"Spoon Inside"

So, one of the perks of living in this hotel is that the gift shop sells Hagen Daz ice cream. This, when one is in full-on stress out mode, is a life-saver, an OTC anti-anxiety, if you will. A no prescription required anti-anxiety drug (take that, voice of reason therapist!) So of course, I had to partake last night after leaving dinner at Karen's house for the "last time". It's been a week of "lasts" because I'm a drama queen and because my "sentimentality" engine is running on all cylinders these days.

As Husband is getting Ethan ready for bed, I decide to head down to the lobby for the ice cream. As crappy luck would have it, I share the elevator with a bevy of 105-lb teenage girls, clad in bikinis and sarongs. Normally this would send racing back to my room in a fit of chubby-girl self loathing, but not this time. It's not food, people; it's medication. At least for the next few days.

I walk into the gift shop and over to the little freezer which is humming away happily in the corner, keeping my chocolate flavored not-Xanax cold for me. That's what I love about Hagen Daz; there's no brain-hobbling decision like what flavor to get; I love Ben & Jerry's but they have about a gazillion flavors and each one is more convoluted and tempting than the last. I don't know if I want Phish Food or Chubby Hubby or Half Baked. It's just too much. With Hagen Daz, you've basically got your chocolate, vanilla and strawberry. Maybe something like a Dulce de Leche or something like that, but more often than not, it's pretty basic. Hello, Chocolate.

One problem with buying a pint of Hagen Daz at the hotel gift shop is that I am eating utensil-challenged. The only complimentary utensil in our hotel room is a plastic stirrer for the "coffee" beverages they let you brew in your own room...as if. And that's clearly not going to work on a pint of hard-as-rock chocolate ice cream.

I am not yet *quite* desperate enough to just mash my face into the cold creamy chocolatey goodness (give me a few more days), so as I'm pulling out my cash to pay for the $6 pint of ice cream, I ask the nice lady behind the counter "Where could I get a spoon to eat this with?"

Her response? "It's inside". Um. So I ask again. "There's a spoon inside the pint of ice cream?" She nods vigorously, "Yes. Yes. Spoon inside."

So, clearly I'm thinking either we have a serious language barrier issue and "spoon" really means "chocolate" in Eritrean, or I have stumbled upon a special, hotel gift shop, spoon-included edition of Hagen Daz. I envision prying off the lid and finding a cute mini-spoon lodged in the top of the ice cream--a completely self-sufficient tummy full of heaven in the making.

Apparently "spoon" means "chocolate" in Eritrean. Because the only thing that was inside my chocolate ice cream, was, care to guess? Chocolate ice cream. Sigh. So now I have to go back downstairs to the fancy steak restaurant and say, "Excuse me. I just purchased food not from your establishment. Can I have a spoon, please?" And I'm sure they're going to love that.

I leave Husband dealing with an overly tired toddler who is fully aware that there is ice cream in the room that I have no intention of sharing with him (evil mommy). The door closes behind me to the sound of "I-keem! I-keem!" and I take off for the aforementioned fancy restaurant.

Fortunately it is almost 10pm (hence the over tired toddler, but that's a whole other blog entry), so the business at Fancy Pants Steakhouse has quieted down and there's no one other than the hostess there to hear me meekly request a spoon so I can go eat my Hagen Daz in peace (this ice cream is turning out to be more trouble than it's worth---how can that be???!!!).

She skulks away knowing she's about to put forth effort, however miniscule, that will garner her absolutely no monetary reward, and reappears a light year later with a little plastic-wrapped set of plastic utensils. I bolt back to the elevator and with all 12 'bings' of the floors going by I say two silent little prayers to the universe. "Please don't let it be all melted" and "Please let the kid be asleep so I don't have to share it." Because I'm just that good of a person.

Do I have to tell you that lying in my bed, sliding my little plastic spoon around the outer edges of that melty little pint of chocolate ice cream was the most peaceful and satisfying feeling of the entire day? I thought not.