In Which I Make My Wife Scream In Bed: A Post-Thanksgiving Tale of Joy

Just came from the store. Julia is already downstairs, settled in, TCBing on her laptop from between the sheets (And a blanket. And a down throw. And a down comforter). I know the last couple days of Thanksgiving debauchery have left her in a guilt-ridden state, full of woe, post-pecan pie. But that stuff isn’t going to eat itself, you know, and I’m really no help when it comes to pie.

So I was at the grocery store, and as I passed the ice cream cooler my feet automatically turned me into the aisle. See, since hearing of this new, limited edition run of ice cream, Julia has been on the prowl for it . . . and we’ve never seen it. I even checked out a couple places when I was in Portland a couple weeks ago, to no avail. Actually seeing it is like wanting to see the Loch Ness Monster, or the mighty Bigfoot or Yeti. It’s been going on for months. Kind of an obsession, really. Apparently, as this article states, its availability has been challenged, for typical bullshit, panties-in-a-bunge, concerned American what-about-the-children reasons:

Prepare to cry tears of joy, sorrow, or indifference because at some grocers, Ben & Jerry’s “Schweddy Balls” ice cream is no more.

The popular limited edition ice cream flavor that took its name from the Saturday Night Live sketch starring Alec Baldwin as a baker named Pete Schweddy is being pulled from some grocery store shelves, thanks in large part to groups like One Million Moms who were worried that the “vulgar name” was too offensive for the tiny impressionable ears of children.

Very, very concerned parents: 1
Ben & Jerry’s: 0

We’d given up hope of ever actually seeing it.

Until now:

Behold!

I felt like I had just encountered the elusive gulo gulo in the parking lot, gnoshing on a passenger pigeon. I had only a moment’s pause, because I knew Julia was already overcome with sugar. But I couldn’t not buy it, could I? If I’d taken a picture and not bought it, I’d probably be sleeping in my truck tonight.

So I bought it, and when I got home, I took a bowl and spoon and descended the staircase. Told her to close her eyes. Held it before her, and said, “Okay, you can open them.”

She squealed with delight.

Don’t ever let it be said I don’t know how to give a lady what she wants in the sack, people.

 

 

6 thoughts on “In Which I Make My Wife Scream In Bed: A Post-Thanksgiving Tale of Joy”

  1. Ice Cream like this should not be served to children. Period! You give the kids a bowl of store-brand Neapolitan and send them on their way. Save the premium stuff for mom and dad. Sadly, my kids are old enough now to serve themselves, so they wind up eating all the good stuff. I think that means it’s time for them to move out.

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