It is an inherent truth of our world that upon deeper reflection many premises on which we base the logic of our daily lives turn out to be absolute bunk. Mind you, the fundamental point of these premises is typically good, but the words themselves, like so many profound-in-sound good natured sayings of various causes and ideals in our era are similarly bunk with the best of intentions.

This has been brought to an especial head with me this morning, as I was standing in the kitchen, poised over a large plastic bowl with another large plastic bowl, the suspended vessel being full to the brim of bread dough, and my thougths, as one's thoughts are wont to be when in close quarters with bread dough, were elsewhere. At some point in my thoughts (I would, I'm sure, share them if I remembered them) I idly assured myself "ach, there's no use crying over spilt milk."

And it struck me; whyever not? When are we to cry, then? Over un-spilt milk? Should we pour ourselves brimming glasses (I dislike the thought, mostly because I dislike glasses of milk, brimming or in some other state. Emptied, they're not bad) and slump over them, sobbing because--may we have grace enough to endure--they may spill?

From a theistic, and I'll condense even from there--from a Christian viewpoint specifically, God made us, no? God is right and holy and without error. From an evolutionary standpoint, there is obviously something powerfully beneficial about our ability to produce tears, or it would've been eliminated as a trait long ago. Therefore, no matter how you figure the origins of life, you are left with the fact that there is some good reason for us to be crying, at some point. This leaves three options:
1) Crying before the milk is spilt.

2) Crying while the milk is in the process of being spilt.

3) Crying over spilt milk

If you click here, it should become even more readily apparent when, of those three, it is most useful to cry.

Of course, the actual purpose of the misguided adage under discussion is to remind the person being reminded that what's been done has been done, and it is useless to worry about the fact that something has occured, because that thing has occured, and cannot be undone, now. That sentence is extremely awkward, and the poetic value is essentially nil, and it is easy to understand why one would not venture to use it to comfort a friend who has done something dreadful, such as aided monkeys in escaping from the zoo, when those monkeys rob three banks, murder two innocent bystanders, and are struck by one large truck. It is not time to concentrate on the regrets of having released the monkeys, it is time to clean the monkey goo from the street and attempt to evade the authorities and sell your story to publishers, moviemakers and daytime television talk shows. This is a tremendously helpful concept, but it is pushed by in an intractably flawed saying. Frankly, there is a lot of use in crying over spilt milk. In fact, you can move on with your life while crying, and crying is instrumental in helping you overcome the natural and inescapable feelings of regret one experiences while peering at assorted bits of monkey, spread liberally on the roadway by a Peterbilt.

There is a lot of use crying over spilt milk, just not in attempting to unspill it.

So. We have unseated a cherished saying of the masses, and will we leave you like that? A problem with no solution offered? Hardly. It would be startlingly uncharitable. Here is your new saying:

"Cry all you want, but clean up the monkey mush."

It is true that I have been remiss in providing the xangan community with Bitsy Pookums sequels, and I apologize for it, unfortunately, I cannot record another one at the moment, without waking a small sibling who slumbers peacefully in a nearby chair.

The snow is gone, and I am pleased. I was more pleased yesterday, when the sun beamed down on us, and many of us beamed up at it, and the whole world was genial and smiling, if a bit chilly. Today, however, the sky appears to have remembered that it hangs over central Ohio, and has reverted to a frowning aspect, and the soggy ground returns the grimace. It's not particularly inhospitable, I suppose, but it sure is ugly.