Got Milk

A while back, I dated this girl from Wisconsin.  Rose.  She grew up on a dairy farm, and her father was the county’s record-holding hand milker.  Said he could squeeze out a gallon in under a minute, that it’s less about technique and more about making sure the cow trusts you, that the more spaced out the black spots on the cowhide, the better.  He told me all of this over dinner the first time I met him.  He was in town visiting, and Rose suggested we take him out to this fancy steakhouse—said it’d be nice to show him the “other side” of the cattle industry.  That should’ve been my first red flag, this seemingly insignificant statement hinting at the fact that her father was utterly and totally consumed by milk.  But the dinner was nice, I guess, except for when her father ordered two large glasses of milk to go with his 32 oz. T-bone, threatening to send them back, too, if they weren’t 55 degrees Fahrenheit.  “Your steak, sir?” the waiter asked.  “No, you uneducated nimrod,” he responded, all snippety and shit, “my milk.”  I remember him looking over and giving me this “Can you believe this guy?” look.  Second red flag.  Anyway, he downed his first glass, which left behind the thickest milk mustache, so absurdly comical that it almost looked fake, like he’d taken a swig out of a jar of white paint, and when Rose asked him if he’d wipe it off, he scoffed at her and said no because that was “against the rules,” whatever the hell that means?  Third red flag.  After he polished off the second glass, he ate the steak like a wild animal, and then proceeded to order a third and final glass of milk “for dessert.”  When he was finished, he sat back in this disgusting aura of satisfaction, still donning the mustache.  Have you ever seen the glow of a man who’s just imbibed a quart of milk and eaten 32-oz.-worth of cow?  It’s gross.  Well, then he proceeded to tell us that he’d qualified for the regional hand milking competition next month.  Supposedly a huge deal.  He asked us if we’d like to join him, said he would love the support because the opposition would be incredibly stiff this year.

Long story short, we decided to go.  It was only a couple hours away, and I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t at least a little intrigued to see what went into this competition, despite those red flags at our dinner the previous month.  I figured I’d use the drive up there to bone up on the sport so I wouldn’t look or sound like a complete jackass when I got there.  The last thing I wanted to do was humiliate myself in front of some of the region’s fastest milkers—Lightning Leonard Lawson, Squeakers McGee, Gimpy-legged Sandy—to name a few.  God!  But the more I asked Rose about it on the drive, the more annoyed she got with me.  Like really annoyed.  I could tell she harbored some deep-seated resentment toward the entire sport of hand milking.  But I didn’t want to ruin the trip, and she was a terrible driver and needed to focus on the road, so I dropped the subject entirely. 

So, we get there and meet her dad at the hotel, and it’s when we’re putting our bags in the room that I realize it’s the only room.  But your dad’s here, I told Rose.  “Shut up,” she said.  “Don’t make it awkward.”  But I think that’s exactly what I did, unintentionally obviously.  I mean, I hadn’t been told one way or another about the appropriate sleeping arrangements.  What are you supposed to do in that situation?  Well, I picked my poison, and after they’d both fallen asleep, I crawled in bed with her father.  I didn’t want to disturb him, though, so I didn’t even get in under the covers. 

When he woke up, let’s just say he didn’t appreciate my being right next to him.  Like I said, though—I wasn’t even under the covers!  Still called me all sorts of names that I won’t reproduce here.  And it must’ve spilled over to the next several hours, because he was a complete mess at the competition.  I mean, I’ve already confessed to knowing very little about the sport of hand milking cows, but even I could tell he was off his game.  With each pull and tug and stroke of the udders, the poor cow would let out a loud and pathetic groan.  Then he started making a spectacle of himself, yelling and hollering and cursing at everyone.  “This one’s clogged!” he screamed.  “Ref!  Leonard totally fucked me and clogged this one!”  “Stop looking at me like that, Sandy, you gimpy-legged fuck!”  Super embarrassing.  When it was over, he sulked back to the locker room, put his head in his hands, and cried for three hours.  At least, that’s what Lightning Leonard told me.  Leonard’s a good guy.  Still talk to him from time to time.  Anyways, afterwards, Rose blamed the whole thing on me.  Said that I not only ruined the trip, but shattered her father’s dreams of making nationals, too.  That was a bit dramatic, because anyone with two eyeballs could’ve seen that Gimpy-legged Sandy was running away with it.  And what the hell?  I swear, the way she’d acted in the car on the way up, you would’ve thought she wanted nothing to do with the sport.  But, yeah, Rose and I didn’t last much longer after that.  In fact, she broke up with me before we left to head home.  Made me take a Greyhound, which was pretty messed up. 

Looking back, my and Rose’s relationship was probably on the rocks well before we set sail for that regional hand milking competition.  But it certainly finished us.