It's probably every day that a customer asks the question, "what does NSA stand for?"
This inquiry is a fair one, as the acronym "NSA" is added to the label of "Maple Walnut" and "Butterscotch Ripple" in the freezer on the far side. It seems that the ice cream company didn't consider the fact that NSA ceases to be a well-known acronym, and few people know what it really stands for: No Sugar Added.
The day was winding to a close when a friend of mine wandered into the shop with his iPhone and a few buddies. He slaved over his ordering decision for several minutes, humming and hawing over the soft serve, the hard ice cream, and the frozen yogurt. He made his way to the "NSA" section. I watched his face draw to confusion, and prepared myself to answer what I was sure his next question would be.
"NSA? What does that stand for?" he asked, before coming to his own conclusion, "No Strings Attached?"
If only No Strings Attached ice cream really did exist.
Sunday, 5 August 2012
Ice cream brings people together
I don't call myself a child psychologist, but I do know that something's wrong when a child thinks that he's a dog.
This particular family yielded a 3 year old child who came in on his hands and knees. He was jumping around on the floor, barking, while his parents ordered. Another woman, perhaps his aunt, stood off to the side with a look of exasperation.
His mother turned around to yell at him after every few words, with the words "Get up, you are not a dog!"
The aunt stepped forward to explain, "He's an only child with three pet dogs at home. He expects to be pet when we get home, and has trouble walking like a normal person."
I nodded with understanding, and continued with the order.
Little more than 10 minutes later, the family was sitting at a table in the corner of the shop.
Another family, made up of a thin British man, sitting with his wife and sister, was also entertaining a boy about the same age as dog-child. He threw his soother up to the ceiling and back again, and rubbed his grimy hands on the already dirty door.
Once he had grown tired of throwing his soother, he ran forward to the other end of the shop. His eyes settled on the boy about his same age, sitting on the chair alone. The boy had been yelled at for acting like a dog to such a degree that he was sitting quietly (like a human) with tears running down his cheeks. Seeing his distress, the second little boy approached with caution. With an adorable awkwardness, he placed his chubby arms around the shoulder vicinity of the dog child, and walked his body closer. They hugged for several seconds before the British man called his child back (as if he wanted both children to be dogs). The little boy ran toward his father, and the 5 of them leaving together.
I stood at the counter for a time after he was gone, coming to the simple conclusion that ice cream brings people together. It warms my heart.
This particular family yielded a 3 year old child who came in on his hands and knees. He was jumping around on the floor, barking, while his parents ordered. Another woman, perhaps his aunt, stood off to the side with a look of exasperation.
His mother turned around to yell at him after every few words, with the words "Get up, you are not a dog!"
The aunt stepped forward to explain, "He's an only child with three pet dogs at home. He expects to be pet when we get home, and has trouble walking like a normal person."
I nodded with understanding, and continued with the order.
Little more than 10 minutes later, the family was sitting at a table in the corner of the shop.
Another family, made up of a thin British man, sitting with his wife and sister, was also entertaining a boy about the same age as dog-child. He threw his soother up to the ceiling and back again, and rubbed his grimy hands on the already dirty door.
Once he had grown tired of throwing his soother, he ran forward to the other end of the shop. His eyes settled on the boy about his same age, sitting on the chair alone. The boy had been yelled at for acting like a dog to such a degree that he was sitting quietly (like a human) with tears running down his cheeks. Seeing his distress, the second little boy approached with caution. With an adorable awkwardness, he placed his chubby arms around the shoulder vicinity of the dog child, and walked his body closer. They hugged for several seconds before the British man called his child back (as if he wanted both children to be dogs). The little boy ran toward his father, and the 5 of them leaving together.
I stood at the counter for a time after he was gone, coming to the simple conclusion that ice cream brings people together. It warms my heart.
Blue slushie bliss
In my opinion, slushies are the most reasonably priced items on the menu. Surprisingly, however, it isn't often that they're ordered.
Because of this, I found it curious when a young mother and an excited 6 year old girl each ordered a medium blueberry slushie.The girl pulled at her mother's skirt while panting with thirst. "Slushie, slushie, slushie!" she yelled, jumping up and down from the cluster of customers she was enclosed in.
"The sizes are pretty big," I cautioned, eying the apparently rabid child.
"That's fine," the mother insisted, "we have a long drive ahead of us."
I nodded and went to make the delightfully blue slushies. I positioned them both on the counter, and set up the debit machine for the mother to pay. Her daughter took this opportunity to laugh like an extremist and run up and down the freezers with her hair flying behind her.
I watched the mother leave with great pity, as she handed the blue slushie to her daughter.
As if that kid needed more sugar.
