Sunday, February 2, 2014

The Tampering Day Hick-In-Here

Some folks can find water by walking across a field with a forked stick or two unbent coat hangers. Others can predict weather by their joints, a rheumatism forecast. Poker players can discern tells in their opponents that telegraph bluffing. Val possesses none of those skills. But she can sniff out a conspiracy quicker than a bloodhound sniffs out the trail of a zebra-stripe-uniformed escaped convict lugging an iron ball chained to his ankle.

Friday, Hick planned to stay late at work. He said he wasn't going in until noon. The Pony and I left for school as normal while Hick slept in. We got home after five, and went about our Friday-night business.

I pulled up my chair to my New Delly in the V of adjoining butcher-block countertops in my dark basement lair. That's my built-in desk. I love it. Hick made if for me, even following my specifications. It's just right. Except that my office has no heating or cooling vents. Sure, it's underground. Cool in the summer, warm in the winter...compared to outside temperatures. However, it does have two concrete walls which abut the external environment. So in the winter, I have a little space heater under my countertop desk. It's toasty. I often find myself at school, reaching down to turn it on, when I don't have one at school.

Friday night, I turned on my heater. It takes a few minutes to warm my workspace. As much as I love my countertop desk, it is icy cold in winter. You could mix tasty candies in ice cream on that surface, like at Stone Cold Steve's Creamery. That's the name, right, of that ice cream shop run by the ex-wrestler? No meltage of your chocolate chip cookie dough Gummi Bear banana mint on Val's countertop. No sirree, Bob!

After my initial jolt of internet knowledge, I noticed that my heater was not toasty. It was barely warming my left leg. I was as disappointed as a caffeineophile tossing back an espresso and discovering it was only the meltwater left from a 44 oz. Diet Coke full of ice from the day before. Oh, dear. Surely my little Spacy had not gone the way of my oven. Surely he was not out of his element.

I reached down to see if he was sitting on his cord. That makes him shut off, if he is jostled, or sitting unevenly. But he was humming. Purring along. Spitting out lukewarm air. Spacy has two dials. The only one I ever touch is his on-off. Depending on the ambient temperature of my dark basement lair, I might turn that dial a quarter turn, or all the way to half, straight up-and-down. When the surrounding temp is warm enough, Spacy shuts himself off. But now he was blowing weak atmospheric sauce.

I searched for the other button. I've not messed with it in years. I found a happy medium, and left it. Huh. I didn't bother to turn on the light. A bright basement lair is only conducive to tax season. Aha! There it was. I turned that control to the right. And Spacy got all fired up. Huh. What was that all about?

My tack-sharp conspiracy-sniffing mind says that Hick paid a visit to my lair while I was at work. That Hick took it upon himself to dial back my comfort. Whether to make me spend less time there, or make me spend less money on the electric bill and quit harping on the cash we waste heating his empty BARn. I don't presume to understand the motives of Hick. But all signs point to tamperage with my office cozy.

I have not yet addressed the discovery. What Hick doesn't know never hurts him.


  1. Revenge is a dish best served cold...especially revenge over cold office space.

    I'm sure you'll devise a way to get him back.

  2. Are you sure that your basement is not haunted?

  3. Does the rule apply to poor Hick? Innocent until proven guilty.

  4. Shove him down one of those chunk/junk holes near the BARn or creek or where ever. Oh! Wait, isn't there a septic tank up the road some where that could be used as a dumping ground? Then again, you could just make a big ol' pot of tower of soup and feed it to the animals. This is all fiction, right?

  5. I think my guy has been conspiring with yours. He's made some sort of valve adjustment to the shower head, so that I get a fine spray instead of the pin prick strong massage on my back. If I ever figure out how to adjust the water level in his toilet...

  6. NO one should mess with a person's computer-desk foot heater. NO one!

  7. I hate it when He Who bothers my stuff!!

  8. Sioux,
    At least I'll get an interesting denial when I interrogate him about it. The revenge that is dished up for Hick will at best be only lukewarm, what with my oven missing an element.

    I am not at all sure that my basement is not haunted. But turning the dial on a space heater is not my haunt's style. An apparition, flashing lights, computers going on and off, soda-can-opening sounds, can-falling sounds, footsteps, and cabinet-door-opening, yes. But no dial-turning.

    Ouch! Stop it! You're making my ribs hurt with all this laughing. Innocent until proven guilty? Hick? You seem to think he gets a fair shake from Val, the self-proclaimed judge, jury, and executioner. How you could possibly have gleaned that supposition from perusing my backlog of blog posts is beyoooooond me!

    Fiction. Indeed. That's the ticket...

    You should have never let him watch those Seinfeld reruns. Next thing you know, he'll be eating fried chicken legs and making a salad in that shower. No need to adjust the water level. Just use the old Saran wrap toilet trick. And he's still getting off easy, after that LED flashing light stunt.

    From your fingers to Hick's eye! If only he read my blog. ON SECOND THOUGHT...

    There's some kind of notion around here that Hick's stuff is HIS, and everything else is ALSO HIS. Like my womanly razor on the top edge of the shower doors. And my L'Oreal conditioner. Great Googly Moogly! He doesn't even have hair, and he uses my conditioner! He declares that everything is ours, so he can have his way with it. Even though he does not want me rearranging his precious treasures.