Welcome to "The Bored Gods, All of Them, Have Stopped Worrying and Learned To Love Soft Ice Cream!"
Wow. That's a mouthful. Mmmmmm. Swirl it around on your tongue!
I try not to repeat myself on this blog, but some things just bare (pun intended) repeating.
In our part of America, white trucks called "Mr. Softees" drive around neighborhoods with this annoying kiddie tune blaring. Mr. Softee trucks dispense soft ice cream, popsickles, and other cold confections. The annoying kiddie tune is so loud you can hear it in time to find your purse no matter how well the faeries have hidden it. And after you've made your purchase, the song lingers through the next two blocks.
Last summer, the Mr. Softee truck in our hood was manned (word choice intended) by an extremely handsome young fella. He got a lot of repeat business from Chateau Johnson, because it was universally agreed among mother and two sisters that this was a person worth looking at. And in order to look at him, you had to buy his soft serve. If you wanted him to smile, you tipped him. Generously. Extremely generously.
(Okay, Grumpy. Like you wouldn't tip Cary Grant if he was dishing out vanilla with rainbow jimmies.)
Last week The Spare and I heard the stupid kiddie song coming down the block. We looked at each other. I said, "Oh Pleeeeeeeeeeeeze let it be the same dude!"
The Spare said, "I don't care if it's Godzilla. I want some soft serve."
We went outside and flagged him down.
It was the same dude. A year older, but not one bit less stunning. We tipped him. He smiled. The world turned a brilliant rainbow hue, and turtledoves cooed in the pines.
I'm all alone here in the house today. I hear the Mr. Softee truck ... hmmmmm ... Smile at Mr. Softee, or put the towels in the dryer?
In go the towels. Truck passes by, unaccosted. We at "The Gods Are Bored," in the course of a long and interesting life, have gotten some sense in our heads.
Then again, he drives by every day. Be still my beating heart!