Breaking Tradition
We're big on eating ice cream at the Raab house. My average ice cream intake is usually around 3 or 4 times every seven day cycle. This number has a tendency to escalate to around a 9 or more in the summer due to the hot weather causing me to lose my appetite for any hot meal. There is also an increase in chasing the ice cream man in July, with an occasional shoving of a child to be the first to get an ice pop. But in the off seasons, we engage in the delicacies that are Baskin and Robbins.
It's a normal procedure to follow. The parents summon me. I come downstairs. They inform me that they crave ice cream. I immediately get the same craving. They give me their order. I leave the room and come back with a pad and a pencil and ask them to repeat their order. I should know what scoops they want by now. Dad usually chooses the green flavors where as mom likes the chocolate mousse royal and then a scoop of something with fruit in it. I think fruit and ice cream should never, under any circumstances, be mixed. Dessert and fruit should never be in the same sentence. Fruit is not dessert. Fruit is evil and not delicious. Nevertheless, mom always orders it. After I finish writing down information I already know by heart, I leave, in my pajamas, to retrieve the ice cream.
I hate pulling up to the store. It's the worst part of this entire process. I hate it because I get there ten minutes before closing time and as I am getting out of the car, I can see both the regular girls behind the counter look at me. One of the girls is in high school. She's pretty and thin and really nice when you order, always giving you generous scoops. Though when I get out of the car, she throws me the dirtiest look I have ever seen. She knows that I frequent this joint once a week. She probably thinks I am a gigantic loser, that I have no life on a Sunday night. I know she thinks this because I used to think this of my regulars when I worked as a server in high school. I hated regulars. They always showed up come rain or shine. Always. And they always acted like they owned the place and then actually looked at the menu even though they knew everything on it and I knew what they were getting. I hate regulars. So I know this girl hates me. I have gotten to the point that I dislike going there to order ice cream. I feel like a burden to these people even though it's their job and they choose to be there. So because of the dirty looks, I hope when I pull up she's not there. But she's always there. Always.
Tonight, is ice cream night. Weisman and I are almost out the door when I change my mind. "How about Friendly's?" Mom and dad change their orders and we exit the house. On our way out, I confess to Weisman that I did not want to go to Baskin n Robbin's because of the dirty looks girl. Weisman thinks I'm nuts. I shouldn't care that it pisses her off. If she hates scooping ice cream, she can do what other 16 year olds do: fold shirts at The Gap.
This girl irks me. Maybe because she reminds me of me when I worked at It's Greek To Me. I think back to the nasty looks I threw when someone waltzed in at a quarter to nine. I think it's crazy that I'm being driven to a different ice cream parlor because of this. I'm like eight years older than her! This is ridiculous! I shouldn't give a damn what she thinks. Scoop my ice cream, bitch!
We walk into Friendly's and grab a dessert menu. As I pass it to Weisman, I catch a glimpse of a familiar face at the first table and quickly position myself to be hidden behind a group of girls at the counter. When they leave, I position myself directly in front of Weisman. Whenever he moves, I move too. At one point he looks at me funny and tries to move but I hold him in place. As we receive our order I grumble that we should have gone to Baskin n Robbin's. Weisman laughs.
Who knew dirty looks girl would go to an ice cream place on her only night off.
It's a normal procedure to follow. The parents summon me. I come downstairs. They inform me that they crave ice cream. I immediately get the same craving. They give me their order. I leave the room and come back with a pad and a pencil and ask them to repeat their order. I should know what scoops they want by now. Dad usually chooses the green flavors where as mom likes the chocolate mousse royal and then a scoop of something with fruit in it. I think fruit and ice cream should never, under any circumstances, be mixed. Dessert and fruit should never be in the same sentence. Fruit is not dessert. Fruit is evil and not delicious. Nevertheless, mom always orders it. After I finish writing down information I already know by heart, I leave, in my pajamas, to retrieve the ice cream.
I hate pulling up to the store. It's the worst part of this entire process. I hate it because I get there ten minutes before closing time and as I am getting out of the car, I can see both the regular girls behind the counter look at me. One of the girls is in high school. She's pretty and thin and really nice when you order, always giving you generous scoops. Though when I get out of the car, she throws me the dirtiest look I have ever seen. She knows that I frequent this joint once a week. She probably thinks I am a gigantic loser, that I have no life on a Sunday night. I know she thinks this because I used to think this of my regulars when I worked as a server in high school. I hated regulars. They always showed up come rain or shine. Always. And they always acted like they owned the place and then actually looked at the menu even though they knew everything on it and I knew what they were getting. I hate regulars. So I know this girl hates me. I have gotten to the point that I dislike going there to order ice cream. I feel like a burden to these people even though it's their job and they choose to be there. So because of the dirty looks, I hope when I pull up she's not there. But she's always there. Always.
Tonight, is ice cream night. Weisman and I are almost out the door when I change my mind. "How about Friendly's?" Mom and dad change their orders and we exit the house. On our way out, I confess to Weisman that I did not want to go to Baskin n Robbin's because of the dirty looks girl. Weisman thinks I'm nuts. I shouldn't care that it pisses her off. If she hates scooping ice cream, she can do what other 16 year olds do: fold shirts at The Gap.
This girl irks me. Maybe because she reminds me of me when I worked at It's Greek To Me. I think back to the nasty looks I threw when someone waltzed in at a quarter to nine. I think it's crazy that I'm being driven to a different ice cream parlor because of this. I'm like eight years older than her! This is ridiculous! I shouldn't give a damn what she thinks. Scoop my ice cream, bitch!
We walk into Friendly's and grab a dessert menu. As I pass it to Weisman, I catch a glimpse of a familiar face at the first table and quickly position myself to be hidden behind a group of girls at the counter. When they leave, I position myself directly in front of Weisman. Whenever he moves, I move too. At one point he looks at me funny and tries to move but I hold him in place. As we receive our order I grumble that we should have gone to Baskin n Robbin's. Weisman laughs.
Who knew dirty looks girl would go to an ice cream place on her only night off.