Milk in Bags is Simply Wrong

By Jim Hagarty
2012

It is with no small irony that I find myself crying over spilled milk several times a week. I have not developed the knack for properly cutting open milk bags to put in the jug and hence, milk dribbles all over when I first pour some.

My reaction is always the same – outsized outrage accompanied by threats of physical harm to the inventor of the plastic milk bag. Even as I lose it, I am aware of the irony that I am disobeying the time-worn injunction and crying over milk that has spilled.

My wife’s reaction to each of my meltdowns is always the same. She comes with a dishcloth to clean up the mess, lets out a long sigh, and says in a sing-songy voice, “It’s not the end of the world.”

This difference in approach to tiny nuisances probably explains why were are into our third decade of marriage. If we were both of exactly the same temperament, we probably would have burned down somebody’s house by now.

Author: Jim Hagarty

I am a 72-year-old retired journalist, busy recovering from a lifelong career as an unretired journalist. This year marks a half century of my scratching out little fables about life. My interests include genealogy, humour and music. I live in a little blue shack in Canada and spend most of my time trying to stay out of trouble. I am not that good at it. I also spent years teaching journalism. Poor state of journalism today: My fault. I have a family I don't deserve, a dog that adores me, and two cars the junk yard refuses to accept. My prized possessions include my old guitar and a razor my Dad gave me when I was 14 and which I still use when I bother to shave. Oh, and my great-great-grandfather's blackthorn stick he brought from Ireland in the 1850s. I have only one opinion but it is a good one: People take too many showers.