I am hopping mad and no, it is not about torture, it is about petit fours, snowm...

I am hopping mad and no, it is not about torture, it is about petit fours, snowman petit fours, and I am about to rev up my Infinity, speed north to St. Louis, Missouri and give the ding dongs at Karl Bissinger Candy Company a piece of my mind. For years, at holiday time, we have gotten the snowman petit fours. I hate Christmas. I hate it all. Except the petit fours. They are tiny and covered with frosting and so cute you don't even have the heart to eat them until, like, the Fourth of July when the frosting has completely cracked off and it is basically a kind of mercy-killing situation. My mother's year revolves around the arrival of the snowman petit fours. She begins to talk about them in October; she speaks of the arrival of the snowmen as if they were boys from the local countryside coming home from D-Day, awaiting her kisses and garlands of roses. But there is this: they are very popular and harder to actually acquire than just about anything I know, harder than even truffles. And truffles are dug from the ground by pigs!

I begin calling about the availability of the snowman petit fours on December 1 because they are so popular. The phone ordering department at Karl Bissinger makes Citibank look like a user-friendly situation. I think those phone people are drunk on snowmen or smoking crack by the chocolate vats. I think they eat the snowmen before anyone else has a chance to get them. I think they take them home to their own fat, sneezy little children. I think this thing is rigged worse than a dance marathon or maybe the Florida primary. I have called so often that early last week, the woman on the customer service line said, "I never have seen no man so hot to get his hands on a petit four."

Well, last Friday, still no petit fours yet. Not a snowman to be seen from the Mississippi River to the truck stops of Troy. Now, today, I call again. I wait on the customer service line for at least fifty minutes, just knowing those SOBs are not answering the phone because they are selling my snowmen. My hands sweat. My heart pounds. Finally, the woman answers and before I can even get out my questions, she says, sheepishly, "I know who you are." The tone in her voice suggests fear. "I'll bet you do," I say. "You the petit four man."

I say, "Yes, damn straight. Now give me the snowmen. I am calling from Paris, Missouri. I want them shipped today. I have a ninety-year old woman in her bed hallucinating snowman petit fours. I have a woman who is on the edge, waiting for the vision of a white chocolate snowman to pull her back to life as we know it. " The woman pauses. "We can't ship them snowmen. They have to be refrigerated." I say, we live out of town. She says, "You didn't know you was going to be wanting some of them snowmen the last time you was in St. Louis?" I remind her that the little fellows--oh so sweet and Christmasy and redolent of childhood, tenderly and nostalgically reminding me of all the shit I have endured on this dying, god-forsaken planet since I first ate one--are only now just available. I hope.

"But they're not," she says. "Not what?" I ask. "Available. We're sold out." I almost scream. "Are you telling me some team of fat-ass bitches from Ladue have come in there any wiped out every one of those snowmen? I was in your store right before Thanksgiving and there were thousands of chocolate turkeys. Why this chintzy attitude toward the snowmen?" I really am about to cry. I have called and called and called. In the corner of the couch, my mother, hearing everything has begun to make small moaning sounds. The dog has started to whine. "I want you to get your rear out to that candy kitchen and find me some snowmen," I say, "or I am going to make Ferguson look like the state fair." She laughs. She says, "Maybe you should try the holly leaves." I say, "I hate the holly leaves. I think those little red berries cause diverticulitis. Why can't you make more snowmen? It's two weeks till Christmas. They're obviously big sellers. How long does it take to throw together a snowman?" She says, "Do you want me to put you through to corporate?" I say, "You're darn tooting."