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.

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