The Great Strawberry Popsicle Struggle of 2011
|That would be MY popsicle he’s holding/nibbling at the 2009 Reno Air Races.|
I’m not a trained wrestler, lord knows, but I’d like to think I put up a good fight that night a couple weeks ago. Although he was in a tight defensive position, I had him cornered, pinned to the ground, almost ready to tap* out… I just wanted a BITE.
Let me back up and say that Mr. T doesn’t care much for sweets. Most sugary goodness brought into our home finds its way there courtesy of yours truly. This is not to say that he won’t eat treats if I make them available, but I’m often the one “forced” to finish leftover pie, compelled to eat the ice cream before it “goes bad” and to take care of the Girl Scout cookies so they don’t get stale. (It’s a tough job but someone’s got to do it.) So it comes as something of a surprise that the man is a strawberry popsicle stealer.
The disorder first emerged in 2009 during a particularly warm day at the Reno Air Races. We were wandering the pits, like you do, taking photos and watching the show overhead when the afternoon snack attack hit. T hoovered his Dreyer’s strawberry fruit bar and then started making eyes at mine. I should have known better when he insinuated I wasn’t take enough photos (I take thousands!) and offered to hold my popsicle. The conversation was as follows:
T: “Hey, don’t you want to take pictures? I’ll hold your stuff.” Bite.
T: “Hey, you didn’t get a picture of Voodoo.” Bite.
T: “Hey, aren’t you going to snap the Blue Angels?” Bite.
I wrenched the fruit bar back before it was gone, but little did I know the long-term passion these popsicles would produce.
Fast forward to May 2011. Having just moved home, I’m getting back into my Betty Crocker groove, working on a scrumptious dinner in the kitchen when T snags the last strawberry popsicle out of the Costco 2-zillion pack. (Why they only include six of the best flavor is beyond me!)
“Can I have a bite please?”
He looks at me and takes a bite, walking down the hallway.
“Please?” I ask, following quickly.
“Please?!” (Desperation mounting.)
“Pleeeaassseeeeuh?” (Small foot stamp.)
“COME ON!” (Mondo indignation.)
The sequence has gone on for a few minutes and by this time, we’re on the floor where he has been hooking up my computer and fiddling with cords and wires (thank you dear!). He’s on all fours and I am pretty much pinned to his back, desperately trying to reach out for one, little, solitary bite.
In the end, he did finally share with me (apparently he wanted to eat dinner that night) and now I can’t see a Dreyer’s logo without laughing.
Apparently love is stealing and sharing popsicles.
* Okay, not really
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