I hate maple syrup

Two nights ago I went to the grocery store.

The wind chill was in the single digits and the wind was blowing and I was freezing. Like, actually freezing.

Dylan and I ran with the cart from the store to the car where I stopped and slid seventeen bags onto my wrists so I could put them all in the car at once and TURN THE HEAT ON.

My Toyota has this neat little feature. When you have the keys on you – in your pocket or purse – and you touch the door handle, the door automatically opens. You don’t have to fumble around for keys. It’s awesome.

But with seventeen bags on my arm, I had a hard time raising my arm twisting my wrist to get my thumb on right spot on the door handle. I stretched. I grimaced out loud. I touched it!

And nothing happened.

I stretched and grimaced and touched it again.


I couldn’t get to my keys because they were in my purse above the seventeen bags that were looped on my wrist.

“Dylan, can you get the keys?” I asked. “They’re in my purse in a pocket.”

He looked at me like I was an alien and I can’t really blame him since my purse has eight pockets, some inside and some outside, and not one of them is designated as the “key pocket.”

I finally gave up. I was going to have to take all the bags off my arm to find the keys and unlock the car. I stooped down, very slowly, and rested the bags on the ground before I began sliding my arms out, but one of them caught on my wrist. I didn’t realize this until I had already started raising my arms to open the door.

I was cold and irritated and didn’t feel like taking my time anymore.

I knew I only had one glass bottle in the whole kit and caboodle. The chances that it was in that bag were mighty slim, so I just dropped that bag right on the ground.

Now, let’s just stop right there. Would anyone like to take bets on what was in the bag I dropped?

Of course, OF COURSE, I dropped the only bag that contained glass. And of course, it shattered.

Maple syrup.

“What was that?” Dylan asks.

“That is the sound of really good odds that don’t pan out,” I say.

I open the bag, still on the ground, and find that I also have a pint of strawberries, a bag of sugar, and a box of granola in there. All are dripping with syrup. I try to find the bag where I can put these mapley things that will result in the least clean-up when I get home. And then I tie up the maple syrup bag, which is still on the ground where I dropped it.

I open the car (finally), put the groceries in the backseat and try to determine what to do with the maple syrup bag, full of broken glass and 16 ounces of maple syrup.

For a moment I think about leaving it near the carts for someone to pick up. But then I imagine someone coming to collect the carts, finding my bag with its unidentified contents and calling in the bomb squad. And since there is a person in the car next to me (why is there always someone in the car next to me?!) who can probably identify me as the bag-leaver, I determine this isn’t a good course of action since I don’t want to end up on the news. Plus, I’m against littering.

I look around and spy a trash can at the store entrance, pick up the bag and run for it.

Let me tell you something about the grocery bags at Wegmans: THEY ARE FULL OF HOLES.

So I am running, and maple syrup is streaming out of the bag onto my coat, down my pant legs, on my shoes. Except I don’t know this until I get into the car and start rubbing my hands on my jeans in an effort to heat them up so I can feel my fingers. Turns out I can feel after all. I feel syrup.

I am wearing that maple syrup like a big human sticky bun.

Since I refuse to go back outside, it also ends up on my steering wheel and the gear shifter.

When I get home, I find that it is also on my phone (how did that happen?), my purse, and in the back of my car.

I am sticky! Everything I have is sticky! Everything I touch is sticky! Did I mention that I’m late for a New Year’s Eve party? 

I change clothes, wash up and begin putting groceries into the pantry.

On the bottom shelf, in the very back corner is an unopened container of maple syrup.


I hate maple syrup.


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