I have a Milk Stalker

Today started out like any other normal day.  I cursed the alarm clock as it brought me out of my hazy reverie and into another work day, I ate an unhealthy breakfast, and I made it to work almost on time.  I sat through an incredibly long meeting and tried to make sure I didn’t look as bored as I felt.  And then I got a text:

Unknown number: I just drank soooooo much milk.

Anastasia Firmbottom: Who is this and why was I not invited to the milk party?

Uknown number: Mmmmmmmmmmmm.  2%, 1%, whole or chocolate.  I loooooooove it. 

Now, upon occasion I have been known to invite friends for a good old fashioned milk party.  Nobody’s really taken me up on the offer, and it’s probably a good thing because besides drinking milk, I’m not sure of what more the party would consist.  I just know that from time to time, it’s nice to celebrate and indulge in things that are delicious.  Milk is on the list, alongside it’s great competitors for my affection, cheese and ice cream.  I can’t really say which of these is best, but let’s just say when God decides he’s had enough of my shenanigans, I’m sure he’ll punish me by inflicting lactose intolerance or something.  I think the etymology of the phrase “milk party” goes back to a stilted, awkward conversation I had with an old friend I hadn’t seen in a while.  I felt pressed for time and wit and during a lull in the conversation, told them we should get together some time soon and have ourselves a milk party.  I’m just saying, sometimes when the golden goose is under a lot of pressure, it doesn’t deliver golden eggs, it just poops.  That’s a metaphor, kids.  Learn it; live it. 

In any case, my friends and I embraced the phrase and idea, as we are wont to do with all things ridiculous, and occasionally would speak of having these parties.  So clearly when I received the aforementioned texts, my thoughts jumped to friends I’d invited previously.  This number didn’t match any of those friends.  And it continued:

UN: There is soooo much milk in my mouth as I’m texting this it’s spilling out of my mouth.

UN: A little bit just got on my sleeve.

UN: My favorite black activist is obviously MLK.

Clearly, I had a milk stalker on my hands.  Now, all my phone numbers were erased recently, so it was entirely possible that it was another friend that hadn’t updated their information with me.  But I couldn’t be sure.  Anastasia Firmbottom, PI, was on the case. 

AFPI: Have you only texted to bring me pain?  Clearly you know of my affinity for milk products.  Either that or you are a pervert.  Or a history buff.

UN: You know what would be awesome?  A Milkata.  It’s like a Piñata only full of milk. 

Side note: I hate piñatas.  I have a disdain for them that’s only shared by mayonnaise and those that have brought me chocolate syrup, claiming it’s hot fudge.  They are not the same thing, people.

Clearly, we were getting nowhere.  I advertised my stalked status on Facebook.  He noticed.

Milk Stalker: Not wise of you to advertise my activity on your facebook.  Just for that I’m going to buy $5 of Vons finest milk and throw it away unopened.

AFPI: You wouldn’t!  What about starving children?  What about the cows????

Number one, that’s just wasteful.  Throwing away food out of spite is like kicking hungry kids in the stomach: unneighborly.  Number two, if I was a cow and people were just throwing away my milk, I’d be pissed.  “Why am I working my nips off here so you can just throw it out?!  Oh, because I have an udder it must be easy.  No, no, you’re right; just keep squeezing.  Asshole.”  I’ll probably feel the same if I have kids and decide to breastfeed.  “Look, we have to talk about this spitting up business.  You’re making a mess, and you’re wasting the milk.  Just stop when you’re full; don’t be greedy.  I know other cultures find it complimentary to belch after a meal, but here in the good old U S of A, we just say, ‘thank you’.  Get with the program, kiddo.”

MS: My favorite basketball legend is Milk Chamberlain.  Obviously.

MS: I bring milk to the gym.  Not to drink it, obviously, just to have it.

AFPI: I’ve wallpapered my walls with the Got Milk ads.  Because I DO got milk.

Bad grammar aside, I’d made the tactical decision to dive in.  I don’t actually have any wallpaper on any walls, but this was not the time to split hairs.  I had to lure my milk stalker into more casual conversation, like they do on “To Catch a Predator”, except without all the false promises of a seemingly potentially sexually victimized youth.  (It probably goes without saying, but I do not associate with sex offenders.  They may have friends, Mini-Bottom and Sweet B and I never could decide, but they certainly don’t have friends in us.  Don’t bother.)

MS: I once drank milk as a chaser for a whiskey shot.

Let’s try bluntness.

AFPI: Are you going to tell me who you are?

MS: Generic fruit punch.

MS: Graham crackers.

AFPI: Grilled chicken salad.

AFPI: Bacon egg and cheese biscuit.

MS: These are all hints from me, to help you decipher my anonymity. 

AFPI: Oh, I thought we were sharing what we’ve eaten today.  Now I feel silly.

MS: I had a chicken salad sandwich for lunch today.  I’m appalled you haven’t guessed who I am yet.

AFPI: We are connected by milk and chicken.  These that bind us run deep. 

MS: White shirt, navy pants!

AFPI: Blue sweater, plaid pants!

AFPI:  Wait, you know who I am.  I’ll stop giving you clues. 

MS: Curly hair?

AFPI: Sometimes!

Damn!  I was still giving him clues about myself.  I’m not good at this.  The credibility of my detective skills were in serious question.  Here’s the thing: I don’t associate with people I don’t like, ergo whomever this was, he certainly was a friend.  Because he was a friend, I obviously cared about him, and as such didn’t want to offend him by guessing mistakenly.  Like what would happen if we were at a party, playing a game, and you said, “Name a genius!” and I shouted “Benjamin Franklin!” and it turns out Thomas Edison was in the next room?  He’d hear and get all butt-hurt I didn’t pick him, and I’d have to go into how I find him incredibly talented and I appreciate light, regardless of the whole Joseph Swan or Nikola Tesla controversies.  Then he’d sulk, and I’d feel like an asshole, and people at the party would pull on their collars and look around because they felt awkward.  The music would stop, the party would grow silent, and the crickets outside would valiantly perform Kabuki theatre to distract from the discomfort, but the damage would be done.  And that’s why you never guess a mystery texter’s name.

It turns out my Milk Stalker was an old friend I’ll call Lunch Box, not because he’s fat or shaped like a yellow plastic square with pictures of Transformers all over him, but because he always had cool lunch boxes in elementary school.  At least, that’s what he tells me.  He’s really proud of it, and clearly because it’s a funny thing to be excited about, I, too, am proud of it. 

The mystery was solved; the case was closed.  I put my feet on my desk, and leaning back, threw my hands behind my head.  Then I took my feet off the desk because I didn’t want to get the stink-eye if someone walked by.  They can be a bit uptight around here.  I think it's because they don't understand victory.  Regardless, the smug feeling of satisfaction swept over me.  I’ll be waiting for your call, Chris Hansen.