Dipped cones are the devil

Dipped cones are my nemesis.

I would have to say (and Kenny would agree) that, for the most part, I have been pretty ok as far as mood swings go. The only other time I remember being completely ridiculous was here.

Well, to add to the dipped cone files…

We went to an Avs game this weekend. Kenny asked me if I wanted anything and I told him I would like a lemonade. He left to go buy some goodies and I left to go use the restroom. When I came back he was sitting there with two dipped cones and no lemonade. NO lemonade. I sat in my seat, took the ice cream, and said thank you. My eyes started to well up and my lip began quivering. I knew I was being completely irrational, but couldn’t stop the waterworks. I sat there silently waiting for it to pass and Kenny looked at me. He said he knew I loved those and so he thought it would be nice to get me one. Granted, it was very considerate, and any other time it would have been perfect, but not this night. All I wanted was a damn lemonade.

I ended up giving my ice cream to a kid in front of me and the lemonade guy walked by as though he knew he would be saving the night from disaster. Crisis averted. Narrowly.

It totally ruined my day

Last week I almost cried over ice cream.

Kenny and I went to Dairy Queen. We were going through the drive through and when they handed Kenny my dipped cone, I almost broke down right there. Instead of the perfect cone I am used to with the swirly top and precise dip, I was handed a tilted, squished, messy disaster. The cone was dipped too far making the chocolate run down the sides of the cone. The ice cream was dripping out of the chocolate shell. It was horrible. Kenny asked if I wanted to get a new one, which I declined, but I was ready to ball. He never saw though. I was in the back seat and ate my monstrosity in silence.