I love a good teriyaki sauce. So does my family. And we use enough that I buy it in a huge Costco sized bottle.
I was at Costco last Friday, about half way through my shopping, and I picked up one of those huge bottles of teriyaki sauce. I used both hands. But, I made the mistake of grabbing it by the lid.
It’s such a short distance from pallet to cart. What could possibly go wrong? Plenty.
I almost had the sauce in my cart. I’m not even sure what happened. Maybe my grip wasn’t the best. Maybe I was distracted. Who knows. But before the happy, half-gallon sized concoction of sweet and tangy could land in my cart, it slipped out of my hands and crashed to the floor.
Costco has cement floors. Hard cement floors. These are not conducive to cushioning a plastic bottle of teriyaki sauce.
The bottle landed right side up. Unfortunately, the pressure of the drop caused a volcanic effect. The lid burst off, the protective liner popped, and a fountain of teriyaki burst forth. Then, it tipped on its side.
I stood there, stunned. An older couple was walking down the aisle coming the opposite way. They witnessed the whole thing. The man started laughing. The woman hit him in the shoulder and said,”That’s not very nice!”
He sobered up a bit then said, “Dont worry, I won’t tell anyone. You can walk away and no one will ever know.” Then he winked conspiratorially.
I looked down at my shoes and pants and said, “Well, I think my shoes and pants say otherwise.” More guffaws. More beratings. I righted the bottle in a futile attempt to spare some of the floor.
I walked away as quickly as my sticky teriyaki strewn shoes could carry me trying to find an employee. Not meeting anyone quickly, I ran to the front of the store.
Along the way, I felt something wet on my rear end. “No,” I thought, “not possible.” I gingerly reached my finger back. It came back wet. And sticky. And sweet and tangy. Yep. The volcano had even reached my rear.
I ended up checking out as quickly as possible and informing the cashier of my spill He called for a clean up.
I drove home with my sticky feet on the pedals, my old seat cover wadded up under my rear to protect my upholstery. I had a phone conversation with my mom on the way home, asking if the brand of shoes I was wearing would wash well. She told me they would, after lots of laughter over my story.
I came home, dashed to the laundry room, took off my shoes, my socks, my pants, even my underwear and my jacket and threw them all in the washer.
I grabbed a dirty towel from the laundry room, wrapped it around my waist and yelled up the stairs to my son, “Close your eyes!”
“What?” he said.
“Just do it! I don’t have any pants on!” I pleaded.
The second male in a span of fifteen minutes began to guffaw. “I thought you were just going to Costco! How could you possibly lose your pants?”
Teriyucki, my good boy. Teriyucki.