B-Rant

- submitted by L. Keenan on 06/27/2008

  

Ain't No Soft-Servin' It: I Despise the Ice Cream Man

I'm not going to soft-serve and double-dip it for you. The ice cream man has always terrified me, and for that I can blame the ugly-sexy Los Angeles medical examiner and all-around social crusader, Quincy M.E.

When the rumpled TV coroner of my childhood wasn't scoring hot chicks on that rad 70's houseboat of his, he was speechifyin' and crime-a-solvin', and the one episode that forever scarred me was one I watched when I was still a tiny tempting target for a kiddie perv: some murderous force was trolling the streets in his ice cream truck, and his calling card was that seemingly innocent tickle of a toy piano.

(Now, of course, I don't want to suggest this truck  I found while scouring the web, dubbed by the site LAist as "Satan's ice cream truck," is doing anything more nefarious than peddling Satan's high-fructose corn syrup, but you have to listen to this truck's tune. It reminds me of that Quincy episode. It may well haunt your soul forever.)

Of course I'm a shriveled-up Mommy now, and aside from the occasional horror story about a predator ice cream man, I'm no longer terrified of Mr. Ding-a-Ling, especially because my mista' Ding looks only about 10 years out of diapers.

Instead, the terror has been replaced by intense annoyance, and I'm relying on you, reader(s), to tell me just how horrible a mom I am, because I view the ice cream truck as an emotional extortionist on four wheels, preying on guilty parents and sugar-crazed children.

I feel like every time I see that truck headed for me, I can kiss five bucks goodbye. If my kid's on a playdate, I have to spot the playmate, then I say buh-bye to 10 bucks.

When I try not to order for myself the ice cream I resolutely do not want, my little boy looks deep into my eyes and says, adorably and gravely, "but you need a treat, Mommy!" What do I say to that? Thanks honey, but Mommy would rather have a Starbucks? A Klonopin? Thanks buddy, but Mommy's ass is big enough as it is?

The moment the truck can be heard steaming towards the playground, there's a strange sort of class war that erupts. Parents who don't reach for their wallets must be either upside down on their mortgage, or certifiably cheap, to the point where they suck every tiny bit fun out of life.

Or perhaps they are overly fixated on their child's nutrition, also buzz-kills but at least conscientious, righteous buzz-kills. Frankly, I think I would rather appear to be the health food freak than the joy-sucking cheapskate, but considering the crap snacks I haul around from home in a plastic Wal-Mart bag, well, that's sort of a hard one for me to pull off.

On top of all this, I have a child who loves the idea of the ice cream man, but not the ice cream itself. So after I fork over the cash for the monstrous Dora pop with the throat-plug gumballs for eyes, I'm stuck sitting there as the Dora melts her fiesta colors all over my arms, attracting flies. (Yes, she looks cute here, but trust me, once you see her mouth slip off, you'll never be able to look at our plucky amiga the same way again.)

Then slowly, as her features dissolve, one after another, poor Dora's little eyeballs fall out. That's when Frank remembers that Mom just bought him ice cream, and he scrambles to grab the gumballs, covered in mystery playground schmutz, and then, like lightning, pops them in his mouth.

Usually the ice cream man arrives around 4 p.m. and even though my son hasn't actually eaten the ice cream, he believes he has, and by dinner time, I can forget about him eating actual food, other than that nutritionally-balanced serving of gumball eyes.

So if I'm so torqued out by all this, why don't I just say no to the ice cream man? I do practice avoidance; I already have a rough idea of the route my Ding-a-Ling takes, and I can often playground-hop to stay a few steps ahead of him.

When that fails, I do say no, probably half the time. But I guess I feel like saying no to my child when the ice cream man calls is akin to having him stomp his dirty little feet all over the Flag. It just seems un-American to deny him his right as a child to participate in this revered institution. Am I right? I am torn. I see other moms wince too, so I know at least I'm not alone.

Now look, after this churlish screed, I don't want to leave you with a bad taste in your mouth, so I'll close with some of the touching lyrics from Van Halen's ground-breaking 1978 album, in which they covered the blues song "Ice Cream Man", by John Brim. Channel "Diamond Dave" here, and you'll never think of the ice cream man the same way again.

Now summertimes here babe, need somethin to keep you cool
Better look out now though, Dave's got somethin for you
Tell ya what it is

I'm your ice cream man, stop me when I'm passin by
Oh my my, I'm your ice cream man, stop me when Im passin by
See now all my flavors are guaranteed to satisfy
Hold on a second baby

I got good lemonade, ah, dixie cups
All flavors and push ups too
Im your ice cream man
Im your ice cream man
B-b-b-b-b-b-b-baby
Ah my, my, my
All my flavors are guaranteed to satis-uh-fy
Ow.

Linda Keenan is a contributing writer at Burbia. Linda worked 7 years as a head writer/senior producer for various programs on CNN. Before that she worked as a writer/producer for Bloomberg TV. She now writes satire, primarily about parenting culture, at Thoroughly Modern Mommy