So, I am in a state of autumnal bliss.
1.It's not hot outside.
Like, at all.
2. Therefore, I am probably,
at least sometimes,
way nicer than when I am in chronic "It's too sunny,
I don't like popsicles or outdoor sports" mood,
otherwise known as May Through Whenever It Ends,
Please Don't Ruin Back To School Outfits,
I Am Tired Of Summer mood.
3. I get to initiate the ceremonial Changing Of The Closets!
My favorite closet-related ceremony ever!
4. And last but not least?
No more Cotton Candy grapes!
I wish I didn't know Cotton Candy grapes were a thing.
Because they totally should not be a thing.
I would not have even known they were a thing,
except last year I accidentally bought some at the grocery.
The girls were all "Yay!
You bought the Cotton Candy grapes!"
And I was all, "What are you talking about?"
I bought green grapes because there was a display,
and I was buying produce,
because I am saintly, fruits and vegetables procuring mother,
give me a gold star.
I didn't know I had to scrutinize the fruits and vegetables for corrupted,
Willy Wonka infected flavors.
The girls were all, "Didn't you notice the big pink label saying Cotton Candy?"
And I was all, "Obviously not!
What did they do to those poor grapes?
You know my stance on Cotton Candy,
do you think I would ever,
ever on purpose buy anything with Cotton Candy in the name?"
The girls are like, "Please give us the grapes,
please do not start talking about Cotton Candy being sugary fur."
And I was like, "Have you met me?'
Because Cotton Candy is just one of my mortal enemies.
And I have my reasons.
What reasons, you may ask?
(You know you want to know my reasons.
They are totally real, valid, and true.)
And I may answer, "Short version or long version?
(Trick question! There is no short version, ever.)
Cotton Candy Should Not Exist, It Is Neither Cotton Nor Candy,
And Probably Made Out Of Clowns Or Unicorns: A Diatribe, by Allison
So, it is a known fact that circuses are bad and wrong,
there are sad elephants,
and bad outfits,
and bad people roaming around,
trying to make you buy Cotton Candy.
Encased in plastic,
where it has lingered,
for at least ten years.
Most likely in some weird circus person's mom's basement.
There is nothing good that can come of that.
But it's a high pressure sale,
this fuzzy, pastel stuff on a cone.
Good luck avoiding the giant,
Dickensian orphan eyes of a child wanting Cotton Candy from the bad circus man.
This description applies to fairs, carnivals,
and other places featured in the opening scenes of horror movies.)
So, for two seconds,
there is a happy, totally non-Dickensian orphan child,
holding a cone of furry mystery.
If you are lucky,
and I am not there,
you might avoid an immediate,
pastel color commentary litany against the wretched mess.
For the unlucky?
"That is not Cotton.
That is not Candy.
You can't chew it.
It dissolves, inadequately.
It will ruin your outfit, your hair,
and anything within arm's reach.
It smells like tacky fake perfume.
And I am pretty sure it's made of either a clown's wig,
or unicorn fur."
I have always felt this way.
As a kid, I was thinking,
"This isn't candy.
I am kind of afraid it is unicorn fur.
Should I say that out loud, or will that be weird?
Maybe it's not unicorn fur.
Maybe it's a clown wig.
Either way, I am not eating it.
You can't eat it anyway.
I am not dissolving it,
and have it ruin my specially chosen to avoid attention from clowns outfit."
I don't look good in pastels anyway.
I have only acquired more reasons to loathe,
and less of a taste for Cotton Candy, as time goes by.
Time goes by really slowly, FYI, when Cotton Candy is involved.
Whether you are trying to not have to buy it at creepy carnivals or sad circuses?
Or trying to find some way to unstick your belongings,
after your child has abandoned the wig-fur cone,
two seconds after begging and pleading for one from the bad circus hawker?
Or getting stuck running the Cotton Candy machine,
at your kids' preschool Spring Carnival?
That is one of my Worst Volunteering Jobs Ever.
And that is saying a lot.
I wreck stuff all the time.
That Cotton Candy machine debacle is memorable.
First of all, I hate Cotton Candy.
I can't remember how I got stuck being in charge of that terrible carnival machine.
I am sure I did not sign up for it.
I actively avoid signing up for carnival machine volunteering,
it is one of my lifelong what-not-to-do's.
Second, have you ever tried to work one of those things?
There aren't like, instructions.
There are stacks of paper cones,
large cartons of pastel sticky crystals,
and large lines of children waiting for the magic to happen.
(Spoiler!!!! Not much magic was happening.)
I kind of figured it out, I had no choice.
Those kids were not messing around,
I had to produce something Cotton Candy-ish,
and there weren't any clown wigs nearby.
In fact, for maybe one minute,
I was Best Cotton Candy Carnival Machine Unwilling Volunteer Ever.
The sticky stuff swirls around,
and you have to really lean in to make the Totally Not Cotton Or Candy adhere to the cone.
The first few kids got what could be considered Cotton Candy on a cone.
After that, it's a blur.
Mostly because I was covered in blue sticky crystals,
even my eyelashes.
They stuck together.
I couldn't see, and again,
I did not sign up for this.
By the end,
I was kind of handing out globs of blue fuzz,
and actively telling myself not to refer to it as Cookie Monster's fur.
I would never on purpose buy grapes infected with weird Cotton Candy flavoring.
It is bogus that I have to now check the produce section,
so I don't accidentally buy something horrifying,
resulting in PTSD carnival flashbacks.
Which is yet another reason I am in autumnal bliss.
Cotton Candy grapes only exist in the hazy, sticky, end-of-days late Summer.
Like expired sunscreen, I am throwing it out and moving on.
Red grapes match my fall outfits better, anyway.