Hn.

I could do my homework, but I'm paralyzed by not caring very much.


...and besides, no writer worth their salt comes up with anything good before 9:58 pm.

So I'll just... sit here. And stare.

crappy bastards, out of mint.

I'm afaid I might have been a bit of a bitch to the guy at the ice cream place.

But really, it wasn't unjustified. I had damn good reason to snap.

So it happens like this:

I get coerced by my mother into going out to by ice cream before we settle down to watch Panic Room. Which-- if you pardon the momentary tangent--- was good. Not as wicked as Fight Club, but still intelligent and interesting, with a strong, capable female protagonist.

So I enter the Baskin Robbins, feeling somewhat optimisitc at the concept of ice cream. I've got a whole list of orders floatign around in my brain, too.

I walk over to the side and start perusing those fridges they always have out with the pre-packed quarts of ice cream. It's half empty. There's chocolate, but no mint chip, no chocolate chip, and no Jamoca. This annoys me. I close the glass door, open it up to examine it all again, then close it, taking the chocolate out.

There's a guy there, probably my age. He looks all sweaty and tired-gross. He gives me a blank look with a slight hint of the retail perkiness he's supposed to be pouring out, and ays "What would you like?"

I look over at fridge, then just to emphasize it, point. "So you have any ice cream besides what's in there?"

Another blank look, and this time the perkiness is totally gone. "No."

I frown a little, and say, "Since you're obviously out, can you pack me a quart without charign the extra dollar-fifty?"

"No."

I nod, and preserve my disappointment. I ask him about the size differences between pints and quarts for a minute, and have him bring me the emtpy quart to compare to the one I had out because it looked smaller. I dither between them for a moment (whihc I dont' normally do, but this was bugging me), then say "Alright, when you pre-pack this stuff, you do push it down, don't you? You don't just dump three scoops in and call it good, right?"

His dead response: "No, we pack it."

I straighten my shoulders. "Good, I want a quart of Mint chocolate chip. None of that fat-free thin mint stuff I saw over there either."

He says: "We're out of mint."

"You're out of mint."

"Yes."

Ok, now I was getting irritated. My mom wanted mint. I wanted mint. The only reason I went to Baskin Robbins at all was because they had good Mint.

"Is there another Baskin Robbins around here that actually has ice cream?"

He looks at a sheet and tells me there's one in Los Gatos. Right. Like I was going drive fifteen minutes all the way to Los Gatos, buy ice cream there, then come another twenty back. I had a new movie to be watching right then.

:deep breath:: "Ok. Ok. I'll have, um... That--over there. Jamoca. Pint." He does that, and I go back to the semi-empty fridge and get a pre-packed thing of cookies & cream, frowning. Then I have him pack me a quart of regular, standard, how-dare-they-be-out-of-it-too Chocolate Chip. My head is just growling over the stupidity of them charging extra for individually packed cups.

A couple comes in, and murmers quietly looking over teh selection. The man is standing next to me, and I lean over and say cool-as-calm, "They're out of mint."

"They are?" the man says in a kind of "oh, ok, whatever" voice.

"They are?" the woman repeats, in a "they can't be out of mint!" voice. I like her; she understands my pain I can tell.

The man points out the Thin Mint, but the woman scolds him and says its not the same. They settle for something else. After another few moments of deliberation I jot bakc to the frridge and trade teh cookies-n-cream for a quart of chocolate chip cookie dough. I set it down on the counter with a dissapointed bang. It's not mint.

I turn back to my server-- he's almost done. I ask him if they sell fudge in a jar. They don't. This does not make me anymore satisfied. He rings them up, and I pay him. He hands me back the reciept (with a significantly more cheerful demeanor.) "Here you go. Have a nice evening."

I look at my four packs of ice cream of various sizes spread along the counter, and then back at him. After a beat he adds, "Would you like a bag?"

I give him one of those smiles. You know, the I'm-sure-as-hell-glad-I-didn't-hire-you-but-let's-be-polite smile. "Yes, I would."

He packs the bag, and I take it and turn around and flounce out, pony tail swinging deliberately.

On my way out I move forward to hold the door open for this cute guy with crutches and soemthing seriously bad-complicated caged around one leg. He gives me a large, grateful smile, and says thank you.

I'm not a bitch to everyone, you see. Just to those who deserve it.


I still want my damn Mint Chocolate Chip.