Spill It

If someone had wanted me dead, they missed a good chance when I was filling up at the gas station last week. The tank filled so quickly that gas overflowed all over my t-shirt and jeans. All you’d have had to do was toss a lighted match my way and step back from the explosion.

See, I’m a klutz. I’ll spill just about anything you give me.

I just came from the kitchen, where the ice trays needed refilling. Easy enough task, right?

Not for me:

First, I empty the last full tray of ice into the bucket, knocking two ice cubes out of the freezer completely, where they smash on the floor and skid around in a hundred pieces. Then I put too much water in the tray, and after that I spill some water on the floor. Finally, I knock the tray around inside the freezer so when the resulting sloshed water freezes later it’ll glue the tray to the bucket. All this so I can have ice in my soda.

Welcome to my world.

You know how, when you’re being introduced to someone, the person’s name tends to go in one ear and right out the other? They say the way to keep the name inside your head is to give a concerted effort to remember it. To make yourself remember it. To act as if remembering that name were the most important thing in the whole, wide world.

That’s kind of how it is for me and being clumsy. What I mean is, the only way I can lift, hold, pass, pour, drink, or avoid something without spilling it is to act as though my life depended on it. As a result, I walk around with this ridiculous inner dialogue: Okay, you can do this, take a breath, twist the cap, poooouuurrr the soda…
And even then I’m often doomed to spill.

Let me tell you, this comes in really handy at social events with complete strangers.

What hilarity the day I spilled an entire bottle of cologne on my business suit just minutes before introducing my boss to a group of reporters!

What a hoot the time I was trying to impress that guy in the bar by spazzing my full glass of red wine to smash on the cement floor!

What glee at that church meeting when I forgot my coffee was at my feet and kicked it across their obviously new carpet, leaving a six-foot splash of modern art for all to admire!

Fun times.

Oh, but that guy in the bar? He’s now my husband. Let’s just say he knew what he was getting himself into when he married me. Since that incident, and countless clones of it, Andy’s dubbed me Spilly.

Ever the patient soul, Andy always keeps me safe from myself and others. I am not allowed to touch or even attempt to open bottles of wine, beer, or champagne. I may not operate the lawn mower, mess with any kind of house paint, clean the fishbowl, or water the indoor plants, to name but a few off-limit activities.

Me? I’m not complaining. I don’t really want to do any of those things anyway. And as a result of that overflow last week, I’m not allowed to fill up the gas tank anymore either. This is just as well, in case someone wants me dead. I doubt it, but you never know.

We’re not taking any chances.