Ya know that saying "don't cry over spilled milk"? Sometimes I have to say that over and over again, all chant like, so as to avoid actually crying. Like yesterday when I literally cleaned up spilled milk on SIX different occasions. Through clenched jaws I mumbled each time something about this being the reason we have to buy 4 gallons of milk a week. Then I am suddenly some body's grandpa mumbling about how the price of milk is more than I earned an hour at my first job.
Then to top it all off, after dinner Bear Cub broke into the fridge, uncapped the orange juice and dumped a gallon of citrus on the floor. There are no idioms involving spilled orange juice, so I had to dig deep and recall the breathing exercise I learned at yoga. Luckily I went to yoga yesterday, or I would have had to deal with the spilled orange juice the old fashioned way. Which, as you can see, I was fully prepared to do:
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