The minor league ballpark in our area, like most ballparks, has awesome food. More specifically, it has awesome caramel apples. Coated with rainbow sprinkles.
Unfortunately, I'm not such an avid fan of root, root, rooting for the home team. I mean, sure, I hope they win over, say, I don't know, um, the traveling team. (Can you tell I couldn't think of another team in our division?) But I won't ever be investing in season tickets. Not even if I won the biggest lottery jackpot in the history of lottery jackpots. I really enjoy attending one, maybe two games a season, but I'm content leaving it at that.
But not those apples. I am not content with one, maybe two of those apples a season. I love them and all of their gooey goodness.
Lucky for me, I work at the newspaper where the ballpark is a regular workday stop for some of our reporters and photographers. All I have to do is look at the gigantic game schedule magnet slapped on my desk drawer to see if the team is at home, check out the photo book schedule and call the photographer on ballpark assignment and ask them to pretty please pick me up an apple. With sprinkles on top.
Last night, Jason was on apple duty. When he returned to the newsroom, I started clapping, and I'm pretty sure a "YAAAAAYYYYY" escaped out of my mouth.
He placed the apple on my desk with the advice to put it in the fridge for awhile because it was hot, but I chose not to heed that advice. I had been looking forward to that apple for hours. There was no way anything or anyone was going to get it before I was. Especially not the fridge where it might "accidentally" get picked up by someone other than me. Not that something like that has ever happened before, but why risk it with a tasty treat as coveted as my caramel apple?
I gave him the cash as he sat down to transfer his baseball images into the system and thanked him again. Then I dug in.
Hot or not, those things are delicious. It completely hit the spot and revved my energy more than enough to finish my shift.
By the time Jason started printing out proofs of his favorite photos, he walked past my desk to see the remnants of my treat: an empty plastic wrapper with blobs of caramel, a discarded twist tie and a gnawed apple core with a wooden stick jutting out of it.
"YOU ATE THAT THING ALREADY?"
"Um, YEAH. ... They're GOOD."
"Yeah, but you finished it already?"
"Dude, do I REALLY have to point out the gigantic mound in my flesh that hinders me from tying my shoelaces properly these days to let you know not to fuck with me and my eating habits, or would you just prefer it if I stuck this pointy wooden apple stick in one of your eyes?"
He just walked away laughing, shaking his head while the other women in my department stuck up for me by shouting, "She's PREGNANT!"
I just wish I had been more on my toes. I would've shouted after him, "YOU HURT MY FEELINGS. YOU OWE ME ANOTHER APPLE!"