Don’t cry over spilled milk

The funniest thing happened the other day. It was one of those creeper-funnies, you know? Like at first you feel like you’re in the middle of a nuclear war, but then once you have a minute or two to process it you realize how hysterically funny the whole thing was/is.

Let me set the scene:

It’s Friday evening. I’m relaxing on the couch, talking to my friend on the phone. The Man is in the kitchen, cookin’ up some dinner. It has been two days since I got home from New York City, so naturally my suitcase is still beside the couch, its contents spilling over. My convo is winding down and we’re in the process of saying our goodbyes when The Man comes into the room with his dinner plate in one hand and the jug of milk in the other, headed for the couch/coffee table.







Suddenly, disaster strikes.

As I’m laughing and reminiscing, I hear a loud THUNK! The Man yelps and lurches into view. He’s tripped over the suitcase! Silly Man! What happens next is a blur. There are shrieks (is that me?), plates tipping precariously in every direction. And milk. So much milk.

In an attempt to save his dinner from hitting the floor, The Man has created some sort of milk bazooka, savagely covering every last inch of the living room with the spray of that cold white substance. And I’m no help. Rachel’s still on the phone, yelling “What’s wrong? Why are you screaming? Is everything ok??” while I’m bellowing something to the effect of “hoooAAAAAAAHHH! Are you ok? The milk! THE MILK!!”

It might have only lasted ten seconds, but oh, what a ten seconds. When the jug of milk is finally settled on the table, its last few trickles pooling at its blue plastic base, we are finally able to assess the damage. The Man’s foot: it’s ok. No blood, just a few aching toes. The carpet has fared far worse – it’s soaked through. The couch and my laptop have been mercifully spared for the most part, but now the cleanup begins. In a haze of paper towel and dish cloths, we try to sop up the milky mess.

And then… I start to laugh. I can’t help it. At first it’s one of those keep-it-inside ones where you’re holding your breath and shaking all over. Finally it comes spilling out just as abundantly as the milk. I’m even apologizing as I’m doing it. “BAHAHAHA I’m sorry! Are you OK?! BAAAAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA MILK! All the milk! I’ll move my suitcase! Milk bazooka!”

And The Man starts to laugh too. There we sit, on a Friday night, doubled over in laughter over spilled milk. After all, what else is there to do in a situation such as this?


Love From Sarah

Thanks to my friend Jason Willis for creating that image. And yes, that’s really The Man. Sorry for doing this to you, love.

PS Mom, may I please borrow your carpet cleaner? Summer’s coming and bringing warmer weather with it … πŸ˜€


About Sarah

I'm a girl who tries her best to find joy in every moment. I love to try new things, eat delicious food and most of all, laugh my head off. xo View all posts by Sarah

One response to “Don’t cry over spilled milk

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