Written July 3, 2025
Hello Dear Readers,
I checked off my mowing duty for the week today—grass trimmed, box checked, sweat earned. But let’s be honest, the real pressure wasn’t the lawn; it was the last-minute ice cream run we had to squeeze in before this weekend’s Independence Day and birthday bash. You see, dessert got demoted during our weekend grocery trip, and suddenly I was the self-appointed Ice Cream Procurement Officer by Tuesday.
Why ice cream? Well, some guests can’t do gluten, and let’s face it—ice cream is the great equalizer. Plus, it’s about 9,000 degrees outside. Nothing says “family fun” like small children hopped up on sugar and brain freezes.
Now, my wife is neck-deep in quarter-month-end chaos (corporate accounting is no joke), and also juggling a SOX audit and budget prep. Basically, she’s one spreadsheet short of an office meltdown. That meant we had a tight window—lunch break on Wednesday—when she’d be working from home and could spare 30 golden minutes for an ice cream heist.
Usually, we do our grocery pilgrimage once a week on Saturday. My wife plans our meals, inventories the fridge like a food-loving Sherlock Holmes, and ensures we use up every last vegetable before it turns into a science experiment. By Friday, our fridge is emptier than my willpower near a donut display—but just enough food remains to survive. Saturday’s meal is a fridge cleanout special. Sunday? That’s sacred. That’s pizza day.
This week, though, I forgot dessert. The shame.
So, I set an alarm to give myself time to finish mowing, shower, and become presentable before the big dairy dash. Miraculously, I wrapped up the lawn 15 minutes before the alarm went off—leaving me enough time to transform from Yard Sasquatch to Grocery Gentleman.
We made our move: three pints of ice cream secured, plus a few extra goodies. Since my doctor recently suggested “fruit and yogurt instead of ice cream” (buzzkill alert), I added a cantaloupe to the cart for midweek snacking. My wife grabbed chips and salsa—her version of self-care between back-to-back meetings.
We were in and out of the store in under 30 minutes, just like pros. My wife even managed to nibble something, though she insists on light lunches to keep her brain operating at ninja levels. Then she vanished back into her audit-and-budget battlefield, while I stood victorious—with one cantaloupe and three flavors of celebration.