"Have a great drive!" I called after them
(Yeah, right)
Because of this, I found it curious when a young mother and an excited 6 year old girl each ordered a medium blueberry slushie.The girl pulled at her mother's skirt while panting with thirst. "Slushie, slushie, slushie!" she yelled, jumping up and down from the cluster of customers she was enclosed in.
"The sizes are pretty big," I cautioned, eying the apparently rabid child.
"That's fine," the mother insisted, "we have a long drive ahead of us."
I nodded and went to make the delightfully blue slushies. I positioned them both on the counter, and set up the debit machine for the mother to pay. Her daughter took this opportunity to laugh like an extremist and run up and down the freezers with her hair flying behind her.
I watched the mother leave with great pity, as she handed the blue slushie to her daughter.
As if that kid needed more sugar.
"Have a great drive!" I called after them
(Yeah, right)
Garbage Tales: Sequel #2
As soon as I got the job at the ice cream parlour, my manager let me know that I needed closed toes, non-slip shoes to work. That same week, I went to the local shoe store and bought a swanky (except not really) pair of black shoes that were simple and comfortable.
I wore them for the first season.
When the second season came, things changed. It seemed like the weather got hotter and more humid, while my feet became more rebellious. And thus, Adidas athletic flip flops became my footwear of choice for this summer.
Usually, this is fine. I keep a firm grip on the floor and my toes get to breathe during my shift. I simply did not think through the consequences when my manager asked me to empty the garbage that was residing outside.
I flipped open the lid and figured it wouldn't be that bad. It was only half full, and there was no overpowering smell of vomit. So far so good. Still disgusted, however, I heaved it out of its shell and lined the bin with another bag.
Like usual, I slung the whole thing over my shoulder. It was then that I began my journey towards the master garbage out behind the shop.
I dragged my feet in the ridiculously warm weather, but made it to the back in due time. I threw the bag off from my back, and wound up to throw it the meter up into the bin. I brought the bag from behind and swung my arm up, building momentum. It landed in the bin with a thud, and formed around the other bags of garbage.
All this was well and good, until I paid due attention to the sudden wetness I felt on my foot. I looked down to see multicoloured sludge swimming around the top of my foot and finding its way in between my toes.
Without a second of hesitation, I removed my shoe and hopped on one foot to the back door of the shop. I flung my shoe in the sink (which was empty) and continued on into the main part of the shop. Jenn stood beside the cash register, staring at me with the face of scorn that I have become used to.
"I need to wash my foot," I explained, indicating the garbage juice still trickling on my skin.
"Well you're not going to do it in front of the customer," she reasoned, and handed me a paper towel. "Do it in the back."
I nodded, greatful for her discernment. Before I disappeared into the back room, she handed me another bottle: hand sanitizer.
I smeared it all over my toes and soaked my shoe in hot water.
Sometimes us ice cream girls are cleaning ice cream from our elbows, and other times we're cleaning garbage juice from our toes. It really just depends on the day.
I wore them for the first season.
When the second season came, things changed. It seemed like the weather got hotter and more humid, while my feet became more rebellious. And thus, Adidas athletic flip flops became my footwear of choice for this summer.
Usually, this is fine. I keep a firm grip on the floor and my toes get to breathe during my shift. I simply did not think through the consequences when my manager asked me to empty the garbage that was residing outside.
I flipped open the lid and figured it wouldn't be that bad. It was only half full, and there was no overpowering smell of vomit. So far so good. Still disgusted, however, I heaved it out of its shell and lined the bin with another bag.
Like usual, I slung the whole thing over my shoulder. It was then that I began my journey towards the master garbage out behind the shop.
I dragged my feet in the ridiculously warm weather, but made it to the back in due time. I threw the bag off from my back, and wound up to throw it the meter up into the bin. I brought the bag from behind and swung my arm up, building momentum. It landed in the bin with a thud, and formed around the other bags of garbage.
All this was well and good, until I paid due attention to the sudden wetness I felt on my foot. I looked down to see multicoloured sludge swimming around the top of my foot and finding its way in between my toes.
Without a second of hesitation, I removed my shoe and hopped on one foot to the back door of the shop. I flung my shoe in the sink (which was empty) and continued on into the main part of the shop. Jenn stood beside the cash register, staring at me with the face of scorn that I have become used to.
"I need to wash my foot," I explained, indicating the garbage juice still trickling on my skin.
"Well you're not going to do it in front of the customer," she reasoned, and handed me a paper towel. "Do it in the back."
I nodded, greatful for her discernment. Before I disappeared into the back room, she handed me another bottle: hand sanitizer.
I smeared it all over my toes and soaked my shoe in hot water.
Sometimes us ice cream girls are cleaning ice cream from our elbows, and other times we're cleaning garbage juice from our toes. It really just depends on the day.
Manly men with larges
"I'll have a large."
