Good news: Lindsay got frustrated enough with me to make another sign. This one’s about milk. Despite many nice requests for me to stop, I continue to use the wrong milk on my cereal. Sometimes we have multiple cartons in the fridge, and occasionally I ignore the already-opened one so as to experience the shear joy of tasting the pure, fresh, cold, crisp, new milk on my 9pm bowl of Marshmallow Oaties. A few days ago I opened the fridge and found this:
I believe the font she used is called, “CURSE OF THE MONKEY’S PAW”. Such a terrifying note for such a tame request. Should we also have a hatchet stuck in our front door with the words, “PLEASE REMOVE SHOES BEFORE ENTERING” carved into it? I understand that her marker choices may have been limited, but our fridge looked like it belonged to a family of vampires.
I’ll tell you what I did when I saw that sign, though: I drank the other milk. I’m not an idiot. But look at it, just sitting there all blue and green, with clouds and happiness. The one next to it is the whole milk, which I don’t drink unless I’m angry with myself (I almost always mutter something about life being meaningless while pouring whole milk). What you don’t see is the other carton of fat free milk; the sad, faded, worn-out, abused, ripped-up carton of crap milk that I was being encouraged–apparently through threat of death– to finish before enjoying the delicious new milk (which I’d already opened the night before, hence the note.)
The sign didn’t last for long though; we were having guests over and Lindsay didn’t want them to know that she leaves threatening notes for her husband telling him which milk he’s allowed to drink. The next morning a new note appeared. It was nicer, as if she’d decided this milk situation was no longer worth killing me over. Behold:
Green means go. Such a friendly, non-threatening note. “Hey, what’s up guys! Welcome to the refrigerator. My name is Other Milk. Let me know if you need any help finding anything. Oh, by the way, I really like your necklace :)”
Later that night, when I went to make myself a bowl of cereal, I became paralyzed with confusion. The old red sign said, “Drink Other Milk…” and now, on the same carton, was a new sign that said “Other Milk.” Was I to assume that she’d changed her mind about which milk I could drink? Had the forbidden suddenly become the preferred? Or was this some kind of evil trick? I trusted my instincts, took a deep, hopeful breath and drank the milk…without a sign on it. Yes, I’m still alive.
From now on, though, for the safety of me and anyone else who opens our refrigerator looking for milk, we will have two signs:
xxxxxxxx DO NOT DRINK ME xxxxxxxxx
DRINK ME :)Buy My Book! Indiebound
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