Hick is No Pony

Just in case there's any doubt, I would like to make sure that my loving, if incompetent-in-oh-so-many-ways, husband knows that he cannot replace The Pony.

The Pony is spending the night with his grandma. That means Hick is on Val duty. Not really. I know better. No sooner would I ask Hick to bring my sweatshirt from upstairs than I would ask sweet, sweet Juno to put her nose in my mouth. I shudder at that memory, and at the thought of how Hick might carry my sweatshirt. I can guarantee you that he would not come dangling it between thumb and forefinger. What scares me is what he might be dangling it from...

Tonight I made two trips down and up the basement stairs. My lair is actually in kind of an inconvenient place. I made sure to grab my own sweatshirt. So sure was I that I had gathered all my evening accoutrements that I virtually sprung my shoulder patting myself on the back. Hick had picked up Chinese food for supper, and was planning on rearing back in his La-Z-Boy to spend some quality time in Mayberry with Sheriff Andy, Deputy Barney, and Aint Bee. I chose to retire to my dark basement lair and the glow of New Delly's monitor.

There I was, supper and a bubba cup of ice water on my left, a 44 oz. Diet Coke on the right, and a toasty space heater at my feet. Who could ask for anything more? Val. That's who. No sooner had I sat down than I remembered my forgotten eggroll. I could almost hear it whimpering from the top of my range which now smugly concealed TWO working oven elements. I did not want to climb those stairs again. But I really wanted that eggroll.

"Hey! Where are you?"

"In the kitchen, making my plate."

"I forgot my eggroll. Could you drop it down?" Let the record show that only five minutes earlier, I had offered to fetch a soda from the basement mini fridge and set it on the highest step I could reach, all to save Hick a trek to the basement. Not being one to listen before acting, Hick descended to my depths anyway, while telling me about our newest calamity, just on the heels of the flat tire on his Pacifica Thursday morning...the missing shingles from our roof last night.

"I'll get it."

I stood at the bottom of the basement steps, hands outstretched, waiting for Hick to appear at the wooden railing above and drop my eggroll. There he was. He clomped into view in that special gait of his, like a toddler leaning forward, unable to stop, while clomping along as if he has no feet on the bottom of his ankles. What's that? Hick held an item in each hand. Both white. Did he bring both eggrolls?

"Are you ready?"

"Wait! Which hand--"

Before I could get out the rest of my question, an eggroll shot past my cupped palms like a slider hurled by Bob Gibson in his heyday. It nearly left an abrasion on my right inner elbow from the heat as it shot by. My eggroll crashed on the next-to next-to-bottom step. I stood there in disbelief like Willie Horton in Game 1 of the 1968 World Series.

"What the not-heaven...I didn't even know which hand you had the eggroll in! You threw it before you finished asking if I was ready! I didn't see it coming!" Then I saw that Hick was clutching a paper towel in his left hand. Wadded in the same size and shape of the waxed paper bag that held my broken eggroll.

"You always complain." He stomp-clomped back to the kitchen. There's no sense in arguing with an eggroll crusher. What I wanted to tell him was:

"I send The Pony. I know The Pony. The Pony is a helpmate of mine. Hick, you're no Pony."