One of the things I like about where I work is that they celebrate holidays. I’m not talking about Thanksgiving or Christmas or Patriot Day. No, I’m talking about the yummy ones.
On National Pizza Day, they ordered a couple dozen pizzas for the staff to share. National Donut Day? Boxes of donuts. Pi Day? I celebrated with a big slice of key lime pie.
It turns out that Sunday is National Ice Cream Day. Most of us are smart enough (or at least not masochistic enough) not to come in to work on the weekends, so on Friday, you could hear that jingling tune of an ice cream truck coming from the parking lot.
Its siren song was too powerful to resist and I was dragged out of the building almost against my will. Almost. Not really. Look, it was ice cream! I wanted some!
I got in line and saw the pictures of what was available on the side of the truck, so by the time I got to the front of the line, I knew what I wanted from the ice cream lady: a birthday party ice cream sandwich.
The “bread” was vanilla instead of chocolate and there were bright specks of color in the ice cream. Mmmmm… yummy.
I brought my treasure back into the break room and started opening the wrapper, then someone saw me and asked, “What did you get?”
“A birthday party ice cream sandwich.”
The guy she was talking to started saying, “So it’s probably going to taste like corn syrup and—”
“It’s gonna taste like a party, mother fucker!”
Okay, I kinda trailed off during that last word so I didn’t outright swear at a guy I’d never met before, but I wanted to make a point. And that point was… I was going to eat my ice cream! And enjoy it! Because it’s ice cream, mother fucker! Mmmmm… yummy.
