So, when I was in the gas station today, it reeked horribly of spoiled milk. It reminded me of a cherished story that I will share with you now.
Back in the day, my wife and I owned a house. Just prior, we lived in a duplex that had an unhealthy number of mice that also called the place home. Now, mice don't really bug me as much as some, namely my dearest love. The sight of one elicits such a piercing scream that it alerts anyone in the near vicinity (similar to a noise someone would make if they sliced off their hand accidentally), and it also causes our dog (who dearly loves mice) to go into a hunting frenzy!
While unsure how a solitary mouse crept into our new abode, it most certainly did. I was at work, and received a frantic call that there was A MOUSE! BEHIND THE STOVE! I did what I could to supress any sort of laughter fear on the phone, and told her to hold tight until I returned.
Little did I know what was in store for me.
Hours later, when I returned from a particularly agonizing day of work, I saw my love huddled on the couch. It looked like she had assumed the floor was hot lava (because mice make hot lava floors), and my dog was absolutely ecstatic, with an expression that said "Look, dad! I'm hunting!!" After trying to get the mouse to give itself up and come out, the only way I could get my wife to leave the safety of the couch-island was to agree to go to Home Depot to get some mousetraps. So we did.
Now, I know how to set mousetraps. But Home Depot didn't have regular mousetraps, they had 'improved' mousetraps, and nothing else. They featured a plastic trigger plate instead of a metal one. After returning home, the only improvement I saw was that it bruised my fingers at an incredible rate. After finally baiting and setting the traps, I thought my task was done, and we could retire to the bed-island, safe from mice and lava.
I was wrong.
My love also discovered what she identified as "mouse holes" (I thought they were for pipe access) under the sink and behind the water heater. So I had to seal them up. IMMEDIATELY. That task was surprisingly laborious, especially since I was really irritable to begin with from the long work day and swollen mousetrapped fingers. They were in tough spots, too, and I had to tape them shut with cardboard and duct tape (well-known mice deterrents).
I finally was able to sleep around eleven-thirty that evening, still mildly cross about the whole debacle. My final task was to dispose of the mouse when captured, dead or alive. So, a few short hours later, before leaving for work, I checked behind the stove. Sure enough, there it was, the mouse-turned-supervillain itself, slain by its insatiable desire for peanut butter. Poor guy. He looked so peaceful, lying prostrate on the deadly mechanism. I decided to let him remain for the time being. Out of respect for the dead, of course.
Early morning, I got a call from my dearest, asking if the mouse was there in the morning. I assured her it was not (sort of a 100% lie). I chuckled to myself after the call.
Around lunchtime, I received another call. She sounded frantic--she could smell the mouse now, and I think she may have even looked at it too.
"I need you to come home to get rid of it!" she declared.
"I can't," I said.
"Well, send one of your soldiers to get it!"
"No way. That's illegal. See if Indy would take it outside for you!"
"That's gross! Absolutely not!"
"And you're sure you won't do it, even with gloves?" I said. I probably shouldn't have. She didn't respond nicely after that. She did end up asking our neighbor to do it (and the neighbor's daughter, of eight years of age, also proudly volunteered). The unliving terror was finally purged from our abode. I told her what actually happened some weeks later. She was a charming response between funny and mad, and seemed to get over it very quickly. A little...too quickly.
Now, I said this story is about bad milk, and I'm getting to that. I told you that story in order to tell you this one:
I absolutely cannot stand %1 milk. You can make %1 milk by taking %2 milk and adding water. It's nasty milk-water, and I stand firm on my assessment. I will not drink it, period. And to that effect, we are a 2% milk household, bottom line. My love has committed "slight treason" from time to time by buying the impure substitute, but I won't have it.
So it came to pass that I went to the refrigerator to obtain some of this cow-nectar, and on opening the carton, I realized it smelled sour. Which was weird, because it was almost full.
"Hey, babe," I commented, "the milk seems bad..."
"Oh, it's not! I just bought it."
"Are you sure? It smells sour."
"Yeah, maybe it's just the outside rim that smells."
"Sure..." I say, while checking the date. "HEY! This milk expired two weeks ago!"
She begins to laugh maniacally and almost falls off of the couch. "I've been reusing the same %2 carton for two weeks, and I've been putting %1 milk inside of it! You've been drinking 1% milk!"
My blood ran cold as I began to realize what had just happened.
I had been outmaneuvered. Hoodwinked! Bamboozled! I had let my guard down, and as a result I had poisoned myself with the nasty milk-water, and I hadn't even noticed. My wife was laughing so hard she was almost crying.
Let me tell you, my wife is the coolest person I know.
P.S. The 1% milk didn't kill me, by the way. I still drink 2% milk, but it's only out of principle now. And I always check the expiration date.
