Silflay Hraka

If you need to make a pitcher of Caipirinhas quickly, a dis-assembled wooden rolling pin makes an excellent muddle.

This is a kitty house, and this is the grass, and these are the stairs that look like writing, and this is this handrail and this is the sun. I drew it so Colin would say “Hissy!”

All that’s missing is blue sky all the way down, and perhaps a stick figure or two. I don’t recall ever drawing a house picture when I was a kid without people in the foreground somewhere, but then again I’m fairly sure I didn’t draw kitty houses at all.

As for Colin, the name she insists on calling Scotty M in the face of all reason, he doesn’t need extra impetus when it comes to saying anything. Most of what he says is still gibberish, at least to the untrained ear, but it’s now structured gibberish.

Butterflies, once “fwy“, are now “Bai tais!” “Mamama” and “Dadada” have been shorn of their extra syllables, and “Hey-ya” has become a simple “Hi!” which he uses at every opportunity.

Hi Mama!
Hi Dada!
Hi Mama!

“Bye-bye!” is also used prolifically, meaning either “Let’s go outside,” “Good Night,” or “Let’s go for a ride in the car.” “Bye-bye…..iceskeem!” is “Drive me to the Cold Stone Creamery,” a place adored by himself and the Ngnat, not only for the frozen dairy goodness, but because the staff there is apt to break into song whenever a dollar is dropped into the tip box.

We usually make these trips without the Sainted Wife, as the merry tunes of the ice cream purveyors are to her as sunlight and fresh garlic are to a vampire. She hatessss the sssongsss. They burnssss, her, they do, my precioussss.

Cannot say as I blame her, though for me the songs are more akin to fluorescent light and elderly garlic powder. They strike me as the type of thing forced onto the peons of Cold Stone from above, by a Ben and Jerry?s wannabe management that thinks the Japanese idea of “shafu,” or company spirit, can be instilled in minimum wage-earning Americans by having them perform badly re-written television jingles in front of a jaded and cynical public.

Because Cold Stone Creamery? places such emphasis on creating a fun, entertaining experience for every customer, Creamery crew members are auditioned, not interviewed, and are often asked to sing from the Cold Stone Creamery song book as part of the process.

I should think even recovering crack whores would have too much self respect to put themselves through the above, but the place is fully staffed whenever we visit, so what do I know? Certainly tennis_girlie seems excited by the prospect. You should follow the link, as the snippet below doesn’t convey the full!! extra-smiley!! faces!! effect!!

I’m gonna be working at Cold Stone Creamery, YAY. Ice cream is so awesome. It was funny, the owners didn’t refer to the interview as an interview, they called it an “audition.” I had to get up and sing for them! At Cold Stone, if a customer tips you, you have to sing for them And to make myself look good, I moved a little to my own tune (What can I say, I was born to dance no matter how much I suck at it)….I think this will be a great job for me- making ice cream, singing, dancing, decorating… being silly… heehee, it works for my bouncy personality….The owners told us “This is gonna be like you’re on American Idol,”

Whoo-Hooo! American Idol! It’s like, if you sing long enough, and hard enough? Then one day Simon will walk in and be totally blown away? And he’ll give you a recording contract right there on the spot!

It’s American dream, or perhaps the American daydream. “If I work my hardest and do my best, no matter how crappy the job, then magical things will happen!”

Sure it?s unrealistic, at least at the minimum-wage ice-cream flunky level, but it’s a lovely idea nonetheless, and sometimes it even comes true.

Which is why I owe the little girl who took our order last night an apology.

“You know, we sing after every tip! ” she told me brightly, as I handed over the money for two kid-sized portions of purple and pink.

“Yes.” I replied. “Why do you think we never tip?”

The brief shadow of pain that crossed her features was something to behold. One would have thought I’d thrown an entire bag of puppies into the river in right there in front of her. Not just any river, either, but one soley inhabited by Nazi piranhas.

If there was any justice in the world, my iceskeem, or rather the iceskeem I snarfed out of the kid’s cups when they weren’t looking, would have tasted of wormwood and ashes. There must not be, for all I consumed was suffused with creamy pleasure.

It’s just not right. Five to one the girl behind the register drew colorful kitty houses at some point in her life. For all I know she still did, until I stomped on her joy with my hob-nailed boots of cynicism. Now, thanks to me, it’s a black kitty house, with black grass and black stairs and a black sun and black blood leaking out of the doorway, while the denizens within feed on the still-living body of their paralyzed owner.

Still, I’m not going to tip her next time, either.