Fuzzy navel

by Katie on August 17, 2009

After supper last night, between baling and roadsiding our sudan hay across the street, Brandon wanted ice cream.

The Blue Bell flavor currently in stock at our house is Peaches & Homemade Vanilla.
About halfway through our bowl of ice cream (we shared, because I didn’t want much), Brandon says, “I don’t really like those peaches in there.”
Me: “That’s funny. You like to mix peaches in with our homemade ice cream, so I thought you would like this one.”
Him: “No, not really. I mean, they’re okay, I just like the plain, creamy ice cream better.”
Note taken. No more Peaches & Homemade Vanilla.
Later, I look over, and see Brandon scratching the back of his neck with his big spoon. Then dipping it right back in the bowl – the bowl we’re sharing, mind you – for another big scoop.
Did I mention he had been out working? Irrigating, then baling hay?
Me: “That is really gross.”
Him: “What? It’s just my neck.”
Me: “Yeah, your dirty neck. That just polluted my ice cream, too.”
There were only about three bites of ice cream left, including one with a giant piece of peach in it. Brandon went after the first two, so I dove in for the third. As my spoon is making its way out of the bowl, he starts scraping away the ice cream surrounding the peach.
Me: “Hey, I wanted that!”
Him: “Well, I just didn’t want that peach.”
Me, laying down my spoon: “Well I didn’t want just the peach either. I don’t want it anymore.”
Him: “I don’t want it either. I’ll just throw it away.”
Me: “Fine. It probably has your neck scales on it anyway. With pieces of sudan grass.”
Him: “Ok, I’ll eat it.”
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