It's About Milk

As a single man, I would occasionally think:

Milk sound good. 

And I would open the refrigerator door, grab the big white thing, put the opening to my mouth and cross into a state of not-yet-lactose-intolerant bliss. 

Now, as a married man with two small children, I occasionally think:

Milk sound good.

And I open the refrigerator.

Hand sticky.

And there is no milk.

Where milk?

My brain struggles with several contradictory notions.  My wife would rather give up chocolate for a day than keep our children from milk for a single moment, but yet here I stand, in front of a refrigerator lacking milk.  And Jennifer Lopez is on the TV talking to James Lipton, inside the very Actors' Studio itself.  

So I stand.  And I stare.  And I stare.  The air conditioner for the house turns itself off, its work done for the evening.

As I eventually and reflexively reach for the door to close it, I see that some sort of trick has been played:

Milk in door!  New fridge sneaky.

But there’s no time for joy; the door holds not one but five containers of milk.  I must now pull my attention away from the star of Anaconda and Gigli and dedicate all of my cerebral resources to solving the puzzle before me. 

I see, down low, a paper carton of milk proudly displaying the milkfat percentage I prefer.  Since I know how to operate the paper carton, my pulse quickens.  But as I lift it I can see that the carton has not been opened, and a quick glance around the room confirms my worst fear:

Woman near.

I now have the onus of cross-checking the date on this carton against every other container in the refrigerator, or risk the lifetime of scorn that comes with the sin of improper dairy rotation.  

But the other milk containers scare me.  See, apparently store-bought milk has been killing us softly for years, so our family now has milk delivered.  A key component of the milk delivery scam is the recycling of plastic bottles, thus each bottle in our fridge is in a different stage of beaten-downedness.  On one of the better bottles I can make out what appears to be blue ribbon; the worst of the bottles looks to be filled with banana milk.  

Mmm, banana milk. 

Since the bottles themselves make no attempt at revealing the precious details of their contents, I am forced to use the lids to determine the relative age and fatness of the milk.  I see red lids and gold lids, neither of which trigger “Daddy’s Milk” in my feeble brain.  I resolve to dedicate the upcoming weekend to the development of an international standard for the lid-color-to-milkfat-percentage relationship, then wrestle a random bottle from the door and commence with reading the lid.

Wheeee!

I’ve lucked out and picked the milkfat percentage I prefer on the first try. 

But, of course: there is no date on these bottles.  Within minutes, I realize this is not the type of problem that can be solved by a man.  I must turn to the woman.  So I ask, "Why don't these bottles of milk have dates on them?"

"They were just delivered yesterday," comes the answer to the question I asked.

"What’s with the paper carton?"

"I bought that over the weekend.  I thought we were going to run out of [the milkfat percentage you prefer]."

"So I drink the stuff from the carton first!"

"No, drink the bottles first.  Those from the store have chemicals in them, so they last longer."

For a moment I consider asking if by “chemicals” she means “pasteurization,” but I refrain.  Instead, I go with: "So I'm paying more for milk that sours faster than store milk?"  I don’t hear anything, which isn’t good, so I look up.

That look mad.  Woman mean.  Better make up some feelings, fast.

"I love you, baby.  You take such good care of us."

Now I'm faced with this junkyard bottle and its mysterious lid.  At this point, I question the depth of my desire for milk.  After all, I'll have to make a trip to the trash bin to dispose of the lid sealer thingie, and I’m sure to drip milk on the counter, meaning even more work.  

But then, just when hope is growing somewhat disoriented, I see a large pan of brownies on the counter and realize:

Milk sound good.

So I rip off the lid sealer thingie quite expertly, quickly resolve the "pull vs. unscrew" dilemma (expert tip: pull first, since unneeded unscrewing can waste valuable minutes if you’re not paying attention), glide my way past the trash can, effortlessly tear off a square and three-eighths of paper towel (since I'll need it for the brownie anyway, sucker!), and pour myself a tall, glorious glass of milk.  It contains the exact percentage of milkfat I prefer.  

I replace the lid, deftly find a spot in the refrigerator for the bottle, and close the door.  I make a quick stop at the brownie pan on my way to the kitchen table, where I slide into my proper place at the head of the table. 

I breathe deeply and slowly re-focus my attention on J-Lo’s improbable tales of skin-related bashfulness. 

Then, I hear, "You just gonna leave that paper carton on the counter?"

Stupid milk.