I sit in carline every day for about an hour. Could I come later? Sure. Could I spring from 3 streets over with a toddler in a shitty diaper to get to school by the time the bell rang like I may or may not have done once or twice? Sure. I could do that too, but I prefer the take an hour to listen to Barbie: Secret Door for the 432nd time and play on my phone. I can take a vacation whenever I want to and you can’t stop me. Also, something about being at home – I can’t relax. I can sleep and I can work, but I can’t just sit. In carline, I HAVE to sit AND I can write. Don’t mind if I do.
Some of you might have seen the picture on Facebook, but the other day we received a surprise when we went to the front porch. Apparently if milk is given the opportunity to get really hot- like Colorado in September directly under the mountain sun hot, the milk separates and the dinky little milk top is no match for the gasses that build up. The top of that milk jug went up like star link and my front porch looked like somebody fed a kettle of hawks Taco Bell and directed them to the facilities on our front porch as the only suitable landing zone for their doo doo butter. We weren’t lucky enough for that though. I’m nearly positive that scenario would have been less aromatically assaulting. Instead of doing literally anything else, I spent the heat of that afternoon on my hands and knees with a steel brush scrubbing coagulated 2% off my porch, siding, brick, rocking chairs and ego.
I also had to empty the 2 curd jugs and put them back in the box because we had to return them. In hindsight, I doubt seriously Jerry would have ever given me an ounce of guilt if I had put on my hazmat suit and tossed those bitches into the outside garbage can. But, I didn’t do that. By God’s grace alone, I hesitated before I took the not exploded milk jug into the house to clean it. I turned back and opened it on the front lawn. Have you ever done the mentos experiment? If not, google it. I got about .0001 mm of the plastic fastener off the jug before chunky milk shot up like old yeller raining down whey in the wind.
Globs of milk in my hair. Globs of milk on my clothes. Globs of milk in the roof. Globs of milk everywhere.
It was then that I realized that if my milk box didn’t have a lid, I would have spent my day scraping stalactites off my porch ceiling. Small blessings. 24 hours after the incident and several showers later I could still smell it. It’s now been a month and at least 4 scrubbings and there is still milk splatter paint everywhere.
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