So, I stopped off at the local Oberweis dairy store to buy some fresh egg nog. It's the holidays, after all. It felt unfamiliar - very vintage - buying a half gallon of egg nog in a glass jar. Yep, just like the old days.
Then I bought a milkshake.
But, I digress.
Arriving home, arms full of holiday packages, a carry-out meal, and a library book, I set the egg nog on the counter and went to take off my coat.
Honestly, first I did an arm-sweep to clear a landing place for the egg nog bottle. I mentioned the whole holiday thing, right?
So, dinner from Styrofoam was nothing to speak of, and the movie I rented was trash. And, my belly was feeling a bit...queasy. Hmm, did I mention the milkshake? Maybe a small would have been better a better choice.
Naps are good.
Good for stress.
Good for rumbly tummies - even if you are an adult.
An hour later I heard such a clatter, I sprang from my bed to see what was the matter. Actually, I awoke hearing a... *pop*
Yes, like the tale, I actually went to the front window, saw that everything was quiet and admired the new fallen snow on the objects below.
You can't make this stuff up.
Bleary eyed, I turned off the TV and lights and headed to the kitchen to put away the egg nog.
What is this stuff on the....no!
No, no, no, no......no.
Cream colored goo inched its way along the counter, down the cabinets, and across the Pergo floor like spilled paint.
Ecru. I believe.
So, I learned the lesson I'm sure my mother knew:
Egg nog has live cultures.
Which produce gas.
And, the elasticity of glass is - finite.
Or, something like that...I'll ask Alton Brown the next time I see him.
Oh, and did I mention that directly below the counter, where the glass bottle still stood - the left half blown away completely like the remnant of some 1940's military experiment...the kitchen drawer was open.
Open just 2 inches.
Oh, and it's the junk drawer filled with calculators, menus, pens announcing the candidacy of everyone who has run in the Chicago suburban elections going back a decade. You know the stuff.
Drip, drip, drip...into the drawer.
I stood there.
"Do I put on shoes?"
Things on the counter were goopy - and gaining in gooposity - as the egg nog crept towards new landscape.
Oh, no, my camera!
It's in the goopage!
I wiped down what I could of the counter, emptied the drawer of its milky mess, and rapidly ran out of paper products.
Grabbing a kitchen towel, ironically, a green gingham 40's pattern - I started to wipe up the floor. And rinse. *Drip* And, rinse, and...repeat.
Now, the only thing worse than finding yourself half asleep, on your knees in your kitchen, giving your floor an impromptu cleaning...is finding yourself, in said position, employing a lactose-laden kitchen towel...while cursing the explorer who first discovered nutmeg.
Wipe. Rinse. Repeat.
I soon found myself doing that "stepping on the towel, scooting one foot in front of the other thing" - doing my best impersonation of Lucille Ball. But, I was in flannel. No pearls. Maybe next time.
OK...it must be clean by now.
Wipe. Rinse. Repeat.
Wanted to cry...
But, I heard the punchline first.
Now, I really understood what they meant.
Both in cleaning and in cost.
I didn't even have one sip of that egg nog. And, unless the store accepts shards, I won't be getting my 85 cent bottle deposit back either.
Now, I'm sore and thirsty.
I think I'll have some...water.
Tomorrow, when it dries out, I'll discover the fate of my camera...*snif*
And, for the record, I am officially lactose intolerant, at least as it relates to egg nog this holiday season.
Now, I'm off to Google the explorer who first discovered nutmeg.
To curse his name correctly.