The Ice Cream Scooper of the Gods

So, after the fiasco with my car, I decided I needed ice cream.  I grabbed Stephanie and hauled her over to Cold Stone, where I met... gasp... him. 

Oh.  My.  Goodness.  He was amazing.  He was incredible.  With a hint of stubble on his cheeks and beautiful eyes, he was the ice cream scooper of the angels.

I searched my brain, pleading with my mind to come up with something deep, something that would spark his interest the way his face... scratchy like the hooky side of velcro... and shadowed as though 5:00 had chosen him to be their "time to get off work now" poster boy... and his eyes... oh his eyes... and his perfectly straight nose... and his slightly-rounded-enough-to-be-soft-but-still-squarish-enough-to-be-manly facial structure... had sparked mine.

I opened my mouth, and out came the most profound thing my highly-distracted brain could think of.  "Do you have anything cherry-cordial?... ish?"

And then I saw he was an artist!  Of ice cream!  Oh heaven!  They had no cherry cordial, but he advised me on my choices, putting together a mix of sweet cream, cherry pie filling and brownies!  Then he mixed it, watching his hands work with intensity burning in his eyes... okay, maybe not burning.  He was actually looking at me since I was babbling exceptionally gracefully about why I needed ice cream in my life, and he looked mildly amused more than anything.

I paid for my ice cream and tipped him.

Then Stephanie and I sat down to eat our ice cream, and I stared longingly at Mr. Scooper.  I confided in Stephanie the lusty words of a photographer.  "My camera wants him... it wants him badly."

Which, as everyone knows, is photographer code for, "Holy fire extinguisher, Batman, he's smokin'!"

And that was dork code for, "EEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE!!!!!!"

And that was fangirl code for, "Not that anyone cares.  I think I'll go bleed on another piece of poetry."

And that was emo code for, "OMG HES SOOOOOO HOTT!!!!1!!!!111!!!!"

And that was Barbie-wannabe code for, "This is why I'm hot.  This is why I'm hot.  This is why-This is why-This is why I'm hot.  This is why I'm flyyyyyy.  You ain't cause you not.  This is why-This is why-This is why I'm hot.  Oops.  I mean you."

And that was narcissist code for, "Why, I do say.  That fellow is quite smashingly handsome."

And that was pinky-up-the-butt snooty code for, "Hey... he said he gets off in 2 hours.  And he rode his bike.  I wonder if he'd notice if I waited behind the dumpster out there, then drove slowly behind him with my headlights off to find out where he lives."

And that's seriously-freaky-creeper code for, "I just wish I could stare at his eyes for another hour at least."

Which was, ultimately, what I was trying to say.

So, after a bit of conversation, most of which I spent trying to get a glimpse behind the ice cream counter, Stephanie finally said, "Alright, if you don't give him your number, I'm going to." 

Now, I don't just give out my number.  I'm not that gutsy!  I'll try to get guys to ask for my number, which I will then give out happily, but I've only ever left my number for a guy once, and that was with a 90% money-back guarantee that he wasn't even going to realize I wrote it on the Macaroni Grill table cloth... er, table paper.  Whatever they call their doodle-cloth.

So, I hemmed and hawed, trying to figure out how to do it.  I didn't have any real paper, so I wrote my number on the back of a TM Publishing business card, and waited for an opening in the sudden swarm of customers that needed ice cream.  Stephanie poked around what was left of her dessert while I waited, watching the crowd slowly clear.

Then it came... an opening.

And, of course, my stomach would turn itself inside out, flip around a few times, and then clamp onto my esophagus, terrified I was actually going to do it.

Well, eat that, suddenly-freaking-out stomach.  I did it.

I walked up to him and said, "Hey, I never did get your name," (because I was too busy staring at your face to look for your name tag).  He held up his name tag.  It said "Jordan."

"My name is Braiden."

"Braiden?"

"Yeah, I'm not Jordan.  That's someone else."

Leave it to Cold Stone ice cream scoopers to switch identities.

I smiled sweetly.  "Hi, Braiden.  I'm Savannah.  It was nice to meet you."  I handed him the card, then, as if he couldn't tell, "And that's my phone number."

And then I turned around a high-tailed it out of there.

And that was my brilliant, life altering pick-up line.  "I'm Savannah and that's my phone number."

