Story #1

New England “mugginess” and mosquito spray. I suppose it must have been about 4pm, as my friend and next door neighbor was on her way home to get washed up before saying grace, which was, for her family, oddly performed before dinner. And me—after a long day of scooting about a thousand miles on my, you guessed it, scooter—was thirsty. “But what for?,” I mused, with a four-year old finger crooked inquisitively under my four-year old chin as I plodded up the front steps and stomped into the kitchen.

It is easy to picture the camera angle inside the fridge—pitch black screen until I open up the door and look in, with wide, and if I don’t say so myself, very expressive, eyes. You can even hear the voice-over in my head…

“Purple stuff? Cola? OJ? Sunny-D?”

But we won’t do that right now. Let’s switch this up.

Look at this nightmare scenario...

Anywho....

Side-view tracking shot of me, probably about three feet tall, still carrying around all my baby-fat. You follow as I waddle over to the fridge, struggle to open the door and…WHOOSH! A fine mist of steam pours from inside, gliding down over the shelves and onto the floor, dissipating around my sneakers.

I wasn’t a kid who grew up with juice boxes and sippy cups. Quenching my thirst was, for some reason, unique for me in that only one drink would do the trick—that magical and yet all-natural nectar known as whole milk…HOOD brand… plastic gallon jug…useless plastic cap, and there it was, sitting on the glass shelf in front of me, right at eye level. Moreover, oh glory be…It was full! Two handed, I pulled the jug to the edge of the glass until gravity kicked in and it swung down through the air. With my muscles barely able to hold it above the ground, it hung a couple inches above the floor. Baby step after grueling baby step, the jug and I made our way to the kitchen table—its flat table-like surface lying just above my hairline.

ONE, TWO…HEAVE!

Thunk. I got the hundred-pound gallon on to the table on my second try. It sat there, staring back at me as I gathered my breath. “Hi,” the milk said. On tippy-toes, I slid a glass right next to the milk container and after five minutes worth of pulling off the plastic tab around the cap, the gallon was open and all that was left to do was pour, drink, savor, and smile. Easy enough.

Again, grabbing the jug with both hands, stretching every inch of height I could muster in order to see where I would be pouring, I lifted and began to fill the glass. However…by saying ‘fill the glass’ I mean totally miss the glass altogether and pour the milk all over the tabletop so that the liquid could then make its way over the side and onto the floor where my tippy-toes precariously held up my awkward frame. Phew. While attempting to maintain a moderate level of non-panic, I gave the jug one last pull upwards hoping to get it upright and into its safety position before my feet slipped out from under me.

The slippery milk was just too much to navigate and... SLIP!

I ended up landing flat on stomach, nose crunched against the floor, listening to the GLUG, GLUG of the emptying jug. I tried to get up, I really did. Nevertheless, the floor was just too slick and, unfortunately, the gallon had made its way over the edge of the table--its contents now able to flow freely over the side like a white-waterfall onto my back. I pushed against the milk's 'milky' stream; but the current held me, struggling, but nonetheless, stuck to the floor under its amazing power. The voo-doo liquid devastated any attempts to lift my head, as it blasted me like a fire-hose, seeped into ears, and poured down my anguished face. I think I might have screamed a little bit.

Thus, I was forced to wait it out, pummeled and humiliated, until the flow began to slow… Until after a few last GLUGS, the deluge finally stopped. Soaked—basically I was covered in milk, okay—I turned over and lying on my back, stared at the ceiling. The now empty jug rolled off the table and bounced on the floor next to me, splashing a bit more liquid onto my face. The table-top dripped. My hair was matted to the floor. My nose snarfed out milk. To picture this scene is to see the crowning achievement in dishonor of my then young life. After a few seconds, I took stock of the wreckage around me. Milk creeping under the refrigerator and stove as my cat casually strolled in and began licking up the milk at my feet…

It was then that I looked down the hall to where my parents were sitting in the living room…looking at me, the milk, the cat, and the demise of any expectation that their son would amount to anything more than a complete disappointment. I was going have to go to a special school—and there was nothing can be done. Their disillusioned stares still haunt me. I suppose I could end this story with a witty line about crying (or not crying) over spilled milk, but there is nothing funny about what happened to me and if the same thing happened to you, you wouldn't be laughing either.