fro-yo father

They're opening a Pinkberry in my craptacular LA suburb. Apparently the uncool nouveau riche need their fro-yo, too, since everybody is back on carbs now. I could link right now to some NYT or LAT article about pinkberry and all its pink pretenders, but this blog is about ORIGINAL content, not links. For some reason, this has given papa bear a yen to frequent the longstanding local frozen treat joint, Penguins. I clearly recall asking him for $5 to get some yogurt last summer, and him saying, "Heck no! Get a job!" Anyway, I think he goes because he knows Penguins won't stand a chance versus Pinkberry.

Anyway, he went out to get a haircut the other day, and asked if I wanted to go with him. Like I'm dying to switch off Law and Order: SVU to watch him get the sides trimmed.

One episode later about rich high-school kids drinking and driving and getting busted by DA Jack McCoy, my dad comes back and tosses me a Penguins frequent buyer stamp card with one stamp on it.

I was like, you chump, how come you didn't get me a frozen yogurt? And he was like, I asked if you wanted to come, and you said no.

I had said no to a trip to the barbershop, not to a trip to Penguins. Lame!

So today, he comes home with two large cups of fro-yo, one for me, one for him. I said thanks, but was he really going to eat an entire large cup of fro-yo? He was like, it's no-fat. I was like, no-fat does not mean no-calories.

He said, yeah, it does!

Plus which, he got rasberry sorbet fro-yo, which is totally gross, and really, who orders a fake version of a fake ice cream? It's like buying an imitation cubic zirconia.

Anyway, I learned two lessons through this, 1) you can't trust your father to get you a fro-yo, and, 2) my father operates according to a logic system known to no other man.