All summer long, I was tortured by the tinkling notes of the Mister Softee jingle. The truck would creep up and down the streets of my little neighborhood, and despite the $8 in my sweaty little hand, would never make it to my particular street.
But then it did. "Deedle-dee-dee, dee-dee-dee-dee, dee dee dee Mister Softee," and I went racing down the driveway, sandals askew, to wave down a hot and stinky truck. It was late August, hot and humid, and the sprinkles on my husband's sundae melted into my hands and shirt before I reached the pool. Still, it was wicked, joyful, and sweet.
Every few days, I ran to greet the truck, quickly switching from ice cream to milkshakes, which keep better, and are especially yummy if you ask the driver to mix in a real banana (as opposed to processed banana flavoring).
Eventually, though, I tired of spending $8/day on stuff that was only making my blood sugar go up. And so I put my hands over my ears, or busied myself chopping garlic when the truck sauntered by, even pausing at the end of my driveway several days. "Once a week," I vowed.
So it was double torture when Mister Softee decided to step it up. Not only did he come by between 3 and 4 each afternoon, he began doubling back at NIGHT! Not 7:30 or 8, but at 9:30, when all good children should be sound asleep in the their beds, and not wandering the streets in search of soft serve. And lately, he has been bumbling down the street, deedly-deeing away, after 10 o'clock.
Methinks Mister Softee needs Mister Sominex.