Oh, you’re still reading?
I thought that after giving you the synopsis in the title, you’d be off reading about something else.
Alrighty, off we go then.
Concluding my weekend of sun and fun (read: sit under canopy, avoid sunshine, shower multiple times a day, mow the lawn, get slobbery tennis balls thrown at my feet) on our way home from a friends house, I made the executive decision to stop for some ice cream.
I left Steve and Bailey in the YOT and waddled walked to the end of the line. There may have been 7-10 groups of people in front of me, but I didn’t care, I was getting ICE CREAM. Plus, it gave me time to flounder between a candy-and-ice-cream-swirl, a sundae, hard serve and soft serve. My brain is doing the happy dance of deduction.
“hhhhhhhhhrrrrrrrrrrmmmmmmmhhhhhhhhaaaaaaaaa.”, comes from behind me.
Like an antelope at the watering hole, I am alarmed.
Now my mind is racing… Do I look, do I not look? Wouldn’t people be running, screaming (not for ice cream, but in terror) if there was someone lining up with say, an axe or chainsaw? Or would they be all ‘let the pregnant lady take it, she can’t run as fast as we can!’?
What would a guy in a goalie mask sound like?
Then. It Spoke. “hhhrrrmmmmaa. Dey only got hhhhhhrrrrrrr one person werkin’ mmmmmmaaaaaa in dere?” And I can FEEL this person getting closer to me. Is he talking to me? Do I look like I work at the stand, you know, standing in line with a tank top, skirt and flip-flops? Does he want to engage me in conversation? Is this one of those times where I should take a look at the people around me and decide if this is really where I need to be?
I keep quiet. Meanwhile, he sits on the picnic table, still huffing and puffing.
“mmmmmrrrrrraaa. Oh. Dare’s two of ‘em in dare. hhhrrrrrmmmmm.”
Pft, I certainly hope he doesn’t consider asking me if he can skip ahead, though, it does sound like he’s going to die if he doesn’t get an ice cream soon.
For the next seven minutes, I have to listen to Jabba huff-n-puff-n-stuff behind me because standing up is such a task.
Look buddy, I’ve popped about 15 pounds in four months, don’t lecture me about how hard it is to stand around… you’ve clearly been dealing with it for a while now.
The couple in front of me (who also made me reconsider my desert of choice) get to the counter and I can feel Jabba getting excited.
Until, that is, they place their order. It was something like, 2 small cones, both with one scoop of butter pecan and one scoop of tracks but one on a regular cone and one on a sugar cone.
What a bizarre order!
Jabba lets out this exasperated sigh, the world is going to end!
Perhaps I should order something complicated.
“Medium vanilla soft serve with rainbow sprinkles, please.” And I pay (mu hahaha, I did dig for change) and step to the side.
Jabba practically crashes into the window. Putting both sausage-fingered-hands on the ledge, he breathes his order, thus blocking the delivery of MY ice cream and retrieval of napkins.
I did not punch him.
The ice cream was worth it, BTW.