I Just Wanted a Goddamn Blizzard

All I Wanted Was Some Ice Cream

Yesterday afternoon I was coming out of the post office after mailing off a few packages of my underwear when I decided I wanted something sweet.

And for anybody who's new around here, yes, I sell my drawers on the internet. People buy them, I mail them, and everybody seems happy with the arrangement. I've quit trying to make sense of it.

Anyway, I wanted ice cream.

Actually, I wanted custard. There's a little place about fifteen minutes away that makes homemade custard, and I've been going there for years. But Dairy Queen was only five minutes down the road, and I got to figuring I could save myself some gas and twenty minutes of driving.

I should've known better. Every time I try to save myself a little trouble, I usually end up finding some.

I've never been much of a candy eater. Don't particularly care for candy bars, and it seems like every Blizzard Dairy Queen makes anymore has half the candy aisle at Walmart ground up in it.

Whatever happened to fruit?

They used to have a banana split Blizzard that I loved. I always ordered mine without strawberries because I don't like the damn things. They took it off the menu years ago, but most Dairy Queens will still make one if you ask.

So that's what I was going to get. A banana split Blizzard, no strawberries, and then home.

Simple enough.

Or so I thought.

Who's Running This Damn Show?

I walked into Dairy Queen and there were two couples ahead of me. One was a man and woman about my age, and the other was a mom and dad with two little bastards who looked to be about seven or eight.

The couple directly in front of me had that look people get when they've been standing somewhere a little longer than they intended.

Didn't take me long to figure out why.

These two little fellas couldn't decide what kind of goddamn ice cream they wanted.

One wanted chocolate. Then vanilla. Then a Blizzard sounded good. The other one wanted a cone until he found out his brother might be getting something better, so naturally he needed to reconsider his options.

Then we got into sundaes. And toppings. And whether they wanted something in a cup or a cone.

And every time one of them changed his mind, Mom and Dad started the whole damn process over again.

I watched this for about ten minutes.

The woman standing in front of me finally turned around and rolled her eyes. I asked how long they'd been waiting, and she said they'd already been there at least ten minutes before I walked in.

Well, hell.

Twenty minutes to order ice cream.

I'd have thought somebody was trying to negotiate the purchase of a small country.

And what got me wasn't even the kids. Hell, they're kids. You give an eight-year-old a menu with fifty things on it, he's liable to want forty-nine of them.

What I couldn't figure out was why Mom and Dad kept asking.

They'd looked back at us a couple of times. They knew people were waiting. Didn't seem to bother them a bit.

I kept thinking somebody was eventually going to take charge of the situation.

Nope.

Apparently the entire Dairy Queen was going to remain on hold until these two little fellas reached a decision.

And I'm standing there thinking that at some point, wouldn't you just order the little bastards a couple of cones and call it a day?

Hell, if they don't want the cones, eat them yourself.

I've never considered unwanted ice cream much of a problem.

Anyway, the longer I stood there watching this production, the more I got to thinking about Tucker.

Because believe me, I haven't always been particularly good at telling my own kid no.

The Day I Carried Tucker Out Like a Sack of Potatoes

When Amanda left, Tucker was eight years old.

And I'll tell you something. I made a pretty good mess of things those first few months.

I felt sorry for the boy. His mama was gone, everything he'd known had changed, and there I was trying to figure out how to raise him by myself while still keeping my construction business going.

So I started giving him damn near everything he wanted.

Pizza for supper? Sure. Stay up late? What the hell. Some ridiculous toy at Walmart that he'd probably forget about by Thursday? Throw it in the cart.

I figured the little fella had already been through enough. I didn't want to be another person making his life miserable.

Well, that was a mistake.

Because it didn't take Tucker long to figure out his old man had apparently forgotten how to say no.

And that little bastard was good at it, too.

He could walk into Walmart wanting absolutely nothing and walk out with forty dollars' worth of shit he didn't even know existed when we got there.

I was creating a monster.

And the worst part was, I knew it.

I'd lie awake sometimes thinking about what would happen to Tucker if something happened to me.

I build decks for a living. I've spent most of my adult life climbing ladders, running saws, and doing things that could get me hurt if I got careless.

And I got to wondering what kind of shape I was leaving that boy in if I didn't come home one day.

Hell, I was raising a kid who couldn't handle being told no at Walmart. What was he going to do when life handed him something I couldn't fix?

