Earlier this month, I ordered two dozen eggs. What I got was twenty eggs and four wee gooey messes. But hey, they’re eggs. It happens. I emailed them and they credited me the cost of the eggs.
This week, I ordered a half-gallon of lactose-free milk. What I got was lactose-free curds and whey. Had I not been putting chocolate syrup into the milk, and watching as I stirred it around, I probably would have just handed the cup to my kid and said, here you go, drink up. I cringe to think of what could have happened after that.
I don’t care how long you’ve been a parent and/or how many kids you have — cleaning spoiled milk kid-barf off your floor, your bed, or [shudder] yourself, is fucking disgusting.
You’re keeping a placid, soothing exterior to calm and tend to your kid, but on the inside you’re going, oh my sweet baby jesus in heaven this is so unbelievably freakin’ foul. how can one child vomit so much? how is it possible? oh god oh god oh god this is so gross. i’m going to need like, eight showers after this just to get the goddamned puke smell out of my nose.
Let me tell you, had I not noticed the milk had turned, and the inevitable kid-barf ensued, I’m pretty sure I would have cleaned up, packed up, and hopped on a train to LIC, so I could pop into the FreshDirect office, where I would surely punch someone in the neck.
You better watch it, FD. I’m small, but I am freakin’ scrappy.