I may or may not have driven 15 miles into town to get my stepson and I ice cream…
Ok, but stop judging me, it’s not exactly what you think! Not sure if I’m ready to admit this just yet… Oh well, here goes…
Guys, I realized we ran out of ice for cocktails tonight. Huuuuuuge infraction in our household. Once a sailor, always a sailor, and ice is priceless. My husband and my stepson have been working diligently for the last 2 days to build my goat structure – which I’m calling my “Doe-micile,” since no boy goats are allowed in my field (except, you know, when that times comes… birds and bees and all…). And what is better after a long day of hard work than an ice cold, refreshing, relaxing cocktail? Nothing. Absolutely nothing, I tell you.
So I decided to go into town to get a bag of ice. That would be a 10 mile ride, not a huge deal, comparatively speaking. The country roads are gorgeous and I love seeing the ever-changing farms and animals. That one cow that loves to wade in his pond; the wheat that was grown so high, now cut and baled, resting in its field. Sounds great, right?
Well, my stepson and I are ice cream/gelato/frozen custard/froyo/NAMEAFROZENDESSERT buddies. When we lived and worked together in the British Virgin Islands, after a long week of charter (every week was a loooooong week), we always had a crew dinner at our favorite local spot. As the end of the meal approached, my stepson and I would look at each other and ask the same question every week: “Well are we getting gelato or not?”
So… When I know that my stepson has been working his butt off for me and my goats on his week off in between charters (he still works in the islands, comes home to visit and get fed home-cooked meals); and that a frozen treat that would make him smile is just simply 5 miles more… You know I’m going to go get a daggum Blizzard, too, and the biggest one they’ve got. And while I’m there, might as well get a small one for me, too.
This freedom is going to my head. Or my hips. Or both.