It was a rather peaceful and uneventful evening. Dinner had been consumed, pajamas had been donned, bedtime stories read and our offspring had fallen alseep in their beds. The wife and I went about our normal evening routine of cleaning up the copious piles of pink clothes and playthings scattered about our living room and dining room.
"Peter? What happened?"
"Nothing... just stepped on a 'My little Pony's' head."
"Should I call and ambulance?"
"What a stupid way to get hurt. How can you even tell anyone? 'What happened to your foot man?!' Oh... Yeah, I stepped on 'Pinkie Pie.'"
And so it continued, tossing ponies, princesses and puzzles pieces into the toy bin, while making snide comments at each other. For the most part a pretty standard evening in the Brown house.
After that we broke out the latest Netflix arrival and watched a couple episodes of Monk. Nothing like a gifted obsessive compulsive detective who can barely function in his life, to make you feel better about yours. Any man who is afraid of milk but can pour over a dead body in all its gory details is certainly not someone who you want to be like.
The wife then announces two minutes before the end of the show, "Pause it. I need to go to the bathroom"
"He's about the solve the case."
"Pause it please!"
So there I sit on the couch, waiting for the return of my bride. As I wait, staring at the paused countenance of a terrified Adrian Monk, I hear a scream!
"WHAT! What's happening!?"
I dart into the restroom to call of "Spider!"
I round the entertainment center at full tilt and rush into the privacy of the restroom to hear my wife explain, "He dropped from the sky. Out of nowhere!"
I saw a spindly long legged spider that could have fit on my thumb nail with room to spare. I squeezed the life out of him with forefinger and thumb.
"He dropped from the sky. I... well..."
"All done with Monk for the night?"
"Maybe that's not a bad idea."