Saturday, May 23, 2009

I Scream

It had been along Sunday at the Zoo. We were nearly home from the hour's drive when HOB decided a trip to Dairy Queen was in order. Evan, age two was zonked out in his car seat, completely exhausted from our day of fun. Sonny Boy, age seven, was more than willing to stop for an ice cream treat.

The Dairy Queen was in a shopping area that was not exactly where you want to spend a lot of time. Various vagrants walked around the parking lot and the whole place had the feel of a CSI Crime Scene getting ready for its debut. I agreed to stay in the car with the sleeping boy while HOB and Sonny Boy went to get the ice cream. I ordered my all-time favorite: a chocolate-dipped cone.

It was hot and stuffy in the car, but I didn't want to risk waking Evan up for several reasons. 1) he needed his sleep (2) everyone knows you never wake up a two-year old and 3) there was no treat coming for him so if he did wake up, we'd all be in trouble.

Still it was sticky and stuffy and generally uncomfortable in the car. Evan was on the shaded side of the car while I was on the side the sun was beating down on. I tried cracking the window a bit, but Evan stirred, so I quickly rolled it back up. Besides, there were smokers nearby, enjoying their cancer sticks and blowing smoke in our general direction. There were also shady looking characters coming and out of the nearby stores. I kept the doors locked and the windows up, focused on not sweating too much and waited, and waited, and waited for my chocolate-dipped cone.

I kept waiting. I could not see the Dairy Queen from the car window, so I just thought about what would eventually would arrive. Whoever invented the chocolate-dipped cone was a genius, all that cold creamy goodness surrounded by the crispness of the chocolate shell molded perfectly in one undulating frozen flame of sweet goodness. Perfect.

And there at the top of that cone would be the best part: the curled tip, the perfect swirl captured; a moment in time seized; a wave, stilled; a blossom, preserved. Ahhhhhhhh.... That first bite was was going to be wonderful and well worth the hellish wait for it. Finally, I looked ahead to see HOB and Sonny Boy on their way, my chocolate cone, looking perfect, in HOB's right hand.

I unlocked the car door when they neared, but HOB did not immediately get in. Instead I watched through the glass of the car window as he leaned down ever so slightly, and opened his mouth...

It was headed for my cone.

My heart raced.

His open mouth got bigger.

No, he wouldn't.

It was aimed right at my cone.

He couldn't.

His wet, ample lips seemed to cover half of the cone as the teeth bit





I couldn't believe it.

He didn't just do that. Did he?

He did. HE DID.

My mouth was open in disbelief. I was ready to scream, but quickly remembered the sleeping boy in the back. I sat, stunned, shocked, incredulous.

HOB leisurely got in the car and nonchalantly handed me my decimated, defiled, and desecrated cone. "Somethin' wrong, babe?" he asked, traces of chocolate and ice cream on those lips.

"You. Ate. My. Tip," I said in a hissed whisper.

"Oh yeah, I was pretty sure it was going to start dripping," he said. "What's the big deal?"

Oh, later at home, we had a very LONG talk about what the "big deal" was.

We discussed the principles of physics and gravity. (Would the dripping really show outside the the tip of a chocolate-dipped cone? And if so, in the case of cones, the dripping becomes pertinent ONLY when it hits the cone itself, not before.)

We instituted some strict rules and regulations concerning biting the tip of a cone that does not belong to you.

We had long seminars concerning the sanctity of the tip and all represents.

We discussed the issue of trust in marriage and demonstrating intense love and devotion by using the correct technique of delivering frozen treats, whole and intact, to your beloved.

Believe me, my husband has been re-educated and will never repeat this heinous act.

In fact, I believe if he were oxygen-derived and gasping for breath, and the only way he could get a tank of oxygen was to bite the tip off my chocolate-dipped cone, he would wait until the edges of his vision blurred to a dark black before committing the forbidden act.

(By the way, HOB, if you're reading this, you know I love you and you would never have to go to these lengths. If this scenario ever plays itself out, you have my permission to bite the tip even before the edges of your vision go dark black. You can just wait until they turn, say a really deep shade of purplish/gray-black.)

"What's the big deal?"



Susan said...

Love it!

Leanne said...

Oh, I just had to click over to this link when I saw the photo on the linkwithin. Dairy Queen was my craving when I was pregnant with Katie . . . we visited them a once or twice a week during those 9 months. My heart beat increased as you wrote of HOB ... biting off the tip of your DQ. Not right. It's just not right.

I think I want one today.

Becausing licking the monitor (and the photo in this post) is getting a little out of hand.