Last weekend, the husband and I found ourselves sans children--Bob was with Fun Daddy for the weekend doing God-knows-what, and the Toddler was with the grandparents. So we did what every other married couple does when they get a few hours to themselves on a steamy, hot summer day.
We cleaned our filthy house.
Oh, all right, you got me--we had sex. Then we cleaned our filthy house.
Which brought us to our tiny kitchen and the issue of The Formula. My mother-in-law works in a pediatrics office and was our willing supplier of formula samples for the duration of the Toddler's bottle-feeding. And by "samples," I mean real, full-size cans of powdered formula. The ones that sell for around $15 a can retail. White gold. Texas tea.
So while it was great we were getting all this formula for nothing, the downside is we were getting an abundance of it, because in mother-in-law land, you never know when there could be a formula shortage and then you'd be screwed. So we had a hefty stash of the stuff coming in on a regular basis. All those kitchen cabinets up near the ceiling that you never put anything in because you can't reach them? Ours have been full of formula for the past year.
Since he turned one, however, the Toddler hasn't had any use for formula, because he's busy shoveling other things in his mouth, like bacon and dry cat food, which he washes down with regular milk. Our stockpile of formula has just been sitting there taking up valuable otherwise-unused kitchen cabinet space.
So during our childless Saturday of sex and cleaning, I decided to pull all the formula off the shelves. The question then became--what the hell do we do with it?
According to my father, milk-based formula is often used to cook meth, but since I'm probably already on the DEA watch list due to my Sudafed habit (and I don't know the recipe), that option was out. I had a variety of about 50 cans total. I decided to post them on my pal Craig's fabulous List at a fraction of the retail price.
Within an hour, I had my first interested party. We arranged to meet at a nearby gas station to make the exchange of cash for white powder.
Wait--did I just say that?
I drove away from that first transaction feeling dirty. And guilty. And...sort of...cool.
Yeah, that's right, baby, I got what you want. You know you want it. How much you need? You know I got the best stuff in town. Your baby can't live without it. You don't want to let your baby down, now, do you?
Since then, I've made a few more transactions. I've wheeled and dealed by email and I've hung up on people trying to get me to lower my price. ("Listen, lady, you won't find this stuff anywhere else in town for four G-Dubs.") I've even got the husband involved in my dirty little operation--he and the Toddler are making a drop tomorrow to some corporate dude on his lunch break, although he has expressed concern over my involving him in my "dealings with unsavory characters." (He's such a jokester, that husband.)
In the end, this little venture will only end up netting me about 70 bucks, which is, of course, better than a swift kick in the pants. I think I'll miss the thrill more than anything. At least I still have my home-based internet porn site, or I'd be really bored.
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