Just hand over the damn fudge

I normally don’t get this “personal” online, so let me lay down a quick disclaimer: Lisa is typically the sweetest, most even-tempered person in the whole-wide world. Even when it comes to that particular time of the month, she is far more of the overly emotional, “prone to excessive crying during Hallmark movies” type than the angry, “nothing you can say will be right” type. Now that we’ve got that out of the way, perhaps I can relay the night’s happenings without doing serious damage to our relationship.

It all started with a simple enough idea: Let’s go get some ice cream! We had a nice weekend, including joining the Y and starting to work out (hopefully a regular occurance). After dinner and a movie, it seemed like a nice enough evening to walk over to Bloomfield Ave and get a scoop of cold, creamy goodness. Lisa conceded, and we began the trek.

Unfortunately, I made the mistake of skipping the local throwback diner, and decided the softserve options at TCBY might be better. After several minutes deliberating over the somewhat limited selection, Lisa and I both made our decisions. It is important to note that Lisa’s choice was predicated upon the addition of hot fudge to whatever flavor was available. So a single scoop of mint chocolate chip it was.

The girl behind the counter already got Lisa in a bad mood by ignoring her request for a scoop, and insisting upon the small, regular, or large sizing. After filling the small cup with not one… not two… but three scoops, the girl informed us that they were all out of hot fudge.

Now, let me interject here and say that yes, this was stupid. If I place an order, and you can only fulfill half of it, let me know right away. That gives the customer a much easier out for weighing their options and possibly fleeing a hot fudge-less ice cream insitution. But what followed left me somewhere between terrified and hysterical with laughter.

Sure, Lisa was disappointed, but I really didn’t think it was that big of a deal. Lisa, however, had become convinced that this girl was, in fact, a hell-born demon sent with the intention of destroying her sweet enjoyment (the order coming to $6.66 might also have contributed to this theory). And that had killed the mood. Walking home, she just kept ranting and raving about what an idiot this girl was and how nasty she had acted – purposely screwing her out of the ideal opportunity for hot fudgey goodness. The nerve of some braindead teenager to just force upon her a topping-less cup of useless ice cream. Every few steps, just as I thought we had made progress, she blew up again over the outrage of the situation. How could she enjoy such a worthless cup of nothing?!?!

Granted, she realized the hormonal overeaction, but that didn’t stop her from a few more explosions of vitriol aimed at the flunky cashier. But at least by then we could laugh about it – although I did so from a few steps away. Normally the whole PMS thing doesn’t really amount to much around these parts aside from a need for more tissues, but it can still get a tad wacky.

3 thoughts on “Just hand over the damn fudge”

  1. Hahahahahaha!!! That is SO funny. I can totally relate. Don’t mess up my ice cream order or give me any ‘we don’t have any hot fudge’ nonsense after you scooped my way-too-much ice cream. I also would have sulked about my lack of fudge :-P.

    Totally unrelated – you haven’t even looked at my evite yet. Did it not get to you? Do I have your e-mail address wrong? Or are you just too cool to view it? :-P.

  2. @Adam – Actually we joined the Y the day before the ice cream – although I did suggest that we could drizzle some bacon fat on top to really help out 🙂

    @Malina – I’m just too cool! Actually, I started a new Gmail account (I think I mentioned it in one of my rare LJ appearances), and forgot to forward my old one. I checked the evite today and will check with Lisa about that date (might be busy).

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