Hoo boy, it is finally summer time in Vancouver. As the temperature soars to a mighty 29 31 this week, I’m waiting patiently for my complimentary air conditioning unit to arrive from the "Society of Feeling Sorry for Pregnant Chicks due in September That Have An Impending Rash On Their Inner Thighs And Can Hear Themselves Breathing When They Eat."
Last night I met some gorgeous thin girlfriends down at the beach, just to make myself feel better. It is full on tourist/kids out of school season down in English Bay – in our short time tackling Denman St. we caught sight of the three typical summer species: 1) the Eurotrash family with Dad in assorted shades of Versace white, shirt tucked into shorts, and yelling (probably not) romantic sentiments at his wife pushing a stroller of a small child and squeezed into her prenatal club wear, rolls be damned. The glare off her spandex-sheathed ass almost obscured our view of 2) the yelling suburban kids who think life is an audition for Jersey Shore and will try to bum cigarettes off you and hang off each other squealing and yipping and will inevitably end up outside my apartment building at midnight fighting and 3) the crazy crazy guy confronting strangers while walking with what you would call a whalloping post, so even if you wanted to “what what” his crazy ass, the thought of unearthing splinters from your brain keeps you moving on.
The lineup for Marble Slab was, of course, a month long, so we sat on the grass in the shade of my upper arm fat for a while, and watched the dudes cruise in cars, the buskers light themselves on fire, and the douchebag’s t-shirts sparkle in the setting sun.
Once in Marble Slab, the decisions you have to make are agonizing. There are literally 10,000 combinations possible and they are listed on signs, on the coolers and dangling from the ceiling. It’s almost as hectic as going into that gelato place on Venables, where as soon as you analyze and log one freezer worth of flavours, you have immediately forgotten the previous one.
I ended up choosing the Snickerdoodle. This is the description: Vanilla with Snickers® & Caramel. Done deal right? Yes, I had to ask for it in a cup, instead of God’s Chosen Angel Vessel - the waffle cone - and I had to ask the girl to not moosh it all together on the slab because of potential gluten contamination, but I was still really excited to eat my $6 bowl of fun.
So, I watch her scoop the ice cream into a cup, then dump three scoops of crushed Skor bar on top. Yeah, Skor. The most over-rated chocolate bar in the world. Nothing offensive about it, but really it’s just a ruler made of chocolate and toffee. And, most importantly, NOT SNICKERS. Humour me and at least call it a Skordoodle then.
Should I have said something? Yes. Was there even a glass jar of Snicker chunks there? No. So, I could have held up the entire nation of people behind me in line by reaming out a 14 year old behind the counter, or just watch her then ladle a scoop of hot caramel on top of everything and take it nicely, like the piggy pregnant pussy I am.
I walked home after dark, what typically takes 5 minutes. But combine a subtle waddle with a hill and overactive skunk intuition – if a leaf moved in a bush, I froze – and it was closer to a 15 minute ordeal. I have 10 weeks and 3 days left in this state. Meaning? Somebody’s gonna have to wheelbarrow me down to the fireworks in a few weeks.