Our house requires a pint of ice cream--minimally--for proper functioning. If there is no cake, there is ice cream. If there are no cookies, there is ice cream. I have always had a special relationship with ice cream. Recently hubby and I had been on a tear with our ice cream needs. Like needing it every. single. night. This hateful summer weather had taken its toll on us both. It's much nicer today--like in the upper eighties. . . I know, not resort weather yet, but because the entire Midwest has been on the brink of losing it--we'll take it--no complaints from this girl.
My first job EVER was working for Baskin-Robbins ice cream shop. The thirty-one flavor center of the universe was my life when I was a wee fifteen years old. I got hired by sheer luck and happenstance. My mom refused to let me take myself down the road to the Sonic Drive-In for my first job as one of my best friends had done. No daughter of hers was sporting a short skirt, roller skates and delivering food at a drive-up window joint. Blah. Blah. Blah. She had a total hissy fit over the very thought. (To this day, I am still sort of steamed about it because my friend that got a job there totally loved it and I was always and forever jealous of the fact that she got to roller skate at work while I got tennis elbow scooping hard, VERY hard ice cream!) So, when I told Mommy Dearest I had an option at BR--wearing, NOT a skirt and roller skates, but rather a cute pink baseball cap and polyseter pink and striped ice-creamy-colored top with brown polyester pants--life got much better. I got hired to scoop ice cream. I was paid $2.50 an hour. Did I just "date" myself there? So to say that I have a "special relationship" with ice cream, well, you can see, I really do.
