There are some challenges a man just can't resist. Let the records show
that the husband took his stand with a chocolate dip cone in the year 2007.
We are on our way to an upscale affair an hour out of town. The husband is
wearing his good suit pants, a crisp white shirt and a tie, and has his
suit coat in the backseat with plans to put it on once we arrive.
If there are stages of life, I am officially in the "Thirsty Stage." I
don't know why. I just am.
I ask the husband if we have time to whip through a fast food joint so I
can get something to drink. He says sure and maybe he'll get an ice cream cone.
"But you're wearing a white shirt," I say. I may have said it in a slightly
"A chocolate dip cone," he says.
"You can't eat a chocolate dip cone when you're driving and wearing a white
shirt!" That one I said in a real naggy tone.
I have inadvertently issued a challenge. This is a mistake because I'm
pretty sure the man was a juggler in a former life.
Every morning he takes two cups of coffee from the house to drink in the
car. We have a nice travel mug but he prefers two breakable coffee cups.
One to teeter on the dashboard, and one to angle sideways in the cup
holder. He takes the speed bump at 30 and they never spill.
He is known to balance books six high on top on the console in the middle
of the front seat. And then set a camera on top of that. He always catches
them before they topple.
He stacks envelopes to be mailed on the dashboard that slopes like a ski
run. He can round a corner and snag them as they slide.
"Your number is up," I snap. "Maybe when your shirt has chocolate on it you
can just carry my pink purse in front of your chest. Or wear your suit coat
He just smiles and orders a Diet Coke for me and a dip cone. He unfolds
napkins, covers his shirt and tucks two into his collar. Cirque Du Soleil
doesn't take this many precautions.
On the first bite he makes a clean break. We hang a hard right out of the
lot, accelerate on the entrance ramp and hit 70 on the Interstate. Driver,
cone and white shirt are still intact.
He takes another bite and the chocolate cracks down the center. The back
wedge wobbles toward his chest. He bobs low and makes a mid-air catch
worthy of an instant replay.
One mile later, he is down to three jagged chunks of chocolate teetering
above the cone. Bing, bing, bing, he knocks them off and wolfs them down
rapid fire. He turns to gloat and a big drip of ice cream smacks the napkin
covering his shirt.
"What it gonna be, Big Guy? My purse or my necklace?"
He lifts the napkins. The ice cream has gone through layer one, layer two
and soaked a small spot on his tie, in the center of a dark brown
paisley. It is undetectable. He thrusts his arms into a victory stance and
makes a rushing air sound like thousands of dip cone fans are cheering wildly.
We arrive at our destination and exit the car. I have two big
spots of Diet Coke on the bottom of my jacket.
Gravity-defying Husband: 1. Naggy Wife: 0.