There are some events in life that simply require a stopwatch in order to track them effectively. Take the Olympic Games. They wouldn't be nearly so stimulating to watch if the announcer used terms like "Yes, ladies and gentlemen, Jones just beat Smith by the skin of his teeth." No, we prefer to know that the gold was won by .006975467 gazillions of a second. And during labor, there is always someone on hand timing one contraction to the next in order to alert the woman of the impending pain — as if she might somehow miss it on her own.

Yet despite all the synchronized, quartz action watches and lunar Farmer's Almanac calendars available, there is only one thing I need to alert me to the arrival of Halloween: All the jelly beans and stale Peeps from Easter have finally run out.

Like some eerie eighth wonder of the world, my candy bowl no longer runneth over just as the Harvest Moon begins its ascent into the cool Fall air. With Swiss-like movement, October will appear on the calendar and my blood sugar level will disappear into my shoes. (Come to think of it, my shoes are another indicator...I am no longer picking strands of six month old Easter grass off of them.) I will resort to eating those items I would not look at twice back in April, the black jelly beans, those robin egg speckled things, packets of Equal.

All right, all right, I admit it, "My name is Linda and I am a Sugaraholic". I live from one season of sucrose to the next, gleefully chomping my way from December to April on Santa's candy canes, practically pulling my fillings out from April to October with pounds of jelly beans, and living like an Oz Munchkin from October to December on a steady supply of Hershey's miniatures.

My family has tried to help, resorting to everything short of an intervention, but they have failed. My husband has tried placing the candy on the high shelves, assuming his vertically challenged wife won't be able to reach. Ha! Like a mountain goat in a Ricola commercial, I could scale the Alps if the promise of M&Ms were at the summit. My children have resorted to hiding their Halloween haul in an attempt to actually enjoy the treats themselves. I've got news for them, those wrappers protect the Tootsie Rolls from the stink of being hidden in your shoes, and I know about the Teletubbie you hollowed out and re-stuffed with Skittles.

I have been busted by my own children so many times for illegally importing Reese's Cups into my mouth, but there was one instance that made me think perhaps I do need help. There I stood, in the darkened recesses of our pantry, like some bad outtake from The Blair Witch Project, frantically racing through the shelves, breathing heavily, in search of a miniature Butterfinger I just knew I could smell. As I found not one, but two of the intoxicating bars cleverly hidden inside an old Tomato Soup can, I heard my daughters entering the front door from school. They jerked open the pantry door in search of their after school snack and were greeted by the sight of their mother, pupils abruptly dilating in response to the light, chocolate drool on her chin, able to only greet them with, "Mmmfffppptttt?".

This year my children have already decided to take king sized pillow cases out with them as they Trick or Treat, if only to collect enough candy that they might actually get to enjoy a Kit Kat or two. Dreamers.

And as the Farmer's Almanac will attempt to predict the date of snowfall, I will know in my sucrose bloated gut that Christmas is upon us. For long before the bells jingle and the stores are sold out of Chicken Dance Elmos, my husband will begin reading to our children from that age old seasonal favorite, "Twas the night before Christmas and all through the house, not a creature was stirring...except Mom frantically slobbering over one last kernel of candy corn."

I really need help.