I scream.

A simple thought for today.

The only thing worse than the government shutdown is finding ice in my ice cream.

Huge letdown. HUGE.

Ice cream is my husband’s and my nearly-nightly treat of choice. When it comes to scooping out the perfect serving of ice cream (more like 5) from a carton, I pride myself on my supreme excavation skills. My spoon slaloms gently up, down and around delectable frozen mountains of sweet chunks (cookie dough, brownie and the like) and detects savory areas with more precision and accuracy than NASA’s state-of-the-art equipment.

So when my husband and I finally plop our bones down on the couch for a show and some ‘scream before bed, after all is quiet in the house and the baby is bathed, read to and tucked in, and I bite into what I expect to be a smooth hunk of rich, creamy peanut butter, and it’s actually jagged, flavorless ice cracking and crunching against my molars, you can imagine the devastation. The hurt and betrayal is unmatched by anything else. It stings. Deep.

Byrne Dairy, let me just say this: I’ll forgive, but I’ll never forget.

 

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