I work with some chatty people. Like, Chatty. At least once a day I fall down a tangent trail that started with a legitimate work question, how do you adjust a doctor’s diary, but ends up in a full on discussion of whether a good corn bread recipe has sugar in it (spoiler alert: it does). And for someone like me, who hasn’t met a person I can’t swap a story with (I was born to be a grandma, spinning tales), sometimes I get lost for the better part of half an hour, and I have to forcibly remove myself or I will spend my entire shift sharing anecdotes.
(Hi, I am a blogger)
Today, I walked into a conversation about losing a bottle of breast milk under the seat of a car, and not finding it for a few days, and the resulting curdled horror that was found in its place. I was under a tight deadline so I couldn’t stay and share my most horrifying, disgusting spoiled milk story. So I’m going to share it with you, here since it so happens to basically be the 10 year anniversary of this revolting story. Aren’t you glad you’re following me?
Flash back ten years ago, I had finished college in January, and I was about to start my first real, full time office job. I was finishing up work for my part-time job, which included running errands like dropping off mail and picking up his groceries. So I go to the store, pick up the eggs, bread, milk, meat, etc, buy them, bring them to my car, and head to his house to deliver. But when I get all the groceries inside, I can’t find the milk! So I check my car, and nothing. I think, ok, I must have left it at the store, no big deal.
I go back to the store, and take my receipt to the counter where I was doing self-checkout. I asked the cashier manning the stations if she saw the milk I left behind. She hadn’t seen anything. Strange, I bought a 1/2 gallon of milk, as you can see, but I don’t have it, it’s not in my car, so I really feel like I left it here. She asks if I checked my car. I said it was the first thing I did. She directs me to customer service, because clearly I am trying to scam my way to a free gallon of milk (90% sure I was in my pajamas with dirty hair, which was my standard uniform of my post-college, full on depression days). I go to customer service, she asks if I checked my car, YES I HAVE. I end up fussing very sternly to the manager (something I don’t normally do), and she finally let me take home another milk. I deliver the milk, get my last paycheck, and go home to pack for Los Angeles, because the next day I was leaving to visit my friend Leah for a week. I tell my parents the story and we all scratch our heads. My dad asks if I checked my car. My brain deflates.
Anywho, I leave for my trip on the first day of a heat wave. I left my keys to my car with my mom, incase something happened with my car. About 4 days into my trip, I get a call from my mom.
“Hello!” (we always answer the phone in exclamation points)
“We found… the milk.”
My mom then proceeds to tell me the story:
She and my dad were going to visit my grandpa in Ohio, and they decided to take my car (without asking, btw) since it had better gas mileage. They opened the doors and were hit with an especially foul smell. They figured it was just because the car sat in extreme heat for four days, and that it would air out once the car got moving and the air conditioner turned on. They got about 2 minutes down the road before they had to stop at a gas station, because it was evident that something had crawled inside my car and died, and the vomitous the smell was not going to go away. They both got out, and my dad inspected the trunk – nothing. Under the driver’s seat? Nothing. Under the passenger seat?
Oh. WHAT. THE. FUCK.
The half gallon of milk hadn’t disappeared. It was on its side, in a puddle of rancid, boiled, cottage cheese diarrhoea. Apparently the milk slid under the seat when I put the groceries in, and I didn’t see it. I didn’t have any idea that could happen. And with the heat wave, the jug exploded. And with the continued heat wave, the milk just turned into every form of vile, globular, sulfuric acid baby shit mixed with hot spoiled eggs that it could.
So they (somehow) drove the car to a detailer, where the poor workers cleaned out the putrid shit lake, and cut the upholstery out of the floor, because there is no other way to get rid of spoiled dairy smell.
She wasn’t calling me just to let me know they fixed my car. She was calling from the road to complain to me that the botulism bomb I left had seriously delayed their trip. ARE YOU KDDING ME? I told her that decomposing dairy dump was an anti-theft deterrent, and also, you know, KARMA for stealing my car for a long distance journey.
Right? Am I right?
All summer, that car vaguely smelled like rotten milk. But I learned something valuable. 1) it is possible to lose a half gallon of milk under the seat of my car
2) soured, putrid milk lake isn’t a very effective theft deterrent when gas is nearly $3.50/gallon
So there you have it, my putrid dairy story. Happy Monday!
3 thoughts on “Spoiled milk tales”
Don’t fergit the Chinese leftovers you left in the car Ed!
Bahahaha!!! Oh man! As soon as I read the title I knew where this was going. Who could forget the forgotten milk jug!? I can’t believe that was 10yrs ago!
I remember Jess remarking that the cut out carpet would mess with the resale value. I also recall thinking that perhaps she should ride in the car with said carpet……