A sad day in the cone dip

I’ve hated the cone dip since my first day of training when I dropped 3 consecutive cones into the fudgey substance and had to fish them out with a spoon. Truth be told, no one really is very food at the cone dip at all. The ice cream sliding off the fragile cone seems only inevitable when you’re inserting it upside into a hot vat of thick chocolate (whose idea was this in the beginning, anyway?). Imagine my excitement when I returned to the shop for second season of work to find that our cone dip was again in its state of dysfuntion, ready to go.

As luck would have it, during the busiest time of the night, 7 sorority ladies arrived in their mini-vans and marched up to the counter requesting, (yes, you know it) 7 cone dips. I bit my lip and stopped my eyes from rolling as I reached for an empty cone and began constructing an ice cream that I knew would soon meet its death. While clenching every possible part of my body, I turned it completely upside down and stuck it in the dip. Now, with even more tension, I pulled it out and set it up. It was still standing! I raised my eyebrows in surprising. Was it possible that our cone dip had been improved over the year? Am I just that much more coordinated? Either way, I handed the successful cone to the first lady at the front and went to do the second. Again, my attempt was a success. 

Where the folly lay was in the 3^rd cone. As I went to pull it out, the ice cream slipped p

eacefully from its cradle to join the vat of chocolate. Typical. I grabbed the nearest ladle and prodded at the quickly melting substance before it was too late. i slapped it down in a bowl amidst the roaring laughter happening behind me. Ah, the cone dip.

It’s a sad day when sorority ladies laugh at you in an ice cream shop. A sad day, I tell you.

The outdoor garbage can

As soon as I showed up for my shift and tightened my apron around my waist in preparation, I knew something wasn’t right. The place was deserted and my manager was loosely wiping the counter with a cloth, a lemon-lime slushie in his other hand. It was too quiet.

“Looks like it’s time to empty the garbage can!”  he announced, looking at the clock as if we had a specific time to do this, “Could you do the one outside?”

In favour of keeping my job, I let my grimace slip past my face and instead shimmy to my knees which I locked together. The garbage can outside of an ice cream shop was never pretty.

Abandoning all optimism, I donned 3 pairs of disposable plastic gloves (and listened quietly for the sound of the environment crying) and found a new bag. I then made my way outdoors, coming closer to the subject with every dragging step.

I tried to avert my eyes as I flipped open the top of the humongous can. Lucky for me, the sight was not the problem. The smell reached my unsuspecting nose before the lid hit the pavement. I doubled over in shock, clutching my nose, willing it not to inhale. That was when I made the decision to be a woman.

I ran several metres into the parking lot, away from the can and inhaled deeply. Then, holding my breath, I jogged back to it and dragged it by its top to the pavement at the back of the shop. Glad it was almost over, I heaved the overflowing bag from the can, avoiding dropping the half-finished containers of ice cream and empty pop cans. That’s when the worst of the issue was presented.

Green, chunky water filled 1/3 of the can, housing morsels of floating garbage. I scrunched my face in disgust at the rotten ice cream stuck to the sides and the paper that was so affected by the rain water it was floating in; it had turned to green-tinged mulch. It smelled worse than it looked.

Thinking quickly, I flipped the garbage can upside down and let the floating garbage and rancid liquid out onto the pavement. I grabbed another bag and picked up the soggy, rotting garbage from its liquid, still holding my nose. I held it at arms’ reach, then grabbed the second bag (which was quite a feat, let me tell you) and dragged them to the dumpster several metres away.

With a grunt of determination, the bags were projected into the dumpster and were never seen again. Fortunately, I had a souvenir to remember them by as the liquid had managed to wipe itself on my pants. I will not lie to you, I screamed at that moment and ran to the bathroom to rub it off my person before the smell drove me to exile.

I don’t know what it means to ‘be a woman,’ but if wearing rancid, rotten garbage liquid is a requirement, I think I’ll just stay a girl (as long as she’s one that scoops ice cream).

Simultaneous substances

The shop was the busiest I’d ever seen it. The wonderfully warm Saturday night was drawing to a close and it seemed that half the town had developed a want for ice cream. Bananas, strawberry sauce, hot fudge and smarties were strewn about the counter and a container of spoons I’d dropped the hour before lingered on the floor. I was on an ice-cream-scooping roll. I handled customer after customer until I arrived at two of interest.

They both had long black hair cut the same way, with side bangs and a shag at the bottom. They were dressed in shorts that left little to the imagination and denim vests that seemed to compress their entire abdomens. I wondered if they were twins. Both of them seemed to be exhibiting curious characteristics, however. Their eyes were rimmed in red and they slumped over each other with laziness. To my annoyance, they approached the counter slowly. Clearly lethargic and clearly high. My coworker grabbed another group of customers, but several still hovered behind. I saw that this was going to be a lengthy transaction.

“What can I get you?” I asked, the usual question.

“We’ll get a large hot fudge sundae with everything on it,” the first one ordered.

“With everything on it?”

“Definitely,” the second confirmed.

