Long Live the Circus Peanut!

Some things just naturally go together. Like, they BELONG together so much so that you absolutely cannot fathom one existing without the other. Think peanut butter and jelly, yin and yang, Joanie and Chachi, salt and pepper, milk and cookies,Circus Peanuts and PMS. WAIT, WHAT?

Today's blog post is a celebration of my secret (not anymore) gas station guilty pleasure, (cue trumpets) the wondrous circus peanut!

I can't remember the first time I experienced the delightfully spongy texture of the circus peanut, but I had to have been at least 11. I know this because, as I mentioned in today's intro, circus peanuts are ONLY acceptable during that 3-5 day (pre) period of pure hell each month known as PMS.

Every 28 days or so, I mysteriously find myself swerving into the nearest gas station, but not for gas. I'm not fully conscious of what is happening until I feel the rage building inside my soul as I contemplate injuring anyone in my way. Unnatural thoughts race through my mind "Where are the freaking circus peanuts? What kind of establishment has customers standing between me and my precious? Why are these yoga pants so tight? Why do I have to wait in this line? Is it acceptable to throw my dollar and change across the room before storming off to my automobile where I can devour my "peanuts" with the ruthless inhibition of an ornery hyena?" I'm happy to report that I have thus far restrained myself from injuring others (I plead the fifth on whether I have ever thrown money).

Why circus peanuts?  Well, because they're nature's wonder food, of course. Just think on it for a moment...NOBODY likes them, so they are always in stock. You get TWO bags for ONE dollar (one for now, and another for...now). There's no messy shell to dispose of. And last, but not least, they temporarily quiet the PMS demon within. With each bite of styrofoamy orange, I regain a precious little strand of sanity until, at last, I am able to remove my hand from around my lovingly understanding husband's throat.

I have always known when I was expecting,  because...no day-glo orange peanuts. I suppose I will also know when Lady Menopause rears her ugly grey head. Until then, if you see me entering a service station with hate in my eyes and a puffiness that defies my usual pudge, then, in the wise words of Sir Ludacris,"move b@t#h, get out the way, get out the way, get out the way!"

Ladies, what's your guilty gas station pleasure. Let me know so that I can get out of you way, too ;-)

*Dedicated to the original Eve. Thanks a lot, bit@#.