Dairy Queen Birthday Girl

My guess was that Dairy Queen is older than Mom. I can't envision her agreeing to be born without the certainty of a small cone of Dairy Queen vanilla ice cream ordered up. Turns out, I was wrong. According to my source for everything Wikipedia, Dairy Queen is younger than Mom by a couple of years. Nonprofitable years, I'm sure. To celebrate Mom's 75th birthday, she and I road-tripped through Georgia. We kicked off things with her birthday party at Aunt Atlanta's digs. It was the biggest party Mom ever had and that was without dancing on the table. We stopped to visit Sis at the lake. Right on cue, her extended clan ooh'd, ahh'd and begged her to bake a Red Velvet Cake, obviously they don't know about my cake baking history. And we tracked down Bro to run our figurative white gloves over his multi-million dollar construction project. We swung by houses we used to live in, picked up some free pecans and argued over how low the gas gauge could fall. I won as the car never ran out of gas. One of us bought a peculiar bird house and tried a grits martini. Mom doesn't drink. One of us also ordered Wendy's French fries before noon and sprung for the cute key fob that allows for a free mini Frosty with purchase throughout the summer.  And every day was Dairy Queen Day.  I would order a chocolate-dipped vanilla ice cream cone; Mom would order a thoroughly modern Blizzard. She carefully made each bite of her treat last. I frantically tried to drive and gobble my ice cream before it melted. I have a lot left to learn from Mom, like when to drive and when not to.