With that, I turned my back to them and began the creation. I grabbed a large banana boat and swung it under the soft serve machine. With great delight, I made 3 swirlies of vanilla with tops that ascended to the sky, but then drooped back towards the bottom. Next, I located the whipped cream, nuts and a cherry to decorate with. First and most importantly, I dumped a mother load of hot fudge and watched with delight as it softened the ice cream. I then sprinkled the ground with nuts. My favourite part was doing the whipped cream. I let the nozzle trace the base of the ice cream swirls, then added another topping to the peaks of each mountain. Then I let the cherry fall. 

I set the sundae down on the counter and searched for the corresponding button on the register. I was about to recite the total when my thoughts became interrupted by their exclamations.

“Wow,” the first said, stretching our her syllables, “I’ve never seen such a beautiful sundae.”

Not wanting to burst their figurative bubbles, I stood by and let them muse over my artistry. After all, it was flattering. “There’s so much whipped cream!” the second cried. She grabbed a spoon from the counter and let it frolic in the substance.

The first continued to stare, murmuring “wooooah” at a constant rate.

After paying, I watched them take a table at the front of the shop and devour their dessert. 

It seems that some of our customers enjoy the ice cream. Others enjoy it simultaneously with other substances.

The other side of the counter

No matter how full my own freezer is of ice cream cartons, I still seem to find room in my stomach to crave the ice cream from my place of work. Consequently, I find guiltily myself on the other side of the counter whenever the craving becomes unquenchable. 

I’d been planning it all weekend. Sheepishly, I ordered a small with half spiderman (it seems ever since that child dropped his spiderman ice cream on the carpet, I’ve had sympathy for the flavour) and half vanilla from my coworker at the shop. She smirked and grabbed the scoop, constructing a cone with as much finesse as I would have hoped. 

Outside, my family and I grabbed a bench to enjoy the day and ice cream. Little did I consider, the day was hot enough to warrant a sleepy atmosphere around the town. We were the only ones outside. I appreciated the privacy as it allowed me to shamelessly enjoy my cone, licking it into shapes of beauty. My favourite design involved making the top of the cone twisted and pointed to the sky. In time, I managed to blend together the vanilla and the spiderman to create a lovely purple. 

Before I was able to put much thought into the design of the cone, however, I realized how much I must speed up the process. Before my eyes and under my tongue, it was being liquefied, threatening to spill over the bottom. Panicked, I grabbed at the drops of melted ice cream to prevent them meeting my khaki pants. In the last moments of desperation, I leaned into the picnic table and watched, horrified as the cone met its doom and a stream of melted ice flowed down my fingers and to the table.

I’m not usually a messy eater and so did not see the need to kill trees and take napkins from the counter inside. Due to this error in judgement, I could only stare at the blob of purple on the table. The cone in my hand continued to melt and I continued to fret. 

The customers I’d always sigh and roll my eyes at when I was forced to clean up their sticky, dried messes appeared to be a lot like myself. There is nothing to prevent the cold quality of an ice cream cone from the threatening heat of a May long weekend. I stand corrected and must proclaim my apologies. I guess the ice cream is always more manageable from the other side of the counter.

All for the oreos

Early on in the shift, it was clear that we weren’t going to be busy. The clouds hung low, casting a dreary atmosphere on the asphalt outside. I dragged my feet into work and was almost immediately sent out again.

“There’s a sale at Walmart!” my manager cried in excitement. “Cookies are 4$!”

Despite his up-front enthusiasm, I sighed and accepted his hastily written list of supplies.

-4 oreos

4 golden oreos

-4 fudgeeos

-4 value packs of smarties

-4 value packs of reese’s pieces

-a bag of milk

-a bunch of bananas

I hoisted the makeshift fabric grocery bag from the wall and kicked open the back door.

The cookies were all stacked up at the entrance of the department store. Wary, I grabbed a grocery cart from the front and started counting out the stacks of cookies. I shifted my coat to hide my uniform. It was a lot more entertaining to pretend they were all for me. 

Once I’d carted around the store to find the rest of the goods, I rounded to the register. While waiting, I arranged the cookies in a more aesthetic manner. After all, I was being paid to do something. 

I approached the register and piled on the merchandise. My hand reached into my pocket to grasp the bills I’d taken from my manager. I watched the numbers on the display transform as the stock was scanning through. As I saw the figures skim across the register, I realized how light my pile of cash happened to be: $60. I held my breath for the total. $78.21. I didn’t have enough. 

I drew in my breath, realizing how classy it was to be buying $78 worth of candy that I didn’t have the cash to pay for. I made a deal with the cashier. 

Determined, I tightened up my visor and ran full tilt back to my place of employment. On the way, through my huffing and puffing, I made a call to my manager at the store. “I need more money. Have it ready.”

He handed me the bills with a chuckle and an apologetic smile. Immediately, I turned around and fled once more. Again at Walmart, I found my way back to the cashier storing the stuff and shoved her the extra bills.

I was then presented with the next dilemma. I had 5 bags of candy and 2 arms to carry it. There was only one way to do it: like a boss. Silent with determination, I loaded the bags on my forearms and arched my back forward. Like that, I ran with posture similar to an ostrich all the way back to the store. With reddened arms and aching fingers, I dumped it on the counter.

Anything is possible when there are Oreos involved.