Popsicles are the way to my heart. They're often my drug of choice for breakfast and often lunch and dinner, too. For only 25 calories a pop there's really no reason not to fall head over summer wedges in a popsicle-induced happy trance. In college one of the bars on the Strip created a magical concoction dubbed a Bomb Pop. Yes, the purple drank looked (and tasted) as though a Bomb Pop had been set aside to melt in a solo cup.
Clearly, this drink won my heart.
For a few weeks now, I've had Bomb Pops on the brain. My rural upbringing didn't allow the opportunity to experience ice cream vans in all their creepy glory. So, this week when the sounds of an ice cream truck sang through my little urban casa my ninjaesque reaction was nothing short of remarkable.
Sitting Indian style on the floor I leaped to my feet grabbing a Mason jar filled of spare change. In three swift steps I had stealthily made it through the front door, off the porch and was making my way through the front yard.
"Waaaiiiittttt," I proclaimed my hands flailing through the air swiping raindrops with each wheat-like wave.
I skipped over puddles while dodging limb remnants from an earlier hail storm. The gentleman manning the truck kept a cold face as I requested a bomb pop.
"What kind." "The regular." "$2.50" "How many do you have to sell to cover your overhead?" crickets.
As I handed the notably creeper ice cream man quarter after dime after nickel cars began to line up behind us. I grinned and waved, noticeably exuberant over my prize.
Clearly impressed by my dedication to stand barefoot in the rain to obtain a bomb pop from a rusty yellow van, they returned the gesture.
This, friends, is an urban win. Probably.