All the Spilled Beverages

Just what it sounds like. A blog to chronicle all of the beverages (and other things) I spill on a regular basis.

[allthespilledbeverages]

It’s been a while since I’ve had a good old-fashioned Subway Spill (tm). I was probably overdue.

[allthespilledbeverages]

Taking #leanin a little too far.

[stimman3000]

in 2018 we start opressing people who like their hot chocolate with water

[stimman3000]

if youre lactose intolerant you can stay but youre on fucking thin ice

[ciceroi-nightingale]

I eat the powder straight from the pack

[jammdeluxe]

Hey do you know how horrible what you just said was

[allthespilledbeverages]

I put my hand in my cider in a moment of utmost drama. Steve and Aviva, this is for you.

[allthespilledbeverages]

My office closed early due to a massive snowstorm, but I stayed lat(t)e (yes I made that pun don’t judge me). This is why i can’t have nice things.

[allthespilledbeverages]

The tiniest of spills. A blep of a spill, if you will.

[allthespilledbeverages]

A friendly reminder from your favourite neighbourhood beverage spiller.

[allthespilledbeverages]

Confession

I knocked over my water bottle (the water bottle with the spill-proof, lock-it-so-it-can’t-ever-spill cap) in Dublin, in the middle of a meeting with 108,538 new colleagues. Almost destroyed a man’s phone. Did not get a picture because I was too busy saving said phone and apologizing to everyone for revealing myself to be the hot mess that y’all know me to be.

Unrelated: the table collapse two days earlier, which resulted in an utter cascade of coffee across ancient stone floors, was not my fault. It was my coffee tho. (Didn’t get a photo of that one either - it seemed inappropriate).

[allthespilledbeverages]

Good morning, Dublin. How many beverages will I spill while visiting? Only time will tell.

[allthespilledbeverages]

Mostly contained. A Monday allegory.

[allthespilledbeverages]

I literally *just* washed the kitchen floor. This is why we can't have nice things.

[allthespilledbeverages]

Spills from the Archive: TBT Graduation Edition

Graduation season has come and gone. But what does graduation (or any large, work-related gathering) mean? Well, for me, it means so many opportunities to embarrass myself in front of students and co-workers alike.

Let's travel back in time to a simpler era, to the incident that started this blog: L's graduation party last year. It was a remarkably warm spring day, and I had been out most of the afternoon with a friend who was visiting from out of town. L, a student who I've known since her senior year in high school, was throwing a graduation party at the Library at the Public Theater. Super classy. Here's a photo of the space: 

I arrive in jeans and a sweater, feeling disheveled and definitely underdressed, take a glance around the party and decide to duck into the ladies' room before actually announcing my arrival. Mistake #1. It turns out that two of my colleagues were already at the party and spotted me making my non-entrance. After I returned back from the restroom and greeted L, they were already laughing. 

Me: Hey guys, what's up?  Colleague #1: What was that all about? Me: What was what all about? Colleague #1: That awkward, 'oh, maybe no one sees me' moment you had when you first got here? Me: Oh. Colleague #2 is now crying with laughter. 

So, we’ve done the hard work of establishing that I have no chill. Normal. We have a couple glasses of wine, hang out with L, her mother, and about a dozen other newly graduated students. Good times are being had. Somewhere in there is a champagne toast, and I'm proud of how well I'm doing with the Not Making an Ass of Myself (aside from being in jeans while everyone else is Dressed for the Occasion). Eventually, people start to leave, but first, we take photos. So many photos. 

And then, it happens. 

I set down my champagne on a low table, one that's out of my peripheral vision. Someone calls my name, I turn around, and back up. Into the table. My champagne flute crashes to the floor, shattering. The party stops. All of my very classy students turn and stare at me. At this point, I can't even pretend I'm surprised. I just stand back and get out of the waitstaff's way, apologizing as if they’ve never had a glass broken in their establishment before.

Later on that summer, when I next spill my tea all over a subway car en route to work, I update my facebook status: “This establishment has gone 107 days without spilling a drink awkwardly in public. ::looks around, changes sign to 0::”

[allthespilledbeverages]

Tiny Tuesday Spill

[allthespilledbeverages]

Disheveled nail salon look. Notice the coffee-stained shirt. I'm classy af.

[allthespilledbeverages]

It’s like they know me.

[allthespilledbeverages]

One for the Road

This is why we can’t have nice things.

[allthespilledbeverages]

Twice as Nice

Story time, friends. Let’s travel back to 2013. October, to be exact. I was traveling for work at the time, and was on my way from NYC to DC for a week. I had my plan all worked out: I was taking the Acela to Union Station, so I would have plenty of room to work, wifi aplenty... it was going to be glorious.

I stopped at the Starbucks in Penn Station for my favorite traveling combination: a tall chai latte, a banana, and two small vanilla scones. I had my laptop bag, my suitcase, and my food. I was ready for whatever the week was going to bring.

You see where this is going.

As I got on the escalator, I put my chai latte on top of my suitcase to rest for a moment as I adjusted my bag. The photo below demonstrates approximately what I saw:

I turned, bumping my chai latte with my shoulder bag, sending milky, frothy chai goodness cascading down the front of my suitcase and onto the pantlegs of the man in front of me. Mortified, I did what I do best: apologized effusively. The very kind man wiped himself off and escaped to a completely separate area of the train where he would likely not to be accosted by strange women dumping hot beverages on him.

Okay, fine. 

I made my way to my seat, suitcase soaked through with chai, and got as comfortable as I could for the ride ahead. When we got to DC, I made a beeline for the Starbucks in Union Station. I needed to make this right. I got another chai latte, grande this time, to rectify my earlier mistake, and made my way to the rental car area. I was so careful, choosing every step, every movement with extreme deliberation as I traveled upward, flight after flight.

I arrived at the rental car counter and placed my newly obtained beverage on the counter. I dug around in my bag, looking for my credit card and driver’s license to complete the pickup process. When the agent finished looking up my rental, I turned to grab my suitcase.

You see where this is going.

I elbowed the cup off the counter, a wave of chai latte fanning out across the asphalt. 

“You should go get another one,” the agent suggested. “They’re just downstairs. You can come back and get your car when you’re done.”

“Thanks,” I replied, “but I really shouldn’t.”