All we wanted was ice cream. Dairy Queen Chocolate Chip Cookie Dough Blizzards, to be exact. But, it’s never that simple when you’re a couple of fatties going for ice cream you really don’t need. Oh no.
Let me tell you the story of how an innocent trip to the local DQ ended up in a felony stop. Yes, you read that right.
It was my senior year, and the stress of finals, coupled with the decision to wear heels to graduation (and inevitably be that person who falls on the stage) or not was weighing on me something fierce. I coped as I always have and always will-with carbs.
I convinced my mom to go on a ride to Dairy Queen (my mom loves going on rides. She’s like a Labrador Retriever in that way. If anyone even starts to say “car”, she’s at the door with the keys dangling out of her mouth). I knew I could win her over with the promise of a Sunday car ride and a sundae. Also, I “accidentally” forgot my wallet, so it was shaping up to be a real win.
Back in the day, my mom had a real jalopy for a car. It was an 80s era Toyota Tercel hatchback. It had more rust spots than paint. It smelled of decades old farts and spilled milk. It had rubber bumpers. Sometime I’ll have to tell the story of when my brother tried to ride my bike and didn’t know where the brakes were as he came careening down the hill opposite our house, and he crashed into the Tercel. Except, he didn’t crash into it. Tire hit bumper, and because both were made of rubber, he was catapulted back up the hill, backward. Oops, I guess I told the story.
OK, so back to the real beauty that was this car. It was so hideous, that I requested my mom drop me off and pick me up blocks away from school or any function, for that matter. The driver’s seat was disintegrating, so, ever the handy man, my dad put it back together with duct tape and a Reno Hot August Nights ’93 t-shirt. He also installed the new CD player with pencils, so you can only imagine the extent of his handiwork. The point? The car was a real piece.
Now, because my family can’t just simply go for ice cream like normal people, we had to take the dog who hated car rides and would start dry heaving the moment you pulled out of the driveway. Why my mom thought it was necessary to bring good ol’ Buttons to get ice cream, I cannot recall.
So, off we went, two fatties and a severely car sick dog, to the Dairy Queen.
The ride there was uneventful. As we were ordering our Blizzards, my mom said to me, “I wonder what that skinny, little thing thinks when she sees two fat people roll up after ordering the most fattening items on the menu?”
We proceeded to have a laughing fit as we were handed our ice cream. So, not only did the young DQ worker think we didn’t need any ice cream, she probably also figured we were nuts to boot. Oh well, what can you do?
So, all this laughing and hubbub started distressing our poor dog, who was pretty well green around the gills. My mom decided that Buttons would feel better if she sat in the front. I tried to explain that she likely wouldn’t look out the front and suddenly feel fine, because she was a DOG, but alas, I had to give up the front to the dog.
My mom turned down a side street. I got out-did I forget to mention that I was wearing my pajamas and slippers? Oh, well. Yeah. I was wearing a pair of faded, Betty Boop pajama pants and these uber hideous pink furry slippers, that had seen better days. I was also wearing a cami tank with no bra. I looked like a real beauty. I hadn’t planned on even leaving the car, so I hadn’t changed out of my Sunday-laundry-day-fashion-statement.
I quickly made leave of the front seat, Buttons sprang to the front, panting and dry heaving, and then we were off again.
In hindsight, we realized that my mom probably wasn’t driving very attentively. She was likely swerving, driving far too slowly, and braking like an 80-year-old driver coming up to a stoplight a mile away. It probably didn’t look good.
Also, it likely looked strange to anyone watching, that I was in the backseat. Either my mom was the very first Uber driver, before anyone knew what Uber was, or something shady was going on. Obviously, no one saw the small dog that my mom was petting and talking to as she drove and ate her Blizzard, all at the same time.
After a couple blocks of this ridiculousness, we suddenly noticed flashing lights. We figured someone was getting arrested, or there was a drug bust (the Dairy Queen wasn’t in the best neighborhood). A couple blocks more and we still saw lights reflecting off the myriad duct tape in the car. We suddenly realized that a cop had been tailing us.
I was mortified.
“Mom! You’re getting pulled over! OMG! How embarrassing! What did you do??”
My mom had zero clue what she could have done (surely it wasn’t the erratic-eating-ice-cream-while-soothing-your-insane-dog-driving).
She started laughing. I, however, did not think being pulled over, in the ghetto, while eating a large Blizzard, with no bra on was a laughing matter.
Suddenly, we heard, “Put your hands up-where we can see them!”
“Um, what? Are they talking to us?” I hissed.
More laughing from my mom. At this point, I started laughing too, because who has ever heard those words uttered, but for on TV??
We obviously didn’t realize they were talking to us, because we heard even more loudly and more mean, “Put your hands up! Driver-with your right hand, left hand still up, turn your engine off, and throw your keys out of the window!”
What in the actual fuck.
My mom responded to no one in general, “Well, how am I supposed to do that? I’m not a freaking acrobat!”
“Mom just figure it out!” I scream-whispered.
With her head out the window, my mom responded to the cops, “You will have to wait a minute. I need to find a place to put my ice cream down where my barfing dog won’t get at it.”
At this point, I was just wondering how long I’d have to keep my hands up, because my arms were getting really tired.
People were beginning to look out their windows and point. It was beyond ridiculous.
Eventually, Houdini figured out how to put her ice cream down, keep her left arm up in the air and throw her keys out the window with the other hand.
The cops barked, “Driver, slowly get out of the vehicle, hands up!”
My mom was muttering under her breath, “What the fuck. Are you serious? For what? Is it against the law for fat people to get ice cream on Sunday?”
“Mom, just do what they say!”
I was incensed. I was mad, embarrassed, and my arms felt like jello.
Suddenly, through the loud speaker, for all of Reno to hear, “Drop your weapon!”
I thought, with utter horror, “Does my mom have a freaking weapon? Has she gone mad?!” It took just a moment to realize that they were referring to me. They were referring to the blizzard I still had in my hand. They thought my Chocolate Chip Cookie Dough Blizzard was a fucking weapon.
I can’t even at this point. I’m beyond confused. As I had never been pulled over at this stage in life, I was thinking that, surely, not all traffic stops involved this level of insanity? Surely not. Did we mistakenly pick up a dead body that we had unknowingly been dragging behind our vehicle? Did someone plant drugs in our car? Did my mom run down someone in a wheel chair?
Amidst another loud speaker demand that I put down my “weapon”, came my mom’s voice, “Don’t shoot her! It’s not a weapon! It’s a Dairy Queen Blizzard!”
When it was over, we learned that I fit the description of a mad woman who was running the streets, trying to stab people with a pair of scissors. There were five cop cars, and every cop had their weapons drawn. On me.
The police thought I had my mom held hostage in her own car with my scissors, er, Blizzard. If I thought I was mad, my mom gave those cops such a Mom Lecture. Their ears were burning by the time she was done with them. She was aghast that her soon-to-be-college-student-goody-goody-daughter would ever be confused for a mad woman. She also wasn’t thrilled that guns were drawn on her kid, who could have made a false move with her “dangerous” weapon. Who knows what could have happened? *shudder*.
Kiddies, this is why you shouldn’t go to Dairy Queen when clearly what you really need is some exercise and a bowl of kale.
Obviously, I didn’t learn my lesson that ice cream is bad for you. I did learn, however, to always put on a bra when leaving the house. Also, only homicidal maniacs wear their slippers out in public.