Blonde moment #943.

A "Do Not Enter" sign eaten into Ryan's ice cream. Psh, like that would stop me. 

Saturday night we were stretched out on the couch,

eyes glued to the TV as we watched the first night of Olympic men's gymnastics

and their superhero buff arms. Of course, I was also eating ice cream because, honestly, when am I not eating ice cream? Any-woo, an hour or so passed, Ryan went off to bed and I grew
hungry for another bowl of ice cream (surprise, surprise, right?). 

I moseyed into the kitchen, swung open the freezer door and...

my ice cream was missing. 

I did a double-take. I reread the label on the tub of ice cream that WAS in the 

freezer (Ryan's nasty mint chocolate chip). Yeah, not my ice cream. I peeked behind the

chicken patties and the veggie burgers and the bag of frozen broccoli, but my ice cream

was no where to be found. My heart rate quickened. 

Oh my God, I thought. There's an ice cream thief in our midst. 

For a brief moment I wondered if it could have been Ryan,
but I quickly pushed that thought away.

Don't nobody mess with my ice cream. 

You mess with my ice cream and you're asking for it. 

Ryan knows that. 

I gazed around the kitchen counters, lest I forgot to put it away.

I even checked in the trashcan, in case I ate it all earlier
and developed amnesia. Nope, not there either.

And then, a moment of clarity.

Did I...?

Could I have...?

Yes. When I put my ice cream away, I put it in the freaking refrigerator,

where it sat for an hour, melting to a sloppy, milkshake consistency.

Blonde moment #943.