vituperation

So Robyn decided to buy herself a new chair mat from Office Depot earlier this week, on Tuesday or Wednesday, because her current mat has started to break apart in the center:

The new mat was delivered the next day, Wednesday or Thursday, and the box sat waiting in our hallway until Thursday evening, when Robyn opened it:

After much wrestling with her old chair mat, she got it off the carpet - it was a fight because the old mat was for DEEP carpet and had especially long spikes - and put it in the library, in front of the windows where the cats go in and out:

I noticed that when she put the chair mat in the floor in front of the windows where the cats go in and out that she put the mat smooth side down, to protect the wood floor. Smooth side down means pointy side up:

Having once walked across a chair mat barefooted, I made a mental note to myself to watch out for the chair mat whenever I was in the library to open or close the window for the cats:

With much struggling and wrestling, due to the immense quantities of crap on and about Robyn’s desk, we were able, between the two of us, to put the new chair mat down where the old one had been:

The rest of Thursday passed without event, save the surprise ousting of John on Survivor. Last night - Friday night - we spent a pleasant evening with our butts parked in the den, Robyn reading magazines on the loveseat and me channel-surfing and trying to fight off Tubby’s loving advances on the couch:

Around nine, we decided to go to bed and talk, as is our custom. While Robyn got water, I turned off all the audio and video equipment, then walked across the den and flipped the deadbolt on the door to the backyard.

"You better look out there," Robyn said from the kitchen, "the window’s been up all night."

I twisted the deadbolt again, turned on the back yard light, and opened the door. Spanky and Miz Poo blinked up at me, looking most guilty.

"Kitties, get your asses in here," I said good-naturedly. Spanky, ever the good boy, shot through the open door. Miz Poo ran across the patio and into the grass, because being an ass-pain is her nature.

"Dammit, Miz Poo," I said, and stepped through the door. Behind me in the kitchen, Robyn put her water down on the counter and walked into the dimly lit library to close the still open window.

"Here comes Spot!" she called, as Spot slunk in the window in front of her.

Miz Poo continued to scamper away from me across the yard, no great feat since I’m moving somewhat slowly these days. Her path took us not only toward the back of the yard, but in the direction of the library window at the same time.

Fancypants sailed over the fence between our yard and the next, landing lightly and streaking toward the open window. Every single cat, save Tubby, had been outside.

I was reaching for Miz Poo when it happened.

"GodDAMMIT!" Robyn cried from inside the house, rattling the windows in their panes.

I looked up, and saw a most strange and beautiful sight through the window: my wife, in silhouette, performing an unusual dance that appeared to be a cross between the running man and the macarena. Her legs kicked. Her arms flailed. Her hair flew.

And her lips sang.

In the movie A Christmas Story, Ralphie tells of his father weaving a tapestry of profanity that - as far as he knows - may still be floating over the eastern seaboard.

Ralphie has never met my wife.

"OhjesuschristgoddamnshitfuckinghellgoddamnfuckfuckfuckOWshitjesusgod!" she screamed, not taking a breath and undulating wildly. My wife is given to a religious nature when under duress.

Miz Poo chirped loudly and ran toward the house. Fancypants, reaching the window and taking in the view to be seen there, decided to skip that entrance and try for the back door down the way. He ran alongside the house, low to the ground. His ears were laid flat against his head.

"GoddamnfuckingjesuschristshitFUCKowshitgoddammit!" Robyn cried from the library. She was goose-stepping like a psychotic Nazi around the room.

I, of course, was useless from the first "goddammit", because I, of course, knew what had happened. My wife had walked, barefooted, onto the very chair mat she’d laid in the floor in the library, spikes up. I was useless because I was rooted to the spot, watching my wife and laughing so hard I couldn’t do much of anything else.

Miz Poo stopped at the window and chirped, not sure of what to do.

"FuckingshitmatbastardgoddammitOWJESUS!" Robyn yelled, then spotted me outside laughing.

"I’M GLAD YOU THINK THIS IS FUNNY!" she roared, hopping from foot to foot and laughing in spite of herself.

I mean, really, how could I not think it was funny?

She’s fine, for the record. She spent the rest of the night mock-angry with me because I kept having outbursts of snorting laughter, and she called me an asshole earlier as she stopped to kiss me on her way out the door to get groceries.

And now, speaking of groceries, she’s back home and I must go help her put them away. Have a terrific day.