint does she think I am?
And more to the point, what sort of neighborhood does she think she lives in? How could she possibly have thought that she would hand out *that* much candy? There aren't enough trick-or-treaters in all of D.C. to have emptied the gigantic garbage sack of candy that Evelyn hauled into the Peabridge this morning.
And it was all quality candy. Not the wimpy stuff -- the "treats" in green or yellow or silver wrappers, like Skittles or Starbursts or even Three Musketeers and York peppermint patties - the candy that you can pretend isn't really all that bad for you.
This was hard core. This was orange. And brown. Reese's. Snickers. Heath. Butterfingers. Hershey's bars, with the name stamped across the squares, for all the world to read.
Candy packed with more calories per handful than most people should eat in an entire meal.
I only meant to have one little snack, just to tide me over till lunch. But then I realized that the I.B. might come in, to pick up the interlibrary loan that we requested for him, long before the Recent Unpleasantness. I *had* to eat another candy bar. And then, I hadn't tried all the types in the bag -- the Butterfingers would have felt left out. And the Hershey's.
And I needed to fortify myself after spending nearly one straight hour pulling lattes, for some unexplained late-morning rush of under-caffeinated neighborhood mothers.
Evelyn isn't a bad boss.
But she is truly, truly evil.
It's a good thing that the stays on this colonial costume can be loosened.