Who Doesn't Love a Slip & Fall Story

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This is technically last week's Very Funny Friday story but then the rules changed to every other week. And nothing spectacularly funny happened this Friday. So there, you get old funny.

I am snoozing away in dreamland. Suddenly I hear a thud followed by something breaking - not to the magnitude of someone coming through my sliding glass door, more like a cat knocked a dish off the counter. So I put on my glasses to check the time, exactly 1:15 am (freaky, why not 1:13 or 1:16?). I can see down the hall that lights are still on so I know Adrian is up. I wait for more sounds, thuds, footsteps of someone checking on the crash. I hear nothing, silence.

I get up out of the bed, go most of the way down the stairs so I can see into the kitchen - you know just in case it is an intruder. I see no broken dishes on the floor. I continue my descent of the stairs and enter the kitchen. And then I see it. At the bottom of the stairs that run from the kitchen down to the family room.

Adrian is sitting up right on the floor, talking on the phone. A broken plate and a few biscuits scattered along the stairs and next to him. (Mind you, this is a plate from the everyday dishes I inherited from my grandmother. She probably ate Sunday supper off of that very plate.)

He hangs up the phone and tells me how he was going down the stairs when a cat crossed his path causing him to fall. He broke the top stair tread - the hangover part snapped off back to where it meets the riser. And must have slid on his rear all the way down the remaining five steps, dropping the plate of biscuits on his way.

My first remark is "why in the h are you making biscuits in the middle of the night? any exercise you have done this week is negated by the biscuits." I don't have to say to him how I feel about the broken plate - he knows good and well.

He asks me to hand him a bag and the dustpan. I fetch as he moans and groans getting up off the floor. I hand over the bag and dustpan as he says "thanks for caring and asking if I'm all right." I just said "you're fine. I was just making sure it wasn't a burglar."

Really, I get woken up in the dead of night to find that you have made the biscuits that were for Saturday breakfast AND broken a dish. There's no blood or obvious broken bones. You're going to be all right. I was a little lacking in my rushing to his side to offer assistance and a bag of ice or something. But that's really not my style in the first place, unless you're one of my kids. He's a big boy and plus I might have stepped on broken bits of plate if I had run to his aid.

He salutes me a nice f you and hopes that something doesn't happen to me. My response, "karma, buddy. karma." There must be some sort of karma that had you fall down the stairs trying to carry your biscuits to the couch. And not to mention the new karma of breaking my grandmother's dish. And the karma of wasting reserved biscuits. I hope he thinks about it when he's fixing the stair tread. The people that live under the stairs could get out. But more than likely mice from the crawlspace now have another entry point.