The first time I sit down to dinner with someone, I always warn them, “I spill things. A lot.”
The person usually responds with, “Ahhh, well thanks for the warning, but I’m sure you’re exaggerating.” Or something to that effect.
Tonight, it was my sister-in-law who said, “Here, I’ll move this (this being our sketches for the upcoming production of Anne of Green Gables) out of your way so you can eat. I mean, it’s not like you’re going to spill it or anything, but you know…”
I should have said, “You’re right, Angela. I won’t spill it on my dumb sketches. I’ll just spill it all over your very, super, utterly important paperwork for that new non-profit you’ve been working so hard on lately.”
Instead, I just said, “Thanks, that’s probably a good idea.” Never dreaming that just a few minutes later, I would spill it all over her very, super, utterly important paperwork for that new non-profit she’s been working so hard on lately.
Right about now, she has her future drying on her kitchen counter.
I shouldn’t be allowed to drink anything without a lid. It just shouldn’t happen. People always grieve the loss of something important when I’m around. This time, it’s paperwork, next time it will be the world. We’ll have our own Great Flood and that dumb Ark is still somewhere in Turkey, or wherever they parked it.
Stinkin’ inconvenient, if you ask me.
Then, after all humanity is wiped out, I’ll probably be the only one alive, but I’ll wish I had drowned with the rest of you, because I’ll be tormented forever by those words, “It’s not like you’re going to spill it.”
