Victory, and Ice Cream, Will Be Mine

Blogging is a lot like raising kids - I only have experience in the former, but I hear a lot of parents of tiny humans remark that 'time flies', or 'I blinked and it was 6 months later'. Every year, I resolve to blog more, and every year, I do. Until about May. Something happens in May that either makes the year go by at lightning speed, or I just get lazy. Could go either way. And every December, I look back at my posts and think to myself that I should have taken more time to write. Not only are my fans (and by 'fans', I mean 'fan'. Actually, I mean 'mom'. You say to-ma-to, I say to-mah-to) left wandering what happened to my witty, charming tales from my exciting life, but I'm also cranky. Not writing turns me into a sad shell of a blogger. Nobody wants to read the blog of a sad shell.

So this year is going to be different. No - not like when I said the last three years were going to be different - different different. My biggest downfall to not posting those lively stories is not that they don't happen, trust me, they happen. The same amount of hilarious, embarrassing, self-sacrificing things happen to me every year. The difference, for me, comes down to one measly excuse: a journal.

 

If I have a journal and I commit to writing entries into it, I have a tangible record of my many life mishaps that make for such great blogging material. If I don't have that hard copy look into my past days and weeks, they all kind of run together and things I thought I'd never forget somehow manage to file themselves in that tiny back corner of my brain that I can't seem to access except in fleeting moments. So in this way, you see, blogging is exactly like raising a tiny human. Still not an announcement, for the record.

Ryan, being the encourager to my life that he is, took me out a few days ago to pick a brand new journal and a set of asininely priced fine tip multi-color gel pens (Few things in life make me happier than high quality office supplies. It's a problem.) to use for just this occasion. Part of me thinks him buying me a journal and fancy pens is just part of his romantic nature, and the other part of me thinks he may have done so in an attempt to keep the sad shell of a wife he ends up having from turning him into an equally sad shell of a husband. Encourager or afraid of being a sad shell, either way, I have a journal and pretty pens so I'm pretty happy about the situation.

 

One day into a brand new year, I realized that I already have a harrowing tale to share with you. This, too, almost turned me into a sad shell of a person. This is why I almost had to boycott 2015:

It was a quiet evening on a cold winter day. Our niece Morgan was spending the night - partly to help usher in the new year, and partly to help keep me awake to usher in the new year. Something in my being refuses to allow myself to go to bed first when we have company, even if it is family, but I sadly have no problem leaving Ryan behind for the open arms of our bed. Anyway, it was 8:30pm on New Year's Eve, and Morgan and I had a hankering for some ice cream.

We first ventured to Culver's (technically it's frozen custard, not ice cream, but I honestly like it better. Please don't tell Ryan - the 'd' word has only been said twice in our marriage; once when I admitted my affection for frozen custard over ice cream, and once when I thought Kareem Abdul Jabbar was a swimming coach.), only to be greeted by a dark building. My faith in the integrity of this holiday wavering, but intact, we headed to the FIRST Dairy Queen.

Once again, we were met with the disappointment of a dark building with no blizzards to be had. Not one to give up easily, I thought we'd try a different DQ - after all, they couldn't both be closed, could they?? After making the 10 minute trek, we approached a small incline in the hill, our anticipation growing with every inch our car moved. Closer, closer, closer, hoping, hoping, hoping. And then, there it was - a beacon in the dark...the fully lit Dairy Queen sign. I don't often partake in religious signs, but I swear to baby Jesus, I heard angels sing.

We continued closer to the figurative lifeboat in a desolate world without ice cream, only to see that they had forgot to turn the sign off. The wind was out of our sails quicker than the time it would have taken to TURN THE SIGN OFF WHEN THE EMPLOYEES WERE LEAVING! I mean, really, I don't mean to blow this out of proportion, but do you think we can all agree that if our business will be closed for the evening, we can make it a general rule to turn the sign off? This was nearly as deflating as the time I called Pizza Hut to order dinner the night before Thanksgiving, and they told me that they were out of pizza. Let that sink in. Pizza Hut was out of pizza on the busiest pizza night of the year.

This sad story does have a somewhat happy ending, though. Like the best friend you can call at 3am  1am, Wendy's had their light on and had employees there to serve us! That Dave Thomas obviously knew basic business principals - if you have your light on advertising ice cream, you should be there to serve the ice cream that your sign is promising!

So journal in hand, fancy pens locked up tighter than Fort Knox, and a delicious Frosty in my belly, I have two words for you, 2015: bring it.