This is a sentence I hear on very rare occasions. Often, (as in this instance) it is said to me by men who've never experienced how extreme our sizes can be. This particular customer was leaning on the freezer like he owned the place. He looked like he was in his mid 30's, with a greasy hairdo and ripped jeans.
"Have you ever been here before, sir?" I asked, "Because, just to let you know, our larges are pretty huge."
"No, but, it'll be fine, I can handle it. Gimme Moose Tracks and High Roller," he ordered, "in a bowl."
I rolled my eyes, already predicting how this was going to go. Still, I harnessed my scoop and started going.
"That looks good right there," he told me after a few scoops in the right direction.
"Are you sure?" I asked him.
"Yea, yea, close enough," he said.
I nodded obediently and rang him up for the small.
Manly men aren't so manly.
This is a sentence I hear on very rare occasions. Often, (as in this instance) it is said to me by men who've never experienced how extreme our sizes can be. This particular customer was leaning on the freezer like he owned the place. He looked like he was in his mid 30's, with a greasy hairdo and ripped jeans.
"Have you ever been here before, sir?" I asked, "Because, just to let you know, our larges are pretty huge."
"No, but, it'll be fine, I can handle it. Gimme Moose Tracks and High Roller," he ordered, "in a bowl."
I rolled my eyes, already predicting how this was going to go. Still, I harnessed my scoop and started going.
"That looks good right there," he told me after a few scoops in the right direction.
"Are you sure?" I asked him.
"Yea, yea, close enough," he said.
I nodded obediently and rang him up for the small.
Manly men aren't so manly.
Withholdance of ice cream
One of the problems with buying ice cream is paying for it at the end. I see it most often with elderly couples; the man is recruited to be the one who does the task of coming into the store to get the cones while the wife waits in the car. Awkwardness ensues when the customer doesn't have enough hands to hold both cones as well as handle the debit machine/cash.
You'd think that this seems like a simple problem to solve. Many customers have taken the initiative and made a move to pay for the cones before they're scooped, but that's when we run into other problems. Because of the sheer monstrosity of the cones I make, I've often only scooped a size below what the customer paid for when they shout for me to stop. Now, as an ice cream girl, I don't want to cheat people out of their money; but then, they're paying for more ice cream than they're getting!
I encountered this paradoxical problem last week when a confused old man stumbled into the store. He ordered 2 kids' cones: one Maple Walnut, and the other Butter Pecan (typical to his demographic). When I handed them to him and went to pay, he immediately began fumbling his things this way and that, trying to get his cash at the same time as accepting the cones.
"I'll just hold one for you," I offered.
He gratefully accepted the second cone, and continued to search through his wallet. Finally, he scooped a collection of change onto the counter.
I counted it out, and pushed several unnecessary coins back towards him. I then calculated his change and added it the pile. He scooped both of them back into his wallet.
"Have a great day!" I said to him.
He nodded, but continued to stand at the register. He looked anxious.
"I already gave you your change," I clarified politely, wondering if he had forgotten.
He shook his head, still waiting for me to catch on.
"The cone," he said finally.
In an awkward realization, I turned to look at my hand and noticed that I was in fact still holding his Butter Pecan cone.
Most of my shifts, I devour as much ice cream as I please, but the odd time comes when I need to also withhold it from customers.
I think I have a problem.
You'd think that this seems like a simple problem to solve. Many customers have taken the initiative and made a move to pay for the cones before they're scooped, but that's when we run into other problems. Because of the sheer monstrosity of the cones I make, I've often only scooped a size below what the customer paid for when they shout for me to stop. Now, as an ice cream girl, I don't want to cheat people out of their money; but then, they're paying for more ice cream than they're getting!
I encountered this paradoxical problem last week when a confused old man stumbled into the store. He ordered 2 kids' cones: one Maple Walnut, and the other Butter Pecan (typical to his demographic). When I handed them to him and went to pay, he immediately began fumbling his things this way and that, trying to get his cash at the same time as accepting the cones.
"I'll just hold one for you," I offered.
He gratefully accepted the second cone, and continued to search through his wallet. Finally, he scooped a collection of change onto the counter.
I counted it out, and pushed several unnecessary coins back towards him. I then calculated his change and added it the pile. He scooped both of them back into his wallet.
"Have a great day!" I said to him.
He nodded, but continued to stand at the register. He looked anxious.
"I already gave you your change," I clarified politely, wondering if he had forgotten.
He shook his head, still waiting for me to catch on.
"The cone," he said finally.
In an awkward realization, I turned to look at my hand and noticed that I was in fact still holding his Butter Pecan cone.
Most of my shifts, I devour as much ice cream as I please, but the odd time comes when I need to also withhold it from customers.
I think I have a problem.
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