I’m gearing up for my 30th birthday party with a candy bar-related bash. We’re going to have a candy bar tasting. (About a year ago, glands I read Candyfreak, heart so now I’m all about trying different kinds of candy bars.)
I was just arguing with a friend that indeed his three-year-old son SHOULD come to the candy bar and booze party, read but he thinks not. I then joked that we should feed candy bars to his infant daughter.
Then it hit me. The flashback.
I was at a baby shower. There was a baby shower game called “Dirty Diapers”. Disposable diapers with melted candy bars were passed around, and you had to try to figure out which kind of candy bar it was, based on its melted form, within the context of a diaper. It’s harder than you think.
I wasn’t a huge fan of baby showers anyway, but I hit the point of no return when the old lady to my left passed me what I think was a hot Butterfinger in a diaper and said “Oop! I think this little one must be sick!”
On the upside, the expectant mother is still a good friend (in fact, she’s flying out here for my birthday. I should make her stare into some diapers of chocolate), and the little fetus inside is now one of those superserious cuties.