I may need more ice cream soon.

Saddles don't need parking brakes.

My car broke.  I went to get it inspected ($25) so I could pay taxes on it ($109), and it failed.  Why?  Cracked windshield and broken parking brake.  So I got a new windshield.  $150.  I went to get my parking brake adjusted.  $20... oh wait.  It's not a simple adjustment.  The cables are completely rusted out.  Those parts are dealer only.  Make that $170.  While I was picking up the parts (I saved quite a bit of time by getting them myself) my driver's side turn signal went out.

Thanks, car.  Just spit in my face, why don't you?

Oh, and my shoe broke.  The sole completely came off.

Nevermind, car.  Sorry, I blamed you.  Thanks, FORCES OF THE FREAKING UNIVERSE!!!!

I tried to fix the turn signal myself, but I couldn't figure out how to get the battery out of the way without breaking something.  So, today when I went to get the parts installed that I picked up Saturday, I asked them to replace the turn signal.  They were nice and did it for free.

Oh, but only one of the cables can be replaced.  The caliper on the rear passenger side is broken.  That needs to be replaced.  Another $100ish.  No time to do that today, which means I'm going to have to go down to the DMV tomorrow and buy an extension since my license plate expires today ($6... assuming they don't slap a fine on my butt for driving with expired plates first).

As I was driving away, one of the guys from the shop next to the mechanic's shop stopped me.  "Hey hey!" he yelled, waving his hands.  "Stop!"

I stopped.

He came up to the window.  "Did you know your headlight is out?"

Really?

REALLY???

I just looked at him.  "Nuh uh."

"Yeah.  Seriously.  It's out."

I got out of my car.  It was, in fact, burned out.

I screamed.  I stomped my feet.  I fake-kicked my car, and then because the impulse felt good I actually kicked my car... hard.

The 3 guys out there laughed at me and my hissy fit.

But really, I was getting desperate.  What else could possibly go wrong with my car?  I was already over $600 in the hole from car and graduation related expenses.

But, I have to say, there's something about a girl with a broken car that attracts men faster than Jessica Alba holding a peach pie.  I have never, not once, changed my own tire.  Every time I start, I'm somewhere between the first lug nut and the fifth before some guy randomly shows up and does it for me.  My car needs a jump?  All I have to do is open the hood and stand there looking helpless, and within 30 seconds I have a set of jumper cables and a working battery to attach them to.  Part of me is a little disappointed I haven't gotten to change a tire by myself, but if I'm being honest, I really appreciate it.  It's always sort of thrilling to see how complete strangers will just stop to help another complete stranger.  It makes the world a very sun-shiney place. :)

Anyway, this was no exception.  I'd watched Billy (yes, that was his real name... I have used it for the sake of his anonymity) take out my battery and replace the turn signal, and I watched another guy (Shane) replace my other headlight a while ago, so I was 87% confident in my ability to do it on my own this time... after I spent like $12 on a new headlight.  The other 13% was the knowledge that if it wasn't as easy as Billy made it look, I'd stand there afraid to break it if I touched it.

But, the three guys saved me a lot of time, stress and $12.  They all got together, pulled out my battery, played with my headlight, and then one of them was like, "Oh!  It's one of those!  I think I have one!" and he ran into the back of his shop and came out with a new one.  Then they fixed it.

I gave them all my best, "I was a damsel in distress and you saved me, my heroes!" flirty thank you that I could so they would know I was perfectly thrilled for their help, happily accepted a business card from one of them, and then drove home to see if I could possibly buy an extension for my registration online.

The answer to that is no, but at least now I have new lights, a new windshield, new parking brake cables, and will soon have a new parking brake caliper.  And I learned what a caliper was.  I can now add that to knowing what happens when your radiator, your power steering fluid, your brakes, your alternator, your crank shaft sensor, your starter, and your ignition switch break.  All of these car repairs I have learned from driving Nemo/The Hatchback of Notre Dame and the WTM.  I don't think I invested any money into fixing the Asphyxiator, so I didn't really learn anything from that one in the short semester and a half that I drove it, but my mechanical knowledge is still increasing!

But really, I'd rather just ride a horse.

I wonder if my work would install a hitching post... or possibly let me release an equine in the gardens to graze during my shift.