I bought ice cream the other day for my son. No, really.
I got a kind that I don't even like that much: Mint Chocolate Chip.
I left it untouched for a day or two, but it just got so
bloody hot here that I started salivating looking at the container. So I opened the carton and scooped out some
mint chocolate chip ice cream.
It was delicious.
The next night, it was still hot. I grabbed a bowl and scooped out more mint
chocolate chip ice cream. I would share
the ice cream with my son, but first he was at work, then last night he left
for the weekend. Last night it was the
hottest of all, so I had a little bit more mint chocolate chip ice cream.
Tonight I arrive home from a hot day of river bank
exploration, tower climbing, restaurant eating, and bail avoidance. I immediately shower -- Do not pass Go; do
not collect $200. I watch a little TV,
download some pictures from the latest misadventure, suck down ice water like
it's going out of style, and …
Eat another bowl of the mint chocolate chip ice cream that I
apparently am not supposed to like very much.
The bowls may be small, but so is the carton of ice
cream. It is now officially half empty,
and yet still half full. By the time my
son returns from his weekend, I will have to buy another carton of mint
chocolate chip ice cream to replace the carton that I apparently do like more
than I claim to.
I'm blaming the heat.
If I had my normal wits about me, I'd have bought chocolate chip cookie
dough ice cream and called it a wash in the first place. I'm innocent, I tell you, innocent! Heat waves and ice cream naturally go
together -- I'm just a victim of circumstance.
One more day of this hot weather, though, and the
circumstantial evidence will be long gone, anyway. Like it was never even here.
Where's that scoop, damnit?
I'm going in. Again.
.
