The summer after my junior year in high school (1996), I had a boyfriend. Named Ned. (Not joking.) We were together all of two months. Anyway, another one of my friends named Ahren was dating a guy named Sean (which, when I was younger, I thought it was pronounced "Seen". One of those weird spellings. Like Seamus is pronounced "Shay-mus". Didn't know that for a long time, either.)
But I digress. So Ahren and I decided that we'd plan a double date for our boyfriends, and it was going to be awesome. We had a candlelight dinner at the park planned, and making homemade ice cream...the whole romantic nine yards, I guess. Or something like that. We had our other friends drive them around for a while blindfolded while we set some things up, then met them and took over. We drove around for a while, then went to our candlelight dinner. Which, if I'm remembering right, was going to be, like, cold cereal. I don't know why we thought that was a good idea, but whatever.
Anyway, I grew up in Idaho Falls, which is a very windy place to live. We tried time and again to light our candles and keep them lit outside, and it just wasn't working. And then Sean and Ned decided to start...sabotaging our date.
I don't know what it was. Maybe it was our poor planning. Maybe it was 17-year-old boys and their awesome maturity level. Maybe it was just in the air. But our date went from bad to worse. Both Ned and Sean kept making dumb snarky comments, and just acting like idiots.
We ended up at Ahren's house, where we wanted to make homemade ice cream. The way we learned is you mix a few ingredients in a bag, set it in a bag of salt and ice cubes, wrap it in newspaper, and then shake it for a long long time. We did it successfully in Young Women's or something, and thought it would be a great idea. So Ned and Sean, being as awesome as they were, started throwing the bags of ice cream around really, really hard, and really high up in the air (we were outside). Well, Ned threw the bag of ice cream to Sean, and... it hit my car.
Now, my car was not a fancy car. It was a light blue 1983 Honda Accord. It had been my dad's, and it got passed down to the girls when we were in high school. There were so many things wrong with it. The tape player wouldn't work-it would make the sounds all garbled. We had to plug it in in the winter so that it would start up. Someone had stolen the head rests, so we found some from a car parts place that were brown, and the car parts place spray painted them blue to match the rest of the interior. It had plastic thingies sticking out on the sides of the seats. It was a beater, but it was my beater.
So when the ice cream hit my baby (which we had dubbed the Ocean Car, because of some lame Disney Australian show called Ocean Girl, and the fact that the tapes playing sounded like underwater music-oh yeah, and it was blue), which, mind you, it barely tapped my car, I just LOST it. I grabbed the ice cream bag, whipped around, and threw it as hard as I possibly could. I wasn't even aiming at anything, I just threw. Well, my boyfriend Ned just happened to be standing a few feet away, and the bag full of hard ice cubes and everything else hit him right in, shall we say, a delicate nether region.
I should have felt bad. I kind of felt bad, but only a little. But I kind of started laughing, too, when he crumpled to the ground and starting moaning and rocking back and forth. It actually felt kind of good to get back at him for being such a jerk on the date that we had planned, even though my throw was unintentional.
I don't remember the rest of the date. I don't know if we ended up eating the ice cream or not, or if we just called it a night (a very weird, frustrating night).
But I will always love my Ocean Car.
(Dude, I can't believe I found a clip of the show Ocean Girl on youtube! Watch out, it's a super awesome show! Actually, I never watched it, but I always saw the previews: "Did you see that?" "What?" "There was a girl! A girl in the ocean!" Good times, my friends.)