Now, it happens rarely at best, but I felt like staying in bed longer this morning. Usually I'm up and about before the dawn of day, but I just didn't have the foot twitching obnoxiousness to bolt from the bed and sing, "Good mornin! Good mornin'! We've talked the whole night through! Good mornin'! Good mornin' to you!" today. (Come on! I know there have to be some Singin' in the Rain fans out there!)

But Sophie is used to our routine, and she couldn't understand why I wouldn't want to get up and play and give her morning treats. She couldn't quite get the concept of my very large vodka grapefruit the night before, or my waking to her gagging on a hairball at the end of the bed at 3:00 a.m and how I couldn't get back so sleep after I got up to clean the mess. She kept jumping to the bed—she can jump even without claws! (I really do say the most clever things with very little vodka.)—and pouncing on us, hunkering down for the surprise attack and moments later one of us would groan at the impact.

It went on for well over an hour, until Nick, who never gets out of bed before daybreak on a Saturday, purred in his husky morning voice (that I used to find attractive), "Dear? Why don't you get up. She likes it when you're downstairs."

In case you don't speak Nick, that's code for, "She won't stop until one of us gets up. I think it should be you...because I want to sleep."

I was getting an upgrade to my car shortly after I bought it last Fall—an auto-dim compass mirror—when the mechanic says to me conversationally, "You know, everybody says that the police target people in little red cars..." and I nodded curtly. "...but really, it's that people that buy little red cars are very Type A."

I didn't appreciate that.

But I had a moment of dawning today on the highway, my irritation peaking as I switched from lane to lane, trying to find a flow of traffic with a pair of balls big enough to go respectably over the speed limit. Um. It's called RUSH hour.

Finally, accepting that 63 in a 55 zone was the best I was going to do, my head fell forward in disappointment, and I saw my disappointment mirrored by the driver in the car ahead of me...his head nearly banging against the steering wheel of his little red car.

I noticed it at our local Culver's Memorial Day Weekend's Saturday, but I managed to not get there to clean them out. The flavor sounded so totally requisite in my life and I had to have it: Blueberry Cheesecake Custard. That was the day we went to Brat Fest in the pouring rain and Nicholas had a conniption over the Boca brat I insisted on having. Not that I'm bitter.

The day ran out on me, and I lacked the initiative to go back out into the cold rainy night. I regretted so the next day when I awoke to that longing. I have never known a desire so great for something I've never tasted, but I can easily see the feasibility of the craving for my imagination's object trumping all others.

By that Monday, I was desperate and logged onto Culver's site to find the next sighting of that particular flavor of the day. I found it at the Northport branch, which I pass every day on my way to work. It was to be there June 12th. I circled it on my calendar and told all I'd pass to spread the goodness that I knew must be Blueberry Cheesecake Custard. Easily, I prefer frozen custard to ice cream if I'm going to indulge—so silky and smooth, I think it is made of silver cloud linings.

I told Jim Sunday when we went biking. Turns out, that was a good move. I received an email yesterday that told me I did not have to, in fact, wait until the twelfth for the object of my desire, because it was the flavor of the day at the Culver's in Middleton. Now, okay. I am not familiar with Middleton or the West Side at all...well, except to get to the UW Hospital. I didn't grow up close to either area and my parents stuck to the areas they knew...namely, De Forest and Sun Prairie. It was a big deal the first time Mom drove to the East Side Shop-ko all by herself.

So, when I got back from the gym, and I let loose my enthusiasm upon Nick that BLUEBERRY CHEESECAKE CUSTARD WAS AT THE MIDDLETON CULVER'S!, he replied that we would take a ride after dinner. So, we're in the car and he asks, "Which Culver's is it?" I stared blankly. "There are four," he explains. I whine that I don't know, that all Jim said was that it was a Middleton Culver's and he didn't say which one. "I guess we'll just drive around until we find it then," he sighs with aggravation.

I was feeling pouty myself by that point. Nick was the one that suggested we go after dinner—I certainly wouldn't have because I didn't know where it was—and now he was giving me attitude. He's such a diva.

I see a Culver's sign in the distance and squint. "THAT'S IT! THAT'S THE ONE!" I point happily, forgetting to hold my pout. He turns and I buy a half gallon of the flavor of the day. "First one we drove by!" I cheer. Nick looks at me with that smile that I hate...the one that tells me that he's having way too much fun at my expense, and worse, that I've been completely unaware.

"Did you really think I didn't know where I was going?" Cocky.

"Well, you said there were four."

"There's only one."

I'm old school. I BELIEVE WHAT PEOPLE SAY.

My irritation dissipated as I made my lackey-boyfriend fill my car with gas and serve me custard. It disappeared altogether when I wrapped my mouth around the creamy gift from God, my eyes rolling back and mewling sounds catching in my throat.

Nick who?