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the everyman memoirs

The official blog of author Tali Nay.
APR
15

Museum of Ice Cream

One of the first things I thought upon entering the Museum of Ice Cream was that it was clearly designed for people much younger than I am. And I'm not even that old. The kind of place that's dripping with whimsy. The kind of place with bottlenecks around every corner while each person takes a selfie in literally every room. The kind of place where they make you answer questions like "What worry are you going to let go once you enter this room" or "Give me the name of someone not with you at the museum today who is a cherry on top of your life?" I confess the introvert in me really just wanted them to give me the ice cream rather than make me repeatedly kumbaya en masse with a bunch of strangers.

On the other hand, when was the last time someone asked you about the person you consider the cherry on top of your life, causing you to think about the aunt to whom you've gone with every work, boy, and life issue you can remember? I mean, isn't that a question worth considering? When was the last time you let go of the drama of an upcoming work trip? Shouldn't letting completely useless crap go be a life requirement? When was the last time you were asked about an ice cream memory and it brought you back to your hometown soft serve joint and how you used to save your pennies for a sweet treat? For that matter, when was the last time you had ice cream, Pop Rocks, and cotton candy all in the same day? 

By the time I immersed myself in the (literal) pool of sprinkles, I was pretty convinced not only that we are never too old for this, but also that the world could use more of it. As I climbed out of the pool and took stock of my rolled pant cuffs, now heavy with sprinkles, I purposely didn't empty them all the way out as instructed. And something about seeing the color I left behind me in the streets of San Francisco throughout the day reminded me that sweetness is pretty universal. So are dreams. So is smiling. So are love, honesty, and digging deep in a place you never would have expected to.

JUN
13

The Buster Bars

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They are a downright force, these Buster Bars. Anything from Dairy Queen, really. We're talking about the only fast food option I had as a kid, and the one for which I (still) feel the most amount of affection and loyalty. My neighbors and I used to throw together all manner of fundraising activities as kids, all in the name of getting ourselves to the DQ.

Back to the Buster Bars. Being mostly a Blizzard girl in my adult life, I had forgotten about them. Fast forward to last week, when one of our vendors showed up at the office with a box of Buster Bars. Oh my gosh, it was the best day ever. Surely no object on this earth could have more quickly taken me back to age 10, sitting at a folding table in my neighbors' driveway selling froot loop bars and lemon squares, counting my change until I had enough for a DQ run.

Having been reminded of the deliciousness that is a Buster Bar, I stopped at DQ on my way home. I bought a whole box, just for me, and explained to the DQ counter worker that someone had brought them into the office and it had been the best day of my life. It was an exaggeration obviously, but she laughed in a nervous, pitying kind of way; a way that suggested she figured I must be a pretty unfortunate person if my life had peaked because of free ice cream. It was the same sort of expression that Warwick Davis wore when my sister and I, positively beside ourselves, approached after spotting him at Disneyland during a family trip and confessed in near hysterics that Willow was our favorite movie. Epic to our teenaged selves (have you seen Val Kilmer circa 1988??), I've always suspected Warwick thought we were a little tragic for our cinema preferences.

In any case, it's Friday night, and I'm celebrating with a Buster Bar. Or six.