I finally realized I'd gotten so wrapped up in trying to make Tucker happy that I'd forgotten I was supposed to be raising him.

I wasn't his buddy. I was his dad.

And sometimes being his dad meant being the asshole who told him no.

Which brings me to the amusement park.

Now, before I tell you this, you need to understand something about me.

I love amusement parks.

Always have.

I don't care if I'm forty-three or eighty-three. If there's a roller coaster, I want to ride the damn thing. I love the big drops, the loops, the whole business. I even like walking around those places eating overpriced food and watching people make fools of themselves.

So when I decided to take Tucker to an amusement park one summer, don't think I was doing it entirely for him.

Hell, I wanted to go just as bad as he did.

I'd been looking forward to it all week. Took the day off work, got up early, loaded us into the truck, and headed out.

We paid to park. Paid to get in. Bought something to eat that cost more than a decent steak dinner.

Didn't bother me a bit.

We were there to have fun.

And for a while, we did.

Then Tucker decided he wanted something I wasn't going to buy him.

To this day, I couldn't tell you what the hell it was. Probably some plastic piece of junk from one of those gift shops. Something that cost thirty dollars inside the park and would've been five bucks at Walmart.

Whatever it was, I told him no.

Well, apparently that wasn't the answer he was expecting.

He started whining. I told him to knock it off. He got louder.

And that's when he decided to put on a full-blown performance for everybody within a hundred yards.

Now, I've got no problem with my kid being disappointed. Hell, I'm disappointed every time I look at the price of lumber.

But there were families all around us who'd paid good money to be there, just like we had. People had taken off work, loaded their kids into cars, driven God knows how far, and spent a small fortune to have a nice day.

They didn't come there to listen to my little bastard scream because Daddy wouldn't buy him something.

So I told Tucker that if he didn't straighten his ass up, we were leaving.

And I meant it.

Problem was, Tucker didn't believe me.

See, he'd spent the last couple of months watching me cave every time he got upset about something. He figured this was just another one of those deals where he could keep at it long enough and eventually I'd give up.

He was about to learn something.

I gave him one more chance.

He kept carrying on.

So I scooped his little ass up, threw him over my shoulder like a sack of potatoes, and started walking.

And buddy, you ought to have heard that boy.

You'd have thought I was kidnapping him.

Kicking, hollering, squirming around, carrying on like somebody was hauling him off to the electric chair.

And here I am, walking through an amusement park with a screaming eight-year-old hanging over my shoulder while everybody else is eating funnel cakes and enjoying their afternoon.

I'll tell you what really pissed me off.

I wanted to ride those goddamn roller coasters.

There were still rides I hadn't been on. I'd been looking forward to that day all week, and now I was carrying my own kid out of the park like a bag of dog food.

And it wasn't a short walk, either.

You ever notice how far away the parking lot is when you're carrying fifty pounds of pissed-off little boy?

By the time we got to the truck, I'd had about enough amusement for one day.

Got him strapped in, climbed behind the wheel, and drove our asses home.

And I was just as disappointed as he was.

Hell, maybe more. He'd already gotten to ride some stuff. There were roller coasters I hadn't even gotten near yet.

Believe me, I thought about turning around.

But I'd told him we were leaving, so we left.

I figured if I backed down on that one, I might as well just hand him the keys to the house and start asking his permission to use the bathroom.

Funny thing is, I don't remember him ever pulling that particular stunt again.

And I still think about those roller coasters every once in a while.

It's Gonna Ask Ya a Question

Anyway, back to Dairy Queen.

By this point, the two little fellas had apparently reached some kind of agreement.

I don't know what they finally ordered. I lost track somewhere around the third change of toppings.

But they moved out of the way, the couple ahead of me ordered, and finally it was my turn.

I asked the girl behind the counter if she could make me a banana split Blizzard without the strawberries.

She rolled her eyes.

Now, I realize I'm asking for something that ain't technically on the menu anymore. And then I'm asking her to leave something out of it.

But after standing behind those two little bastards for twenty minutes, I figured I ought to get some credit for at least knowing what the hell I wanted.

She didn't say anything. Just made the Blizzard and rang me up.

Then she turned that little payment screen around and informed me it was gonna ask me a question.

Well, I looked down.

Sure as shit.

