(Nope. I'm still stumped for words. Gah! But I feel like the only thing that really cures writers block is to write so I should just give it a shot and apologize up front. Your refund check is in the mail.)
Katie and I went out to dinner with some fun folks (People of Chino and Surrounding Areas: Go to Honolulu Harry's on the north west side of the 60 on Central and order the sweet potato stacks. I'm telling you this because 1.) I love you and the Bluebird of Happiness will take up permanent residence in your heart after the first bite and 2.) it is always a little sparse in the restaurant and I'm terrified that they will close down and then where will I get my sweet potato stacks. I tried to recreate them once and it was moderately successful but not nearly as scrumptious. Save the Stacks! Where was I? Oh right.) and after dinner we could not resist the draw of Rite-Aid right across the street and a Thrify's ice cream cone. You try and resist. Admit it, you can't.
So we went in and were served by the Grumpiest Ice Cream Counter Girl on the Planet. She was so grumpy that we had to make up a story about why she was so grumpy just to help us get over how surly she was, and also what a bad ice cream scooper she was. The ice cream just sat on top of the cone - when everyone knows that you're suppose to shove it down into the cone so that the ice cream makes the cone just a little soggy and that final bite is super awesome because the ice cream has filled in the grid at the bottom.
I just got distracted from the thought of ice cream cones. Sorry. We decided that she was in the last hour of her 8 hour shift and she had cramps and everyone was being really wishy-washy with their ice cream orders, like "How about rainbow sherbet, or maybe black cherry, no rainbow sherbet. But I do really like vanilla. Do I want a cone or a cup? A cone. No a cup. No, a cone. But a cake or sugar cone? Maybe a waffle. Did I decide on rainbow sherbet?" And have you noticed that the people who most often can't make up their mind are usually struggling over the grossest flavors. Black cherry? Bleh. So by the time we got there she had had enough. She was done with people and done with ice cream and the cramps were killing her and she had to be back to work at 8 the next morning to do it all over again and the last thing she needed was some smart alecky girl acting all put out that there is no rocky road left. (Although, seriously, no rocky road?)
So by the time I got home I actually did feel a little sorry for her even though we had made the whole thing up. Working with cramps (imaginary or not) is a drag.