We were driving home last night when all of the sudden the husband whipped the swagger wagon over to the side of the rode. I looked around for an emergency vehicle of sorts but there was none. Before I knew it, he whipped open the doors of the minivan, grabbed the children (minus baby) and ran like hell. What on earth? I got out, grabbed the baby and took off after them. That's when I saw it: The ice cream truck. Well, that figures - only the sultry siren of ice cream on wheels could get my husband to move his ass that fast. I momentarily flashed back to my childhood. I remembered playing in the yard, hearing the jingle, frantically gathering money and having half of my popsicle melt of the stick before I could eat it. It was glorious. I was thrilled that my kids were going to experience it. Albeit, they were slightly frightened as they were yanked out of a mini-van and drug down the sidewalk, but hey - they'll take the damn childhood memories I provide and like it.
In case you're wondering, these days, the ice cream man drives a rusted white tin can with some peeling decals hanging on the side. The ice cream man, himself, actually remains a mystery. He's just an arm. Behold:
I kind of wanted to help Mr. Ice Cream Arm out a little. You know, tell him he needed to work on his curb-side appeal, but I really don't think he needed my help. Ice Cream Arm was raking it in. Cha-Ching. Cha-Ching. Kids were lined up around the block with dollar bills to feed to the arm. They forked over the cash, he stuck his hairy arm out and the kids got the goods….kind of like a shady drug deal - but just for kids! Yeah, this is the stuff childhood memories are made of.