Pretzel’s are good.
Warm, freshly baked Pretzels at the Mall are the Best
u n l e s s
they
or something about them are
T W I S T E D
Back. . .way back when Mall’s were very popular and the obvious place to be,
I would take my daughter to just walk around on Friday’s while we waited for her sister to be done with school.
It was always good for a cheap toy and a nice, warm pretzel. . .
and a really contorted act.
We were walking around the Mall, throwing unwanted pennies into a fountain, buying annoying noise making plastic objects and yes. . .a nice warm, salty pretzel.
I tore mine a part like a savage discovering food for the very first time and nearly digested it even before I had fully eaten it in blink-of-the-eye quickness.
My daughter, Angie had barely taken a few bites and as her loving, caring, overly compassionate father, I asked if she would share. . .if she would give me a bite of her pretzel.
She didn’t think it was a good idea.
I play cried and told her how her daddy bear didn’t have any porridge that day and how he needed his Goldilocks to have a heart and s h a r e. . .how sharing was a really good, kind thing to do.
She didn’t think it was a good idea.
I play acted Igor Mutalutz with my hand–the hungry fun-spider-like animal that liked little girl’s uneaten donuts, candy and pretzels.
She didn’t think it was a good idea.
As my stomach growled something not human like, I pulled out all of the stops and used one of the go-to tricks parents sometimes have to resort:
G U I L T
“Hey. . .who bought. . .who gave you that pretzel to begin with?”
She didn’t think it was a good idea. . .but it worked.
She handed over most of her soggy, mangled up pretzel.
Guilt and Fear sometimes comes dressed as
L O V E
but it’s never fits right and rarely is tailor made.
She has never brought this up to me. . .I’m not sure she remembers. . .if as she reads it now. . .
but I do.
I remember. . .
and the memory snapped my head around
the other day when I saw a big, bad bear, Igor Mutalutz, guilt/fear wielding father remind his daughter who, in fact, had just bought her a six-nugget-not-so-happy-meal.
Y’OUCH !
Some memories are best to be left forgotten whatever’s below the basement where there’s always a bin, a bag or an album of pictures you’d rather never have been captured. . .
some memories don’t feel good experienced the second, fourth or ga-zillionth time.
Ever done anything as
T W I S T E D
as a pretzel. . . ?
Ever done anything to
un – t w i s t it?
Hmmmmmmmmm. . .might be time to make another memory. . .
a not-so-twisted one.
Pass the mustard. . .
P L E A S E
I’ll share–really–
H E R E
