Sunday, March 21, 2010


When Gregory and I lived in LA there were times when we were really quite stressed.  Gregory had a very demanding job and I can be a very demanding wife.  No, that’s not what I meant.  I meant…oh never mind.  Anyway, we often combated our stressors by driving – not walking – around the corner to the 7-Eleven store and purchasing not one but two punnets of Ben and Jerry’s ice cream.  Our buckets of choice were half-baked (a delicious combination of vanilla and chocolate ice cream, cookie dough and chocolate brownie – my choice) and Americone dream (vanilla ice cream with chocolate covered waffle cones – Gregory’s selection).

We would then drive back around the corner, sit on the couch and consume our treats so rapidly the condensation didn’t even have time to form on the outside of the carton.
Today was an Australian one of those days.  Gregory again has a very demanding job but in this instance I am not the very demanding wife.  Truly, it was just Gregory’s job.  So, we put the dog on the lead and managed to walk this time, around the corner to the local BP and came back with some Sara Lee’s Rocky Road ice cream…
I am very sad to report that Australian ice cream falls far short of the full-cream, full-fat splendour of our American brothers and sisters.  I don’t know what their cows get up to over there, but the product is so far superior we’re going to have to switch to Tim-Tams during times of Australian stress.
Don’t get me wrong, I still shoveled all of it in, and because I didn’t run today, my inferior Australian ice cream will likely take up permanent residence on my upper thighs.
I didn’t run today because I made an early morning visit to Ikea with a friend who has just moved into a new place.  He needed a bed and a way to transport it, and I have a car and was easily bribed by the promise of Swedish meatballs and a Scandinavian designed toilet brush. 
Besides, we probably covered as much ground as I do on one of my runs, walking through that showroom.  Kilometre after kilometre of neatly mapped out pretend rooms so you feel like you’re on the set of the Truman Show.  Everything is clean lines and bright colours, storage ideas so you never have to dust again and drawers hidden inside cupboards behind walls.  My divorced cousin calls Ikea the one stop divorced man’s shop, as you can walk in with nothing and walk out with an entirely outfitted house.
The best part is their concept of self pick-up, which essentially means Ikea doesn’t actually have to do a thing.  Once you’ve made your decision, you head to the basement, locate a couple of specially designed trolleys, and hand pick your selections off the shelf. 
In theory, this should happen easily and smoothly, but as Paul and I wrestled his bed frame onto our trolley that had a tendency to wander away from us, I began to doubt their Scandinavian logic.  By the time the furniture was out of Ikea, into the car, out of the car and into Paul’s place, I had sweated as much as I do on the Bay run and figured I had more than made up for my lack of run.  Which means the bad Australian ice cream won’t stick to my thighs, which means that if I keep running I can validate my quest to conduct a research project to find the best ice cream in the whole of Sydney.  I am fully aware of the importance of this endeavour and I promise here and now, to take my responsibilities most seriously.  Stand by for fully homogenised, partially pasteurised, 100% dairy updates.

No comments:

Post a Comment

Related Posts Plugin for WordPress, Blogger...