Ice Cream Antisocial

Instead of throwing a loud, messy party this year to celebrate Shea's third birthday, we decided to downshift into low gear and get her a nice gift and take her out for fancy ice cream. With cherries on top. Because she's only three and we can still get away with those type of path-of-least-resistance shenanigans.

Here she is on the morning of her birthday, admiring the big pink card that her brother made for her while checking out her kickin' new playhouse -- complete with functioning yet gratefully muted doorbell, interior sink, seating for two and a mail slot! -- her hair still disheveled from the kind of sleep only a two year old turning three can muster.

And here she is reminding us once again that for kids the box never fails to be the best part of any oversized gift item.

On the Saturday after her birthday the four of us drove to Kaneohe to visit Farrell's Ice Cream Parlour -- a place I can guarantee John and I were about a thousand times more excited to visit than the kids were, if only because as children he and I both secretly dreamed of taking up permanent residence in its ice cream storage freezers and never ever going home again to the land of pot roasts and Brussels sprouts, yet somehow a place neither of us had ever had chance to visit.

As with most things built up over a lifetime of anticipation, it was really a huge bust -- more a diner than a parlour; the food was tepid, overpriced, and way too salty; and the decor looked mired in the late 1980s instead of the early 1900s -- and we were both hugely disappointed. But the kids dug it, and managed to show off some nice smiles in between squabbling over whose crayons were whose.

Everything was nice and festive until the birthday girl realized, after a ship's bell near our table was rung loudly enough to silence the entire restaurant, that the pinstriped wait staff was about to serenade her. In person. While looking at her.

Below, you can witness the delicious misery unfold.

Um, is this really happening right now?

"It's your B-I-R-T-H-day, let's all celebrate..."

Um, where's Alan Funt*?

Seriously, though -- so not cool...

"We'll sing a second verse, and then a third, to prolong your agony..."

No, really, you need to go away now.

Just leave this nice pink ice cream here and we'll call it even.

Shea managed to keep herself together long enough for the singers to disperse so she could get to the business at hand of quickly devouring her entire clown sundae, and now even speaks fondly of that day when we took her for fancy ice cream.

Especially the part about the cherries on top.

*Not that she'd know who this is (was), or anything...