There are some things one doesn't want to see in a person's kitchen. Here are a few examples:
A used Band Aid next to the cutting board.
A cat walking across the counter, just above its litter box.
Andrew McCarthy flicking his cigarette ash into your wok as he stirs dinner.
A golf ball landing in a vat of soup.
Poppie patting out dough for a pizza.
George Costanza eating pudding skin singles.
You may think those are some of the worst things one could see. But you'd be wrong. Last Friday I stopped in to visit my mom on the way to the eye doctor. More accurately, I stopped in to use her bathroom after dropping The Pony off at school. I sat down at the kitchen table to chat for a few minutes.
I'm no stranger to my mother's kitchen. Did I not grow up there, from the tender age of 13 until I left for college across the state? I know that she has a penchant for saving garbage scraps in a 44 ounce styrofoam cup on the kitchen counter. Just until it's full, of course, at which time she takes it out to dump beside the creek and marvel that stray animals come to her porch. I know that she uses a plastic bag from The Devil's Playground, hanging on a drawer handle, as her wastebasket. I know that at certain times of the year, vicious black ants invade through the window behind the table, and meet their demise on a sticky puddle of Terro Ant Killer. I know that every now and then, a mouse gets in, and Mom uses the kind of cardboard catcher that doesn't kill the rodents. The kind you have to pick up, hearing that critter's scritching and scratching claws in a last-ditch panic to excape, and carry it outside. And that Mom usually waits until Farmer H or the #1 son comes out to empty it. There are few surprises in my mother's kitchen. Until last Friday.
As I sat chatting, my eye fell on a bag leaning against the chair next to me at the table. I don't know how I could have missed it. It was as big as a bag of dog food. Maybe that's why my subconscious let it slide. When the conversation lagged, as I started to take my leave, I noticed what was written on that bag.
Yeah. It was a horrific discovery. Not only was there a dog food sized bag of GrubEx next to my mom's kitchen table...IT HAD A PICTURE ON THE BAG! To leave no doubt what that product was for. Like this:
What she really needs is MoleEx.