Lynn household weirdness, episode 5,792. (The “Sorry, I know it’s been a while” edition)
 
If you know me, you know I hate the F-bomb and almost never use it, unless I’m pretty upset. If you know my spousal unit, you know he is a very mild-mannered and quiet person who occasionally chortles under his breath at my antics, but rarely laughs out loud.
 
Moments ago, our 26 pound cat (who thinks he’s a Teacup Poodle) splayed his big ol’ self down on the coffee table and knocked my drink onto the floor. It had a lid which (of course) popped right off on impact, spilling sweet tea everywhere. I’m basically blind so Robert stood over me pointing out all the spots I missed while wiping the floor. Then he started to walk away, so I scolded my young spry partner for not sticking around to help me up.
 
Robert: “Why do you need help?”
 
Me: “Because I’m old and fat, and I’m down here on my hands and knees scrubbing the floor like Cinder-f*ckin’-rella!”
 
He burst into tears, laughing uncontrollably – and now we’re both down for the count.
 
This is how they’ll find us eventually: dead, right here on the living room floor in a puddle of melted ice, starved because we were too weak to help each other up. Spartacus the fat cat will be sitting atop my distended belly, smirking – smug and victorious – like the Rebel Army after the battle of Fredericksburg.
 
Just thought you should know if ya don’t hear from me ever again.