“There’s something I need to tell you guys.”
We went to go pick up our groceries the other day. The curbside associate took just a little bit longer than usual getting to our car. He greeted my husband at the trunk, and then he paused and took a deep breath.
“There’s something I need to tell you guys,” he said. I looked up at the rear view mirror. This seemed serious.
Maybe we’re being banned from the store for ordering too many bottles of Crystal hot sauce at once. Maybe someone stole our credit card information and bought the land the grocery store sits on and now we’re embroiled in some kind of PNW mafia situation. Maybe he can see the future and knows the exact hour of our untimely deaths. Maybe he’s our son.
“What’s up?” my husband asked. Wow, he was so chill about the potentially devastating news we were about to hear.
“Actually, I just got onto my shift, and I don’t know how this happened, but your frozen items were actually stored in the fridge, and I don’t know how long it’s been in there, and I didn’t really know what I was supposed to do— basically, your ice cream was in the fridge! And I don’t know for how long,” he exhaled.
I whipped my head around to get a better look. The ice cream had been in the fridge? Boy had had me on the edge of my seat!
“I tried to find new ice cream in the freezer aisle, but we’re out!” he explained further, his arms waving for emphasis.
“Oh, it’s cool. We’ll just take the ice cream that was in the fridge. It’s all good, man,” my husband said.
So our curbside associate ran back into the store and came flying back holding two pints of coffee ice cream like they were Olympic torches. They were still frozen.
We made it out with delicious ice cream, still icy cold. And we don’t have a secret son that neither of us knew about. Phew!
