Hello, old friend. Did you forget about me? I’m the carton of eggnog you bought over the holidays. I thought you might be saving me for a special occasion, but I’m coming to the realization that I may never be opened again.
I’m beyond my expiration date and am starting to feel funny. As each day passes, I’ve found myself being pushed further back into the cold abyss, out of sight and mind. Like a prisoner on death row, I sit with my expired brethren awaiting the day we are noticed and shown the bottom of the wastebasket.
There’s a budding community of the damned in the back of the fridge. We call ourselves the perished, and we have a reputation of being old, unusable, and smelly. Their solidarity gives me peace of mind.
The cottage cheese container to my left seems to think we may be able to survive until spring. He claims to have overheard a conversation about a ritual cleaning that takes place around then. The November 15th expiration date tattooed on his side leads me to believe he may be right. The bottle of V8 vegetable juice that you use as a dietary supplement due to a picky palate, however, remains skeptical.
How did we end up here? I remember the way your eyes lit up when you saw me from across the dairy cooler at the grocery store. I didn’t deserve an ending like this. I’m not a Smart and Final carton. I’m a Gelson’s carton, the grocery store to the stars. Billy Crystal once grazed my cap while reaching for a tub of I Can’t Believe It’s Not Butter.
I heard you and your wife arguing the day you brought me home. You laughed it off when she said, “You buy a carton of eggnog every year and nobody ever drinks it. When are you going to learn?” Now who’s laughing?
Yep, it seems like it was just yesterday when everyone wanted to get their hands on Santa’s nectar. I was coveted. Now I’m starting to stink. I can feel the mold beginning to form within me like cancer.
I’ve been daydreaming a lot about what it would have been like if Billy Crystal took me home that fateful night at Gelson’s. No doubt, he and his famous buddies would have passed me around, taking turns pouring themselves a glass from my spout while singing Christmas carols around the crackling fireplace. Meg Ryan would have mixed me with bourbon, John Goodman with rye. I would have made all their bellies warm and fulfilled my life’s purpose.
Alas, a pasteurized beverage is left to dream. My reality remains curdled and rotten.
With my dying wish, all I ask is that next holiday season you listen to your wife. Buy yourself some mulled wine or, better yet, some hot cocoa. You can fill it up with all the miniature marshmallows your heart desires. Just don’t send another carton of eggnog to exile.
Let us be consumed or let us die in the grocery store’s dairy cooler with honor.
