1/7/07 "Spilled Milk"

I raised the fork to my mouth and opened wide to accommodate the perfectly balanced bite of salad. Lettuce, tomato, chicken, feta cheese and cucumber all creatively smooshed together and dangling off my fork. I had to cock my head to the side just to fit everything in. That's how food is meant to be devoured. Big bites. The kind that you have to lean into quickly so you don't drop it on your shirt. I'm famous for dropping things on my shirt. I'm not at all ashamed to admit that I'm a spiller. I've always been a spiller, and I probably always will be.

If I had a dime for every time I spilled something as a kid I'd be a freakin' millionaire. I'm not kidding. A glass could be sitting 5 feet away from me, and somehow I'd still manage to knock it over. It was truly amazing. "Uh-oh", I'd say, and look up at my father with big baby doll eyes. He'd give me the look while breathing heavily through his nostrils, disappointment oozing from every pore in his body. I'd close my eyes, bite my lip and get the paper towels. You'd think the guy would shrug it off because it happened ALL THE TIME. You'd think I'd get used to his reaction and shrug it off, but it broke my heart. I cried. Every time I spilled something my heart broke and I'd hide my tears while I cleaned it up. My face burned with embarrassment as he watched me wipe my mess. I remember feeling so frustrated. I tried so damn hard not to knock stuff over, but the harder I tried the more I failed. Maybe he thought I was doing it on purpose just to piss him off. All I wanted was to have my dad smile at me all the time. I wanted him to say, "it's ok darlin, I'm not mad at you." If my dad was upset with me, my world was shattered. I'm not just being dramatic here either. He had the most influence over my heart as a kid.

Then one day, something funny happened. He was upset at me for something, and we weren't speaking. I'm guessing I was around 12 because I had that spunky pre-teen attitude. He was at the sink rinsing dishes with his back to me. I opened the fridge, grabbed the grape smucker's jelly jar and somehow smashed the bottom of the glass jar against the metal door handle.I stood back and watched all the jelly plop out on our kitchen floor. I watched my dad whip his head around to see the mess on the floor, the look on my face, and broken jar still in my hand. As soon as he turned around to face the sink I bursted out in laughter. The sound of the jelly hitting the floor was too much to take. It sounded like something out of a cartoon. I laughed even harder trying to figure out how these freak accidents happened to me. I felt happy all over from head to toe as I stood there laughing, and three seconds later my sister came over and nervously laughed along with me. She must have thought I'd gone crazy. Dad just ignored us both, but I didn't care anymore. I chose not to care. Caring if he was annoyed with me would just suck the fun right out of life, and I couldn't let that happen. Something else besides the jelly jar broke that day. His power to make me happy or sad ended, and then I got fiesty.

I've actually brought this up with my dad, and he's apologized for his reactions. He's not even sure why he got so upset, but he knows he shouldn't have. Besides, since he's getting older, he's the one spilling stuff on himself. I just close my eyes and smile at the irony of how things turn out.

The end