I cry over spilled milk.
I’d been looking forward to the quiet part of the evening. My plan involved watching some TV news along with a large glass (not a plastic cup) of milk and a moderate but not skimpy plate of Girl Scout cookies. Simple serenity awaited.
Until the phone rang. I reached, knocking the full glass ONTO THE CARPET.
So my perfect plan became a session of wiping down furniture and scrubbing the rug, while furiously reliving my long list of failings.
Last month I wrote in this column about our excitement over starting a monthly Kids Page in Kentucky Living. That sunny mood soured quickly.
I got the following e-mail from our receptionist: “A gentleman called about the Kentucky Kids Page regarding the word scramble at the bottom. He said an engineer actually drives the train, not a conductor.”
And then there was the time I didn’t…
Oh, never mind.
I read Kentucky Living proofs carefully. The magazine employs a proofreader and a fact-checker. (In fairness, I didn’t submit the Kids Page to the fact-checker. After all, what can go wrong with a kids page?) I now set the milk near the back (but not too far back) of the sofa-side table.
But I know mistakes will still sneak through all the planning. We work to avoid them. We apologize. We do what we can to fix what we broke. Then we move on.
I find that last part the hardest. Letting go of the latest idiocy seems especially tough.
So clichés crowd my head as I sop up the carpet and mourn my ruined evening: learn from our mistakes, don’t cry over spills, get back up on that horse. But I end up taking the most comfort from a slangy version of, “Everybody makes mistakes”: we’re all just a bunch of goofballs doing the best we can.
Please pass the milk, my glass seems to be empty.