Life is Good; I Want My Junior Mints

Last Wednesday night I went to a hockey game with my husband. I’m not exactly a sports fanatic, but it was pretty fun. I really enjoyed watching the goalies do their thing. They come out onto the ice and do this weird chopping action with their legs to rough-up the ice around them. Then they keep their eye on the puck at all times—moving a bit like transformer robots. They’re very focused. The other players seem to shimmy on and off the ice in a dance, some leaving the rink and others replacing them in a constant ebb and flow. Our team was the Grizzlies, and they were playing—get this—the Salmon Kings. So every time we scored, there was a live action shot of an enormous grizzly shaking a wiggling salmon in his teeth. That, and the loud blast of a train horn. Cool.

Now let me back up just a bit. In order to park at the stadium we needed to pay a five dollar parking fee, and I almost never carry cash on me. So we turned around and lost our place in line, driving through town to find an ATM. After going quite a distance from the stadium, we found a seven-eleven. I withdrew a twenty dollar bill, then bought a king-size box of Junior Mints in order to get change. I put them in my purse.

We parked at the stadium, entered the area, went up the stairs, and were met by a twenty-something lady who said, “Can I check your bags?” Now silly me, I thought we might get delayed because of my husband’s gun. He’s a police officer, and ever since the shooting at Trolley Square he has vowed to never go anywhere unarmed. But were they concerned about his gun? Not a bit. “The Junior Mints can’t go into the stadium,” she said.

“Bu…but…I only bought these Junior Mints so I could have change to park,” I said pleadingly.

“Sorry. The Junior Mints can’t go.”

“So…I’m supposed to just throw this huge box of Junior Mints in the trash?”

“They can’t come into the arena.”

Well, you’ve gotta be sheep-dipping me. I can carry a loaded weapon into a hockey arena, but not a box of Junior Mints?

“Here,” she said, “Just put them right by the turnstile, and hopefully they’ll be there when the game is over.”

Yeah, right.

Now, this is one of those moments in life I wish I could re-live. If I could go back in time I would have opened the box, dumped as many junior mints as would fit in my mouth, and poured all the rest into my husband’s mouth, then drooled chocolate down my chin as I went through the turnstile, smiling. Instead I left the box there and climbed the stairs without my precious box of 79-cent mints. Ahhhh, the sting of regret.

Later I learned why the JMs weren’t allowed. A menu in our booth showed Junior Mints for sale…for TWELVE dollars a box. Twelve bucks! That means the moment I left, that twenty-something chick was doing a hoola dance and auctioned off my Junior Mints to the highest bidder. Either that, or she casually ate them up as she inspected other people’s bags. That lady has a great job. Go to the stadium, search people’s bags, stockpile candy, auction them off for cold hard cash, and disappear into the catacombs.

BTW--I had a lovely Thanksgiving with nearly 30 people in my home. The turkey was delicious, the décor and company were fab. Life is good.

And I want my Junior Mints.