Taking the long way home on my daily stroll so as not to feel rushed to eat my daily DQ Blizzard, I noticed ahead of me a few young chaps who I often notice loitering around my neighborhood. Fiercely consuming my ice cream treat, I almost didn’t notice the boys’ conversation: “Isn’t that the popsicle lady?” I looked up and saw that they were referring to me. “Hey! Aren’t you the popsicle girl?”
I am indeed the Popsicle Girl. And what follows is the story of my namesake…
A few weeks ago I attempted to attend two #tweetea gatherings in one night. During my commute from one to the other, I stopped off at home to feed my dog and my self. Since there’s never anything good to eat at my house, I grabbed a popsicle and headed out the door.
While speeding to #tweetea, scarfing my popsicle and checking my email, I made sure to periodically look up to see if my car was still in the right lane (on the road, whatever). During one of these “safety checks” I noticed the neighbor boy walking along the side of the road, noticing me. We acknowledged each other, thug style.
Continuing on my way, I opened an email that contained some particularly arousing verbiage and immediately my new Lelo Gigi vibrator came to mind. With cinematic squeal, I pulled a u-turn and headed home for a quickie. After a most glorious microwaved orgasm, I grabbed a popsicle and headed out the door. Again.
As I made my way to the first #tweetea for the second time, life was good. I jammed some tunes, got down on my popsicle, and let the breeze do that magical thing that breezes do. At a red light, I took time to appreciate the happy details of life: a youthful couple walking their dog, kids drinking Slurpees at 7-11, the scary laughing teenagers outside of the house with the boarded-up front door, and hey–there was the neighborhood boy again! Roadside and pedestrian, he was staring at me and laughing.
“Another one?” he asked. I smiled shamelessly and raised my popsicle, thug style.
And that’s how I became known as the Popsicle Girl.