I am beside myself.
Like Hayley Mills or Lindsay Lohan in The Parent Trap. Like a portly passenger required by Southwest Airlines to purchase two seats. Like an astral projector looking over his shoulder before he zooms off to more exotic locales.
I am beside myself. Okay. Figuratively, not literally, like my examples. A mishap of extreme magnitude occurred this afternoon in my kitchen. I shudder to recall the horrific incident. The bottom drops out of my stomach just to think of it. I've tried to block it out all day.
There I was, standing at the kitchen counter, preparing my lunch. Hick and the boys were not present for the cursed event. I had been to town for my daily eighty-cent 44 oz. Diet Coke refill. A meal of sharp cheddar and club crackers sounded like a tasty complement for my precious elixir. Having cut the cheese yesterday, I only needed to put my provisions on a paper plate. So simple, really.
I laid out the cheddar slices. I added the requisite number of crackers. And it happened. As I tried to shove the plastic cracker bag back into its box, the giant chip clip I had applied to preserve freshness caught on the box flap. The cracker box jerked out of control like a recalcitrant preschooler reclaiming his arm after a parental intervention for a roadway dash. It struck my 44 oz. cup, toppling it over like a giant redwood felled by insouciant loggers who don't believe in hugs.
Oh, the caffeinity! I now know the sorrow of those who cry over spilled milk. The lid remained on my blue-and-white patterned foam cup. But the precious beverage leaked out the lid and straw-hole. I snatched it upright faster than a teenage boy grabbing the last slice of pizza out of the box at a classroom reward party. But the damage had been done. Lake Cola was rapidly expanding its banks. Cell Phone Island was barely keeping its face above lake level. But I was not concerned with Cell Phone Island. Part of Lake Cola was trapped in Paper Plate Reservoir!
After righting my cup at ten times the speed of one of those freaky kid cup-stackers, I threw caution to the wind, and removed the lid. I hoisted Paper Plate Reservoir with the steadiness of a bomb squad technician and the balance of a Flying Wallenda. I poured the contents back into the cup. Cell Phone Island was wrenched free from the confines of terra firma proper, and drained of its shallow sea. Back into the cup, of course. I contemplated squeegeeing the countertop inundation over the edge and into the cup as well. But the thought of errant foodstuff flotsam deterred me. I wiped the burgundy countertop of its amber stain. Placed Cell Phone Island on an oven mitt to dry out.
And proceeded to spend the afternoon with the remains of my very special thirst-quencher. Which had become, much to my chagrin, a 42 oz. Diet Coke.