Empty milk carton blues

I would call it the bottom blues.

Those times where a dear family member or friend is too lazy to throw away the empty milk carton. Or replace the toilet paper roll.

When they can't find it within themselves to cross the kitchen and throw away the Hostess Twinkie box after shoving the last one in their big mouth.

I don't think they are aware at the time how these actions bring them ever closer to being strangled - especially when they happen at the same time.

I'll set the scene - middle of the night, bladder on the verge of spontaneous combustion, so you scurry to the bathroom.

Plopping yourself on the toilet, you feel around for the toilet paper in the dark.

After several moments, you succeed, thus beginning the quest for the end of the roll. Turning it over and over again, the end finally falls, waving like a glorious bathroom banner.

Taking the piece in your hand, you begin to unravel but wait - is that tearing you hear?

Yes, the toilet paper roll is but one sheet. Someone has used it all and left but one little sheet.

You can't use one sheet; it's just not humanly possible. But you have to, at least to get up to search for more.

Pants down, slightly disoriented from the dark, you lean down to get into the vanity. There's usually a backup roll there.

But after you crack your head on the sink, it's just not worth it. Aggravated and annoyed, you ponder just who executed this atrocity. Oh well. Rub your head, pull up the pants and replace the toilet paper tomorrow.

Except now you're wide awake, and your stomach is the one complaining.

Ah! The twinkies, in the pantry, to the left, second shelf up. You remember because you were watching them go in, salivating like Pavlov's dogs at the sight of those lovely golden cakes with their delicious filling.

You need one badly, no matter the cost of calories. To the twinkies!

Slowly you pat the cabinet down, trying to find the handle in the dark. Anticipation rising, heart beating faster, hips and thighs screaming, "no," but your mind says "yes, just do it!"

You fumble around, smashing the bread down, knocking over boxes of mac and cheese, and - miracle of all miracles - you find the twinkie box.

Not sure which side is open, so you gingerly pull it out. You don't want to chance them sliding out and hitting the floor - if you smash that twinkie, you might as well have thrown it in a Dumpster. It's a disgrace to the snack cake world.

You find the open side, tip the box a little and eagerly stick out your hand to await your sweet, sweet prize - and nothing.

Is it stuck in there? Shake the box a little. Do you hear plastic? No. Shake the box some more. Anything? Shake it harder, you know there was one left. There has to be one left.

Finally, the stress starts to get to you. As you begin to realize there will be no twinkie tonight, the rage boils inside. First, the toilet paper, and now this. It's too much.

You feel hot all over and throw the box viciously, paying no mind to where it landed.

The search continues, and although you know there will be no satisfaction after a twinkie craving, you find the peanut butter.

Slightly sweet, it will do. So you rip out the silverware drawer with a wicked hope that it will clatter and wake someone up, and savagely tear out a spoon.

A few spoonfuls and you're done - it's so sticky, you can barely swallow - it just doesn't compare to a twinkie in all its glory.

But ignoring your rage over said twinkie incident, you decide a glass of milk will end the night well enough.

Over to the refrigerator you go, but your hopes are quickly dashed.

Someone has emptied the milk, leaving a pitiful tablespoon's amount at the bottom.

You know this isn't enough to take care of that peanut butter.

Your eye starts to twitch as you stare off down the hall, your mind whispering, "you know who it was."

Your hands, shaking with rage, crumble the milk carton handle as you conjure up ideas of torture.

Mindlessly dropping the carton, you walk down the hall horror movie-style, and all you can think about or hear is the stabbing music from "Pyscho" in your head.

"Ree! Ree! Ree! Ree!"

The bottom blues have struck again.

-------

Katy Blair, Globe reporter and Effingham native, can be reached at 367-0583, Ext. 214, or at katyblair@npgco.com.

Which side are you on?

*Writer's note - This column is atypical from my usual satire. My editor requested a column with my thoughts on the local MGPI strike regarding satisfaction of life issues. I decided to publish it, in the hopes that it would provoke thought about unions and their worth.


It’s the eighth day of the MGP Ingredients union strike — have you chosen a side?

Regardless of the community’s size, a union strike will cause bandwagon jumpers. Such controversy almost always results in sides being chosen, whether resolute or on the fence.

In a community such as Atchison, it is likely difficult to find a person without some sort of connection to MGPI — be it a family member, friend or your cousin’s friend's brother's ex-girlfriend who works there.

With such overlapping ties, I’m curious to know, where do the residents of Atchison stand on UFCW No. 74D vs MGPI?

As in any policy-related issue, there are many factors to consider when deciding which entity to support.
First of all, do you support unionization?

The benefits and drawbacks of unions are many, and each side would argue those points to the bone.

Unions were organized for the sole purpose of protecting workers from insufficient pay, hours and working conditions.

That’s precisely what unions do through strikes — take a stand against policies and such that violate the workers’ expectations of employment.

