The Ice Cream Truck

Saturday night was spent hanging out the window of a soft serve ice cream truck outside Grand Central Station. 

Thanks to a dear friend who nabbed this awesome gig, I learned the art of the swirl, the dip, the twist. The ice cream truck is at once a performance space, an observation deck and an ivory tower; a place to watch and be watched, judge and be judged, live and let live. I reapplied mascara as if it would sell more cones and calculatingly dangled my painted red nails out the window as if it would attract a "certain kind" of customer; I felt sad when the obese man bought the only double cone of the day and felt deliciously manipulative when we charged the young kids on an awkward first date a whopping $12 for two dipped vanilla cones. Hustling ice cream cones to "oots" (out-of-towners) and weekenders in midtown was so much fun that I finally pried myself out of the truck many hours after I intended to say goodbye.  

In other news...

I realized two things after my musings on "Home":

1: I am verbose.

2: I neglected to discuss three rooms in my house.

Addressing 1: 

I'm working on it.  I feel like a hypocrite, because it's the reason I never enjoyed Dickens.

Addressing 2:

room 1 - The bathroom.  And it's private.  

rooms 2 & 3 - Two additional bedrooms belong to my roommates.  One just moved in this morning and now our home is complete.  She came with a coffee table that I am very excited to put things on. The other has only one flaw that I can detect thus far: a love for stinky candles.  To each her own.  

My darling mother has given me the challenge of developing the recipe for an Arlen Specter cheese ball in light of his recent decision to convert to the democratic party.  I will share the recipe once I figure out what it is.

And, in light of my observation re: "Home", ciao for now.  

p.s. Stay tuned for: Alliterative Activities.

More ice cream truck: