Dribble.

I hate juice boxes. I’d like to get ahold of whoever invented juice boxes and sit on her chest and squirt her straight in the eye with some Apple Juicy Juice. Out of one of those tiny white straws that bend all crinkly-like.

I know, I know, you’re saying, “Jeez, Rachel. First the Wal-Mart diatribe and now juice boxes? What else do you hate?” I’ll tell you what else. Puppies. I hate puppies, okay? Especially when they’re wearing sweaters. That shit is stupid.

I don’t buy juice boxes as a rule, but lately we’ve been boxing it mostly because Eliot became acquainted with and enamored of juice boxes after numerous Happy Meals (and yeah, I said I’d never take my kid to McDonald’s, cause I hate McDonald’s too. Whatever). When he gets a Happy Meal, he also gets a juice box because he isn’t allowed to drink soda. I know, I’m practically a fascist.

So. Juice boxes. Eli bought a pack, or I bought a pack? Someone bought a pack at the grocery store because they appeared in our refrigerator and now instead of requesting just juice, Eliot specifically demands “Juice box! I want a juice box!” (And really, hearing the adorable way he pronounces the words “juice box” make it almost worth the trouble.) I grabbed him a juice box this morning and was taking it to him on the couch, where we were busy soaking up the morning dose of Curious George, when the stupid thing dribbled all down my leg and onto the floor. This always happens. Always, because the dumb straw points downward and when the juice box is full it’s nearly impossible to carry it without juice flowing out the straw and down your pants leg. The tiniest amount of pressure on the juice box causes spurts of liquid to fly out of the box with abandon, as though the juice’s rightful place in the universe is on your leg and on your floor, instead of in your kid’s mouth and down his gullet.

This is one of those instances where you might think I’d be smart enough to carefully hold the straw upright as I walk with the juice box, but if you think that then you obviously don’t know me well. I might hold an advanced degree, but I can’t even figure out how the dimensions of a piece of paper change when it’s folded, so don’t be expecting me to triumph over the juice box any time soon. And I also know that they (whoever “they” are) make hard plastic holders to slip the juice box into to prevent accidental squeezing, but that would just be too easy, right? Then what would I have to write bitch about?

*sigh*

I am reminded of my dear mother’s eternal lament as I was growing up. “Rachel,” she’d sigh, “You’re making it harder than it is.”

I know, Mom. I know. It’s what I do. :)