Scott and I have always been a 2-jars-of-peanut-butter couple. That is, he likes creamy, I like crunchy, and never the twain shall meet. Nobody has to compromise; nobody should have to. There’s plenty of room in the cabinet.
Well, I hate to admit it, but we’ve lately become a 3-milk household. I’ve started using skim, figuring every little bit counts in the epic battle against my hips. Scott finds skim milk, even on cereal, about as appealing as formaldehyde, and insists on 1%. Then there’s whole milk for the baby.
There’s NOT plenty of room in the fridge, especially now that I finally got tired of going to the store every other day and brought home a gallon (a METRIC gallon! Yay, Canada!) of homo milk.
You heard me right, American readers: here in Canada we call whole milk “Homo Milk”. It’s printed right on the carton and on the shelves at the store. Wanna make something of it? What’re you, eight?
Actually, Scott and I joke about it all the time, puerile beings that we be. Why is there no religious right to speak of in Canada? They were scared off by all the homo milk! Har de har har har!
(Note to my gay and Canadian and gay Canadian friends who read this: you know I love you. I am the original fruit fly. [uh, is there a comparable term for someone who likes Canadians?] I’m just having lots and lots of milk issues right now because the entire top shelf of my fridge is full up with THREE KINDS OF MILK and it’s making me CRAZY!)
