We had a nice evening.

We haven’t been going out for dinner as often because we’re adopting a healthier lifestyle. It’s kind of dumb to buy food every week, throw it out and then buy different food at restaurants.

We decided that one night at the Mexican restaurant would be okay, though.

We talked, laughed and enjoyed a delightful meal. Then it was time to go.

Randy does this thing where when he’s finished with something, he gets up and walks away without a word. It used to be worse. We’d be in a restaurant just chilling after paying our bill and he would get up without a word and walk out. He was done. Granted, after listening to me bitch about it for about 5 years, he does now ask if I’m ready to go before he just gets up and walks out. But still, when he’s finished with something..then he’s finished.

He paid our bill and shit went downhill fast.

An important part of my Mexican restaurant experience is buying two small York peppermint patties at checkout time. I specifically put two quarters in my jeans pocket because I wanted those peppermint patties.

Randy was already in the car when I put my quarters in the piggy bank marked ‘candy money’ and went to get my two York peppermint patties. They didn’t have any.

Are you fucking kidding me? I already put my money in.

I had a choice of Blow Pops, a Ring Pop, or Laffy Taffy. I got a lemon and a cherry Laffy Taffy.

Me: What kind of Mexican restaurant doesn’t have York peppermint patties?

Randy: What did you get?

Me: I had to get Laffy Taffy. Fuck Willy Wonka.

Randy: Why did you get it if you didn’t want it?

Me: I already put my money in the piggy bank.

Me: GODDAMMIT. The lemon isn’t lemon. It’s fucking banana. Why do they even MAKE banana flavored candy?

Randy: I’ll take it.

I unwrapped the stupid banana Laffy Taffy with ease and Randy ate it. The freak.

Then I tried to unwrap the cherry one. It was like the candy and the wrapper were conjoined twins. I struggled with it through an entire red light. Randy even chuckled while watching. He doesn’t chuckle easily.

I managed to get the bulk of the cherry Laffy Taffy and then tried to bite the rest of it out of the wrapper.

Me: OW!

Randy: What?

Me: I just bit my fucking finger.

At this point, Randy might have graduated from chuckle to laughter.

Me: This is bullshit. I’m going to need an ice cream.

I wanted to go to The Cone. The Cone is a place very near our house that serves soft serve.

Randy wanted to try a different place that is supposed to be the greatest soft serve in the world. They apparently have soft serve that will change your life. I really wanted the Cone, but being the sweet wife that I am, even after the Laffy Taffy fiasco, I agreed to go to the other place.

We go in and its a serve yourself kind of place. There are knobs and and multiple ice cream receptacles and way too many options for toppings. I felt anxious right off the bat

Where do I start? What is the protocol? I can’t just start wandering around. Those teenage girls in soccer clothes would see right away that I was clueless and the douchey dad in the leather Sperry’s and cargo shorts would sneer. But that wasn’t the worst part. The worst part is they only had frozen soft serve yogurt. Yogurt is satan’s butt paste.

Randy just shook his head and walked toward the door. He knows my views on yogurt.

We drove in the opposite direction toward The Cone, which is where I wanted to go in the first place.

Just before the Cone are railroad tracks. Of course, we got stopped by the train. It was a long train with flat bed cars, so I didn’t even get to see graffiti. That’s the only thing good about waiting on trains is to look at the graffiti art.

I finally got my kid size soft serve cone. With sprinkles.

Now, all I have to do is get past the remorse of eating Mexican food, a partially melted piece of candy that caused teeth marks on my left pointer finger and ice cream.

I’ll just double up on the treadmill.

Tomorrow.