Who can resist the ice cream man? Really--I honestly want to know. When I was little, I lived in a neighborhood full of kids and whenever we heard that music, we went running to our parents for ice cream money. Nothing's changed. On the 4th of July, the ice cream truck came down our street and part of my brain shut down, the part that tells me when I'm acting like an ass, and I went running out to the curb clutching my wallet, ready to splurge on a screwball and a nutty buddy.
This was a tactical mistake. Now the ice cream truck comes down our street on a daily basis. They know they have a captive audience. And it's sad because we have toddlers living all around us and they don't come out for ice cream as much as we do.
Also, we're convinced that the lady who drives the truck is on drugs. She's made up like Ms. Havisham and she's permanently out of it. As in, we're not sure she knows that she's selling ice cream from a truck. This suspicion is occasionally fueled by the fact that she never, ever has change, so she ends up on the curb with her purse on her lap, slowly counting change from her wallet, her violently colored lipstick seeping into her skin. She does, however, always try to hand out paper towels to little kids so their ice cream won't melt all over them.
Tonight I got a blue Bratz face bar--I'm sucker for the ones that have gum balls in there somwhere--and apparently the color got all over the place. I grinned at Lunchboy and he recoiled. "What?" I asked. "You look like a meth whore," he laughed, then kissed me loudly. That's me, the blue-mouthed drug whore.