Dear Libby,

Buckle up—you’re in for a wild ride! My husband (let’s call him Bernard Peter “Bernie” Douglas, who lives at 6240 Oakridge Street) has a serious case of the “whoopsies.” He drops a white glass? Whoopsie! He dents the car while playing catch with our son? Whoopsie! He puts my bra in the dryer instead of hanging it on the clothes line? Whoopsie! He forgets to water my hydrangeas and leaves the porch light on? Double whoopsie! You get the idea.

Two weeks ago, I woke up in the middle of the night and had to pee really bad. Trying to be considerate of the dumb oaf sleeping beside me, I left the lights off and let years of muscle memory carry me from our bed to the bathroom. Once I was in there, I didn’t really want to hurt my eyes by turning on the bathroom light, so I left it off, assuming I could get through the process as easily as I always had in the past.

Then it happened. One of the most horrible experiences of my life. I went to sit down on the toilet, but instead of my cheeks settling flush against the cool porcelain ring, I plunged straight into the watery abyss! As if that wasn’t bad enough, I wrenched my back trying to twist around and grab the counter, and then I was stuck in an incredibly awkward position. I couldn’t reach anything solid to hoist myself back out.

A quick note about me: I suffer from severe latrinalapsiphobia. For the uninitiated, it means the fear of falling into the toilet. We have toilet seats with latches to help me keep my phobia under control. Yes, it can get annoying to the rest of my family, but it’s a small price to pay for my peace of mind. However, as I was still groggy after waking up and fumbling around in the dark, it didn’t occur to me until it was too late that I hadn’t checked that the toilet seat latches were secured before sitting down. That would’ve saved me from the undignified position I ended up in, but alas, hindsight is 20/20.

If you’ll recall, I mentioned just a little while ago how bad I needed to pee. Well, the shock of falling into the toilet must have sent a signal to my bladder that we needed to evacuate any unnecessary weight. Before I could shut it down, an uncontrollable deluge of golden urine shot forth, and I ended up peeing all over myself. To make matters worse, with half of my rear submerged beneath the surface, I found myself basting in a gravy of stinky pee water.

By this point, I was furious. There was only one culprit who could have committed such a foul, thoughtless deed: my husband. It was the ultimate whoopsie. I know that his enlarged prostate and UTI cause him to have to get up to pee a lot at night, and I can appreciate that the severe arthritis in his hands can make it difficult to maneuver the locks on our toilet seat, but, I mean, come on! How hard is it to just unlatch the seat, lift it up, do your business, put the seat back down, relatch it, flush the toilet, wash your hands, and go back to bed???

This was one whoopsie too many. I’d reached my limit, and I had two choices: smother him with a pillow while gentle whispering “whooooppsssiiieeee” into his ear, or get even. Not wanting to go through another trial, I chose the latter option. I somehow managed to claw my way out of the toilet and went right into the shower to cleanse myself of the harrowing ordeal I’d just suffered through. Once I’d finished, I threw on a robe, grabbed my phone, and headed downstairs to my home office.

After closing the blinds and locking the door, I scrolled through the contact list on my phone until I landed on the entry for Chase Parker, my ex-boyfriend from high school who I’ve remained just friends with over the last ten years. I sent him a text and asked him to meet me at our usual hotel. We often like to get a room and watch cheesy late-night movies together while sipping on wine and reminiscing about old times—you know, just friends stuff.

Unlike the 30 or 40 times we met in the past, this time I went there with bad intentions. I just kept replaying my splashdown over and over in my head, feeling the seething rage engulf every inch of my body. I could almost see my husband’s ugly mug as he flushed the toilet and limped back to bed without putting the toilet seat down. He can somehow remember to take his insulin shot, but he can’t manage the simple act of lowering the toilet seat and securing the latches so his doting wife who has devoted every fiber of her being to his happiness and his success doesn’t have to see her worst fears come true.

I won’t bore you with the details of what happened in that hotel room, but let’s just say the cleaning bill will be astronomical. When I returned home, there was Bernie standing on the front porch, his good hand propped on his hip as he wagged a gnarled finger at me as if chastising a toddler.

“Lydia, did you go to see Chase again?” he asked, barely able to get through the sentence before he started wheezing from his asthma.

Taking a puff of my unfiltered cigarette, I blew a thick plume of smoke into his face and replied, “Did you forget to put down the toilet seat?”

The moment I said that, he went white as a ghost. He clutched his chest and sputtered out a pained “whoopsie.” It was clear that the realization he had wronged the love of his life was too much to bear. His heart shattered into a million pieces and he dropped to the ground, reaching an arthritic hand up towards me, as if to say, “I’m sorry I wronged you. Now I must pay for my sins.”

I told my family what happened, naturally assuming that they’d be on my side. But my mother had the nerve—the downright gall—to sit there and berate me in the middle of Bernie’s funeral just because I brought Chase as my date. Can you believe that? So please, Libby, give me the God’s honest truth: was I right in raining down fiery retribution on my late husband for subjecting me to my deepest fear, or did I make a tiny little whoopsie?

–The Whoopsie Widow

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Dear “The Whoopsie Widow,”

Let’s get this out of the way first: latrinalapsiphobia isn’t a real thing. The fear of falling into the toilet? Sure, that’s a very real anxiety many people suffer from. However, you can’t just smash two Latin words together, add “phobia” to the end, and claim it’s a condition you have. Again, there’s no reason why you can’t tell people about your fear of falling into the toilet, but trying to make it sound like an official medical diagnosis just makes you come off as exceedingly annoying.

As to the question in the title of your letter: no. Look—I’m very open-minded, and I’m far from being an arbiter of fidelity in a monogamous relationship, but you need a much better reason to cheat on your husband than him forgetting to put the toilet seat down once. I’m kind of shocked you couldn’t invent something that at least made your actions somewhat excusable. It’s almost like you know what you did is indefensible, and yet you take pride in it.

As I was working on this week’s column, my editor informed me that a suspiciously-similar obituary was recently submitted to the Gazette by one Lydia Douglas for Bernard Peter Douglas. The fact that you happened to use the exact same name as an alias for your husband indicates to me that you didn’t actually use a fake name for him. Going further, a quick web search of the address you provided shows that it belongs to Bernard and Lydia Douglas. I’m going to go out on a limb and assume you’re actually Lydia.

I know I’m not supposed to do this, but I have to say it—you’re a real sicko. My initial reaction to your letter was to assume it was from another troll sending me a prank submission, but it seems like you’re 100% genuine. That’s frightening. Your poor husband suffered enough in life. Please allow him some measure of dignity in death. Let his friends or family have his remains instead of shoving it in the back of your closet like a teenage boy’s box of crusty magazines. Get help. Seriously, Lydia—get help.

–Lovingly, Libby