David called from work today to remind me he had an early-afternoon appointment to have a tooth crowned.
I expressed sympathy and headed for HEB for ice cream. Two gallons—Dutch chocolate and coffee—plus a bottle of chocolate sundae sauce.
Some people, aka spoilsports, wet blankets, and killjoys, might call that excessive.
I call it caring, compassion, the willingness of a wife to share her husband’s pain.
To demonstrate that the quality of mercy is not strained, I bought Blue Bell, made at the Little Creamery in Brenham. (“Blue Bell ice cream tastes so good because the cows think Brenham is heaven.”)
Well. You can imagine my pain when David came home and said the dentist had done absolutely nothing. They couldn’t decide which tooth needed treatment. Might be this one, might be that one. Didn’t want to crown the wrong tooth. Best to wait and see.
“But I bought ice cream for dinner,” I said.
I thought he would say, “That’s okay. We’ll eat it anyway.” Anyone who’s seen David eat ice cream would have anticipated that response.
What he said was, “Well, I’ll go back to the dentist eventually.”
At that, the milk of human kindness I’d been sloshing around in all day sort of evaporated. There was no Plan B menu. And my mouth was all set for Blue Bell.
So I ate some. Coffee. With ribbons of chocolate sauce swirled on top.
Now I’m drunk, torn between reeling up the stairs to bed and reeling back into the kitchen for one more bowl.
I don’t know when David will go back for his crown.
It would be a shame to let such lovely ice cream just sit in the freezer and go bad.
NaNoWriMo begins tomorrow. That’s my goal for the next four weeks. I will take a shot at writing 50,000 words by midnight on November 30. I’m sure I can write 50,000 words in a month. I’m not sure they will turn out to be a novel, or a near novel, or that they’ll even make sense. But there are worse things to do in November. And there’s plenty of ice cream here in case I need comfort along the way.