Every morning, I get up before everyone else. Though I suppose it is more accurate to say that no one can be bothered to get up before I wake them.
I do laundry. I make breakfast. (Today was pink pancakes and avocado salad.) I get out the milk and syrup or butter or whatever condiment is appropriate. I eat in a reasonable time frame, and then usually go to the sink to wash the dishes or start hanging laundry because some people take fo-freakin’-evah to eat. It’s like, weird. Any snack within smelling distance gets absorbed almost immediately, but put it on a plate, then stick that plate on the table? Like slugs to a salt bath.
Anyway, at some point after futons have been put away and little people are dressed and brushed and ribboned and packed for the day, I go back to the kitchen, and it’s always there:
The milk on the table.
More often than not, dishes have made it to the general sink vicinity and unwanted food has been disposed of, but what’s up with the milk? It must be invisible. The last person to eat, no matter who that person may be, is unable to see this perishable item that requires returning to it’s cold, frosty home.
And it isn’t just milk, people. This same strange occurance also effects salad dressing and mayonnaise. It’s like there is a blind spot exactly the same size as the expectation that the woman of the house will do everything. This in spite of the fact that all four of us has to leave at the same time in the morning.
It’s just mind boggling that I even need to point this out to other people. If you use it, then put it away. If it’s full, take it out! Life will go much more smoothly on many fronts of you follow these simple rules, I promise.
Build a robot to do it, I don’t care. But please, milk, make it back to the fridge without my direct involvement.