It wanted a tip.

Now, I tip waitresses. I tip people who give me good service. I've worked for a living my whole life, and I appreciate somebody who busts their ass.

But this one got me.

I'd just asked a Dairy Queen employee to make me a Blizzard. She rolled her eyes, made the Blizzard, and now the machine wanted to know if I'd like to give her a little something extra.

For making a Blizzard.

At Dairy Queen.

I got to thinking maybe I've been running my construction business all wrong.

Imagine me out building somebody a deck.

I drive one nail into a board, walk over to the homeowner, shove my phone in his face, and tell him it's gonna ask him a question.

Drive another nail.

Walk back over.

It's gonna ask ya a question.

Hell, I'd never get a deck finished.

I'd spend the whole afternoon walking back and forth between the nail gun and the homeowner.

And I can just picture some poor bastard sitting on his back porch trying to drink a beer while I'm standing there waiting for him to decide whether that last nail was worth fifteen, twenty, or twenty-five percent.

I'd probably get fired before lunchtime.

Although if I played my cards right, I might make enough in tips to take the rest of the week off.

Anyway, I paid for my Blizzard and went to find somewhere to sit.

Should've Gone for the Custard

I found myself a booth, sat down, and figured I'd finally get to enjoy my ice cream.

Should've known better.

The family with the two kids was still over by the napkins and spoons, apparently trying to figure out what all they needed to eat the ice cream they'd finally managed to order.

And wouldn't you know it, here they came.

Of all the empty places in that Dairy Queen, they sat right behind me.

Well, apparently getting the ice cream hadn't settled things down much.

One of the little bastards was climbing around the booth. The other one was carrying on about something. Mom and Dad were sitting there talking like none of it was happening.

I tried to ignore it.

Took a few bites of my Blizzard.

Listened to some more hollering.

And finally decided I'd had enough Dairy Queen for one afternoon.

I wasn't mad. Hell, I wasn't even particularly irritated anymore. Mostly I was just amazed at how much activity two little fellas could generate over a couple of ice cream cones.

But I wasn't going to sit there listening to it.

So I picked up my Blizzard and went out to the Jeep.

Sat there in the parking lot and finished it.

And you know what I got to thinking about?

That damn custard place.

The one I actually wanted to go to in the first place.

I'd driven to Dairy Queen because it was closer. Figured I'd save myself twenty minutes and a few bucks.

Instead, I'd spent twenty minutes watching two kids try to make the biggest decision of their young lives, gotten an eye roll for ordering a Blizzard, been asked to tip somebody for making it, and ended up eating the damn thing in my Jeep.

I could've gone to the custard place, gotten exactly what I wanted, and probably been home sooner.

Hell, I might've even enjoyed it.

Pretty impressive how much trouble a man can get himself into trying to save ten minutes.

Anyway, I drove home.

Pulled into the driveway and noticed that pile of firewood I'd been meaning to stack wasn't where I'd left it.

Well, it was still there.

Just stacked.

Tucker had done it while I was gone.

I hadn't asked him to. Hadn't even mentioned it.

He'd just seen something that needed doing and done it.

I stood there looking at that wood for a minute.

Then I got to thinking about that afternoon at the amusement park all those years ago.

Reckon carrying his little ass out of there like a sack of potatoes might've taught him something after all.

THE SHIRT THAT CAME OUT OF THIS MESS

Well, after thinking about that whole mess at Dairy Queen, I decided I might as well make a shirt out of it. I AIN'T RAISING A LITTLE ASSHOLE. Nineteen dollars and ninety-nine cents. And no, I ain't apologizing for the language.

GET THE SHIRT — $19.99

THERE'S MORE TO THIS STORY

MORE ABOUT JOE AND TUCKER

Stories about being Tucker's father, raising him after Amanda left, and figuring out life as a single dad. Come read about me and Tucker.

WHAT'S TUCKER BURNIN'?

The boy's got his own little Scentsy business, and naturally I'm helping him get the word out. See what Tucker's got going.

LIVE LIKE A MAN

My book goes deeper into Amanda leaving and what that meant for me and Tucker. Get the PDF on Ko-fi.

STILL HERE? HELL, YOU MIGHT AS WELL COME ON IN.

I write about raising Tucker, building decks, getting divorced, and making a mess of things.

Some of it's funny. Some of it ain't.

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