Don't cry over spilt' milk.
We've all heard it a hundred times. But how many times does it actually take on a literal meaning?
This morning in the posh lobby of a posh hotel, our family ventured forth for the partaking of a continental breakfast. Of course, we could have had the hot breakfast buffet two feet over for the low low cost of $9.95. Sure, the eggs and bacon looked great, but I was happy with my lemon poppy seed muffin and banana. They were, after all, free.
Once we'd arrived, we'd noticed that Adrien's sippy cup was forgotten in the room...12 floors up. No big deal. We'd just put some milk in a big boy cup. No. big. deal. Andi filled the cup, and as usual, put too much in. I'm not sure what happened, or how it even transpired; the next moment the cup of milk was spilled all over the posh flooring. Milk everywhere. I grabbed for as many cocktail napkins as possible to help wipe up the mess. Two cleaning ladies appeared out of nowhere and assisted in mopping up the disaster. So, that was over and I'd just get Adrien more milk, right?
Easy enough. This time, I'd apply one of the to-go coffee cup lids to the cup. It's be nearly like a sippy cup. Right? Seriously, five seconds later....that cup of milk was all over the floor.
As I lept for more cocktail napkins and blurted out an inconspicuous fuck! some fat jackass on a cell phone took the time out of his conversation to inform me that there was no need for me to to clean the spill, that they had people for that. I think I said something in return to the effect of I can help...or something. Maybe more rude. The cleaning lady appeared again and I couldn't help the apologies spewing forth like water from Niagara Falls. I felt horrible. I even told her I could clean it. Insisting it was okay, she retreated -- mess number two cleaned.
As I filed in to the back of the line forming at the breakfast bar, I felt my cheeks flush with embarrassment and my eyes well with tears. I was so embarrassed that I'd been part of two milk spills in a row. Two. In a posh lobby. On the posh carpeting. In front of posh people. I just knew all of the sophisticated folk were wondering what the hell was going on with that trainwreck.
But what's the nerve of that guy? They have people for that. Pssh. It was my mess -- twice over. Am I supposed to be like, oh yes, my son spilled milk twice, now mop it up Cinderelly? I think I heard something in his conversation after that to the effect of "people that lack sophistication" (most likely referring to me). Even before that comment, in his command to me, I'd heard something stupid come out of his mouth to the effect of "you're going too far to the left". I can only imagine that meant I was putting myself on a lower level with my milk mopping.
But I don't want to be as sophisticated as that fat prick. Not if sophistication means letting someone else clean up after me constantly, while I standby acting as if I'm too high and mighty to even help clean up my son's mess.
As I sat eating my poppy seed muffin, I shed a few tears. I had to remind myself not to cry over spilt' milk.
Saturday, December 1, 2007
Don't cry over spilt' milk.
Posted by B at 5:15 PM