Week 92: Peterbilt milk truck

Okay, that Peterbilt milk truck is from the 80s, and while worn, hardly is from the same era as the vintage milkman's order pad, but they are both vintage, and both have something to do with milk.

I don't really like milk, to be honest, although I like milk trucks, milk cans, milk bottles, and milk maids. I've never met a milk maid, but I'm positive  they look like the logo from St. Pauli Girl beer.

Real men don't drink 2%

 I can almost remember the milk man -- that was so long ago, and I was very, very young, but I was nonetheless around at a time when milk was delivered. The only thing I remember was the glass milk bottles clinked in the metal carrier.

It has been many years since milk clinked, and because my youngest had difficulty with milk, we've had a variety of non-clinking milk substitutes in the house over the years, including soy, coconut, hemp and almond. These products are strange to me, not because they likely have never been drawn by a milk maid, but because they all come in cardboard cartons with the pour spout on the front, smack in the middle. You no longer push the little cardboard triangle on the side to make a spout  like it's always been done since milk cartons were invented. I can't get used to that -- it's like a person having an ear where his nose should be. Even plastic milk jugs pour from the top, not the side. Weird.

My youngest son, now three years old, has taken to wanting warm soy milk at night. Every night I pour some soy milk in a coffee cup to heat it up in the microwave before pouring it into one of my son's cups with a built-in straw, and every night my son tells me he doesn't want to drink out of the coffee cup. By now, I know he knows I'm only using the coffee cup to heat the soy milk in, but letting me know he doesn't want the coffee cup is just part of the ritual. It's a comfortable ritual, like when I say, "You know, you are a peanut, actually" and he says "NO! I'm not a peanut, daddy. But you are a raspberry." This makes no sense, but we  say it every day, anyway. It's just a comfortable ritual.

Anyway, I like my little beat up 1981 Matchbox truck. Due to a busy schedule, my photographer Phil will not be able to take pictures for the next few weeks or more, so I tossed my car on my scanner, afraid to take an actual photograph with a camera for fear it would look too inferior to the pictures I normally feature on this blog.  I'm not sure why I thought a scanned picture would be somehow better, but now it's grown on me so I think I'll keep it.

My apologies if this blog, and tiny car picture, didn't make much sense this week. Consider this week's entry the skim milk of Daddy's Tiny Cars, lacking in taste and richness, but still okay in cereal.

I guess what I'm saying is Week 92 barely arrived, and only made it as a comfortable ritual. Here's looking forward to Week 93, you peanut.