don’t cry over spilled milk

what to do when your cereal bowl flips over in  your chair? the solution seemed obvious.

stuff it into the crack in the side of the chair and go on with your life.

in my defense, i was without caffeine, thus incapable of complicated actions like “cleaning” or “thinking.” and it was just milk and frosted flakes (thanks for nothin’, tony). all organic. i assumed the chair would act like a mulcher, returning them to nature. done and done.

a day passed. the abode smelled funny, but i blamed it on BK, who enjoys taking an occasional sabbatical from the conventions of the litter box. no bigs.

and then.

mo texted the next day. she was curious why there were frosted flakes in the chair. my mind raced. how to pin on cat how to pin on cat why wasn’t i eating kitty treats for breakfast dammit.

um, i had an accident, but i think i cleaned it up, i offered. this could work. (only too late did i formulate the “i have no recollection of this event, senator” defense).

not funny, she wrote. the milk smells terrible. (no smiley face. bad sign.) apparently a large quantity of milk had sensed an opportunity to escape and was now residing happily (range free!) deep in the recesses of the chair where you would never go unless desperate for that last quarter to obtain a hershey bar. mmmmmmm hershey bar. oh. where was i? and then i learned the awful truth: MILK GOES BAD!!! why don’t they teach you this stuff in home ec rather than … um, i guess i didn’t take home ec. and anyhow i took algebra ll and remember only that it wasn’t as inspired as the original (and don’t get me started on algebra 3-d), so likely i wouldn’t have remembered anyhow.

i chalked it up to mo’s imagination (she still claims people eat rice and raw fish) till i came home and sat down in the beloved chair.

uh oh.

it was blood-curdling, except milk was playing the role of blood in the matinee. no refunds, please.

what to do? guy 101.

heck, that’s not so bad, i declared while calculating how many days i could hold my breath. the rest of the evening was a series of trips outside for smoke breaks, even though i don’t smoke.

now what? i read chernobyl stories recently about how the toxic aftermath never goes away. sort of like frasier re-runs, only funnier.

and then it hit me. i just brought the old asics out and sat them on the floor next to the chair. suddenly the milk stench wasn’t noticeable at all. solved. but i likely will take up smoking anyhow. just in case.

and that’s the day i found out mo was lactose intolerant.

About gary

no sock monkeys were harmed in the making of this blog.
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1 Response to don’t cry over spilled milk

  1. tosuperstar says:

    Mo, my mama always said don’t cry over spilt milk!

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