One of my favorite things about living in a tourist town is acting like a tourist; one of my favorite things about living in our Nation’s Capital is that it is so small one can walk virtually everywhere (except NE of the Capitol… do not walk there. Or toward SE… do not walk there, either.)
On our first date, Mr. MiddleChild and I attempted to wear each other out by walking from Chinatown to the Tidal Basin, up and down the Mall and back to Chinatown. This worked so well that we had to seek refreshment. What better way to toast the first few successful hours than with a core-temperature-cooling frozen treat?
The object(s) of my affection.
This is how we became enamored with the Patriot Pop, a tri-color popsicle available from only the finest vendors on the Mall. The white bit is my favorite – it’s lemonade flavored! On future dates/adventures/walks during which the goal seems to be for one of us to reach meltdown (hint: it’s me), the Patriot Pop became a tradition. Something we both looked forward to. Something delicious and unique. A special treat.
Last weekend we decided to walk from my neighborhood to Eastern Market. This despite that one of us (again, me) had gone on a 25 mile bike ride earlier that morning (did I mention I’m training for triathlons?). I think you can guess where this is going.
By the time we got to the Mall, we were both in dire need of a Patriot Pop, but we weren’t on the part of the Mall where we’ve found them in the past. We both spotted what looked like an ice cream van and made a beeline into traffic, visions of refreshment making us mildly delirious. These popsicles looked a little different and cost more, which should have been the first sign that something was amiss.
The Impostor.
We opened the wrappers and were immediately suspicious. This popsicle was longer and more slender than what we were used to – to be blunt, it looked like a really big penis (shoutout Washington Monument!). I was seriously embarrassed to put my mouth on it in public. Fortunately I didn’t have to worry about this for long since it immediately started to melt at an unmanageable rate.
“This tastes like Windex!” Mr. MiddleChild commented; I thought he was being a little dramatic, but then it dripped on my skirt and I got mad. The real Patriot Pop would never do that. We both learned an important lesson that day: do not buy $3 giant frozen phallices from a man in a large white van – it just doesn’t taste the same as the real thing.
Because it's our prerogative 