Through unions, American workers have elevated the standard for workplace conditions — no longer must they work 18 hour days at $2 an hour in hazardous conditions.

However, some critics of unions think they’re monopolies in progress.

Nobel Peace Prize winner Milton Friedman argues that unionization results in higher wages and fewer jobs, point-blank.

He explains that as the price of labor rises, so does unemployment because businesses no longer seek to employ those whose work is worth less than the union’s set minimum wage.

Having my own contacts in the MGPI sector, I have heard time and time again that shifts are too long and overtime hours are typically unexpected but obligatory.

I find myself now asking, does MGPI need more employees? Can they not employ more because of this vicious linear parallel between union wages and their own budget?

Logically, one would deduce that more employees would spread out the burden, easing the long shifts and quelling overtime.

Union representative Chris Pruessner stated recently that MGPI has reduced its jobs, creating more overtime for its employees.

Is that a direct effect from the company’s being stonewalled by unions, causing higher wages for fewer workers?

Whether the situation has become a monopoly that MGPI can’t overcome, union workers have a right to resist their current conditions.

They are being asked to work additional hours. They can’t call in sick without being docked, they can’t go home early to tend to a sick child.

For a two-parent household where both work, that’s not an easy situation. For a one income
home, it’s nearly impossible.

Instead of multiple call-ins counting as one point on their record, every call counts as one point — it’s eye for an eye.

So the standoff continues, and the groups on each side of the strike seem unwilling to compromise.

Has the union backed itself into a corner? Or is MGPI being stingy, hiring fewer employees and working them like dogs, all while flying a glamorous money and benefits banner?

Before you decide which side you’re on, take the time to look at both sides. You might find that you’re not the only one picking out a good spot on the fence for the longhaul.
———————
Katy Blair, a Globe reporter and Effingham native, can be reached at 367-0583, Ext. 214, or at katyblair@npgco.com.

'O' stands for Obvious

“Oh, you have to watch this part! This is good!”

Really? Here I am, sitting comfortably in my chair, eyes glued to the television, and you still have to tell me to watch the movie?

I don't understand the existence of these people, these over-anxious sharers, but make no mistake — they are a massive breed, taking over the general population.

In high school, my posse and I loving nicknamed these people “Chuck's,” after a certain excitable friend of ours who couldn't help but blurt out movie spoilers. Of course, many of his faux pas happened mid-movie.

I guarantee everyone has at least one Chuck in their life, relaying their “astute observations” at the most pointless moments.

Is it some sick excitement in taking away the surprise? Sure, the crazy guy with the machete is going to kill that bimbo — she's running away from town to escape him and what is now obviously her inevitable death. That's how those silly girls always die in horror flicks.

But now that you've told me something good will happen, I can just forget that little hope in the back of my mind that Barbie will somehow evade her ugly, misshapen murderer and prevail.

Nope, Barbie's going down as she would in any other pop culture film — mostly nude and falling constantly, as if her weak ankles have never experienced a thing called “running.”

I recall our dear friend pulling just this stunt once, proudly declaring the heroine's destiny was to die. Everyone in the room erupted into a chorus of, “Aww, Chuck! Why?!”

The true aftermath of the sin he had committed was to come, unfortunately — I believe it was Josh that began growling, an unearthly sound filled with torture and angst, as he sprang from the couch and wrapped his hands around poor Chuck's neck.

Chuck kept a watchful eye during movie night ever after.

But Chucks come in many shapes and sizes. Some simply enjoy inquiring about the obvious.

Here's my question for this Chuck: Honestly, if you can see what I'm doing, do you really need to ask me about it?

“Whatcha eatin there?”

“A unicorn.”

Is that what you want to hear? Because I can't glamorize a sandwich — it is what it is and everybody knows what it looks like.

I can't figure out just how to deal with these Chucks. Strangling a Movie Spoiler Chuck is one thing, but an Obvious Situation Chuck isn't the type to get derailed on a quest for knowledge.

In the end, a large portion of my responses to Obvious Situation Chuck are inevitably snarky — I just can't help myself.

“Are you on the phone?”

“No, I was just holding the phone on my ear here because I like the way it makes me look thin.”

A small part of me hopes that this answer will discourage any further questioning, but little do I know that this Chuck is filled with all the useless inquiries in the world.

Here's the big one, and I'll never understand why this question exists, unless purely to torture that poor soul on the receiving end: “Are you OK?”

Am I OK? Sure sure, of course I'm OK. I was just yanking the hair out of my head because I wanted that retro-mohawk look that my niece's Cabbage Patch doll got after she experimented with the scissors. And I launched my cell phone across the room because I hate hearing that I won the lottery, darn my good luck.

I'm not hyperventilating because your questions make me feel like banging my head against the wall until I black out.

No, Mr. Obvious, I'll be alright — bald — but alright.
——————

Katy Blair, a Globe reporter and Effingham native, can be reached at 367-0583, Ext. 214, or at katyblair@npgco.com.