The arrival of Halloween signifies the formation of a temporary division within our family’s corporate structure – the Department of Candy Management and Distribution (DCMD for short). I am the Executive Project Manager. I work closely with my team of professionals to develop a strategic plan for the timely and effective distribution and reduction of seasonal candy acquisitions. The stakes are high; the family’s dental health hangs in the balance.
When I started in this position, my favored approach as the DCMD manager was to assume the role of the Candy Cop. The Candy Cop rations candy to the team – one piece at a time, after meals and for quality job performances. As I gained valuable experience, I concluded that the job of Candy Cop was bunk. All the whining, pleading and phony promises from the team led to disunity and strife. To restore order, The Candy Cop was forced to cut off distribution, which in turn led to more whining, pleading and phony promises. The arrival of Christmas, Valentine’s Day and Easter (the Motherlode of Chocolate) reduced the Candy Cop’s effectiveness and increased the candy inventory resulting in even more whining, pleading and phony promises. The temporary assignment morphed to a permanent, year-long position with hazardous job conditions. Not only was the Candy Cop crabby and irritable, but she was in grave danger of losing her girlish figure due to the hypnotically enticing aroma emitting from plastic Halloween buckets. It was often impossible to resist, especially during the day while the team was away at school. Just ask the dog.
Instead, as an experienced DCMD manager, I adopted a superior approach to the inventory reduction problem – the Feeding Frenzy. To speed up the process and reduce my numbers, I give the team (crazy-eyed sugar fiends) permission to eat all they want for one night only. Of course, I first take my cut. Almond Joys? Mine. Snickers Dark? Straight to the pocket. MilkyWay Midnights? Come to Mommy. After that, the team is free to cram any amount of candy into their gooey little mouths in the allotted amount of time. All sorting, counting, and trading is permitted as I recline by the fire, sipping a hot beverage and enjoying the perks of management.
When bedtime arrives, it’s over. The team stumbles off to the showers with instructions to brush their teeth and eat a Tums. I sweep the up the remaining inventory, depositing all rejects and wrappers in permanent removal receptacles. I return to the couch. Another successful year with the DCMD. Belly aches are a small price to pay this kind of job satisfaction.