Skip to main content

Got milk?



   I was staying at my daughter’s apartment on a recent visit and guess what she said?
   “Who left an empty milk carton in the refrigerator?”
   It brings a tear to my eye just thinking about it. Do you know how many years I’ve lived going to the refrigerator, opening the door bleary-eyed at 6 a.m., picking up the milk carton and then watching as the milk dribbles out into my coffee mug? Decades people, not years.
   I have actually gone to sleep at night resting assured that there was more than enough milk for me to use in the morning only to wake up to a splash left in the carton. A splash. Not enough for cereal, not enough for my coffee, not enough for an ant to swallow.
   Do kids think that by leaving the empty carton in the refrigerator overnight some kind of milk fairy will come and put enough in so their mothers won’t shriek at them first thing in the morning? What are they thinking? And it’s no use yelling at them because you know they didn’t do it. Clearly some stranger came in the middle of the night and drank it.
   An empty milk carton can lead me to do things that might warrant a thorough evaluation by a caseworker.  I can take a lot, but that empty carton pushes me over the edge every time.  They all know I’m not pretty in the morning, nor am I happy so unless you enjoy having your head bitten off at 6 in the morning, you really ought to make sure there’s a little milk left for my coffee.
   And an empty milk carton means I have to make the morning milk run, which only makes matters worse.
   I’ve thrown my coat on over my pajamas and driven to the store in my slippers hundreds of times. The corner store sales clerk has seen me in my pajama pants more than my current husband. I’ve slammed the carton of milk on the counter so hard you’d think it would rupture. I grunt at his “Good morning,” and grab the milk and go. Who wants to start their day like this? Nobody my friends, nobody. And all because they couldn’t bring themselves to tell me the milk was gone. I ask you, is it better to tell me the night before when I’m still in my jeans and relatively sane, or would you rather wait until I’m a monster in the morning? It doesn’t make sense.
   And now here was my baby girl, my flesh and blood, going through the same thing. She had expected to pour some milk in her coffee and all she had in her carton was sour air. If she would have flared her nostrils a little when she said, “Who left the empty milk carton in the refrigerator?” she would have looked just like me 30 years ago. It did my heart some good to see her that way.  What comes around, goes around. 

  People say I am ruthless. I am not ruthless. And if I find the man who is calling me ruthless, I shall destroy him.
Robert Kennedy

Comments

Anonymous said…
It's like when they come of age and you go to bed with six LaBatt Blue's in the frig and wake up with none.
Go drink her beer, I say!

Popular posts from this blog

Getting well takes baby steps

So I’ve had what you could call a case of the pneumonia. It was not pleasant. And to top it off it happened in San Antonio, Texas. Like I wasn’t sweating before the fever.
I was there to see my niece Michelle, who by the way kept asking me, “Are you going to write about this?” which is funny because she’s a writer too. I naturally said, “Oh no, of course not.” And here we are.
Thinking back, the best part of that trip teeters between meeting my two great-nephews, Oliver and Isaac, and having a couple of beers with their Yaya, my sister, who I haven’t had beers with in decades. Like I said, it’s a toss-up. There’s also the fact that I got to spend time with my niece’s husband Alex. He’s a hardcore military guy. He teaches other military guys how to be military policemen. I’m not going to gamble on writing anything about him. He’s from Wisconsin though, which I like. And he likes to cook, which I also like.
I thought to myself before I ever left my nice cocoon of Martha’s Vineyard to tra…

Just sitting around doing jack

I think my blog may have been hijacked. I haven’t written in forever because I’ve been writing …for my job, which may mean I’m no longer a “jobless goddess.” I may just be a regular goddess.
I love the word jack. I could use that all day. Whatever, hopefully those who want to read the blog will read. Back to jack. It’s a cool freaking word. I had a brother-in-law named Jack who pretty much personified the word “cool.” He’s gone too soon and missed by everybody.
There’s Billy Jack, get back Jack, Jack Sprat, Jack Nicholson, Jack Berry, Jack in the Box, Jumping Jack Flash. And my favorite, a little ditty my sister introduced me to, “Jack Mother.” This is a something you say when someone cuts you off on the highway. “I’m sorry officer, I was cut off by that Jack Mother in the blue Subaru.”
My brother Steve has a friend named Jack. I thought he was about the greatest thing ever when I was 12. Who are we kidding? I probably still do. Jackie was hilariously funny and I loved to watch my brot…

Little women

I’m getting a real kick out of my co-workers these days. I’m working with about a half dozen young women — young being the operative word.
They’re all so freaking competent it kills me. They can write like it’s nobody’s business, they all take great photos to go with their stories, and they almost always laugh at my jokes. I call them ‘the girls.’
They’re either about to go to university, just leaving university, or all done with it and on their way. They do yoga and eat a lot of avocados. We live on Martha’s Vineyard and none of them know who John Belushi is but they all know they should keep using the same plastic cup for take out iced coffee over and over and over again. If they see a bug, they think twice before killing it. Actually they leave it for me to kill because they couldn’t possibly… and they know I won’t hesitate.
We get along just fine the girls and me. Oh, there’s a little trouble when I insist on running the window air conditioner up in our second floor office —ramsha…