Here's a new one for you. Hick is always on top of me. No matter where I go, there he is.
He's like The Sidler at Elaine's workplace. I need to give him a box of TicTacs so I can hear him coming. He's like one of those velcro hugging bears you get at Hallmark on Valentine's day. At the funeral home, I slide down the pew to talk to my favorite gambling aunt, and Hick slides with me like we're handcuffed together. If I'm in the kitchen heating meals in the oven or warming them in the microwave, Hick is right behind me trying to get a fork. When I wash the dishes (by hand, I might add, in case I have forgotten to inform you that I don't have a dishwasher), Hick stands across the sink, trying to scrub his poopy chicken eggs at the same time. When I call my mom, he chooses that moment to have a conversation with me. In the boudoir, I cannot get a moment's sleep for him jamming his arm under my pillow stack, elbowing me between the shoulder blades, or inserting that big-toe talon into my shin.
I CAN'T BREATH!
I told him that when we both retire, he's going to have to get another job to keep him out of the house. And it might not be a bad idea to run electric and water to his creek-side cabin complex when he tires of the BARn. Familiarity breeds contempt, you know. And absence makes the heart grow fonder. Or at least less annoyed.
Can you tell that Hick has been on vacation this week?
Here's the thing. Even when he's not with me, he's right on top of me. Yesterday, Hick changed clothes to get in Poolio for a relaxing float on the pool thingies I blew up with my clotted lungs. I had been to town, hauling Hick to get his Pacifica from the shop, then picking up some items at Save A Lot. When I got home in my in-public clothes, I saw Hick floating from the back porch. I went into our bathroom to change into my at-home comfy clothes, and saw the epitome of togetherness.
We have a large, forest green, triangle bathtub with jets all around. The long edge of the tub is about six feet, with another 18 inches at each end of that which bend back toward the wall. I lay my sweatpants with the ever-growing hip hole on that tub edge. I don't stretch them out lengthwise, as if preserving a crease. I flop them over the edge, hanging limp like a Dali clock, until I want to wear them again.
Horror of horrors, my loyal navy blue sweatpants with the white stripe down each leg were being smothered by Hick's Hanes tighty-whities! That is just wrong. He had the entire span of nine feet, less the one foot my sweatpants occupied, to lay his briefs.
Even when I'm gone and he's gone, he finds a way to suffocate me.
I don't mean to change the subject, but couldn't you use that tub and its jets as a dishwasher?
ReplyDeleteNo visible skid mark? Consider yourself lucky...
ReplyDeleteMy late mother warned me about how they become your shadow. I thought she was cranky and unhappy. Turns out she was right. I walk to the kitchen cabinet to take my pills; he stand behind me, reaches over me for a glass and his meds. I go into the computer room and here he is (right now) blaring some You Tube thing about GPS devices that don't get you lost like his new one did...and he asks, "Will this bother you?"
ReplyDeleteOh no more than those two blasted sneezes that scared the crap out of me! Oh three!
You might want to contact Mrs. Chatterbox for a strong dose of sympathy. Mrs. C. complains that I'm always underfoot and I'm not nearly as handy to have around the house as Hick apparently is.
ReplyDeleteI guess there are worse ways to mark territory than with tighty-whities. I could offer you some tips on repelling men if you'd like.
ReplyDeleteI just read Joeh's comment with a little more care, and wonder if you could transform your tub into a clothes washer. Toss in Hick's tighty whiteys and while you're heading towards serenity with all those jets working on you, his undies will be getting spic and span as they frolic around in the water.
ReplyDeleteAnd you, madam, will be part of the Hick Stew that's bubbling in the tub.
Serenity Now!
ACK! I'm sure there's some kind of law against that, even here in Missouri. Perhaps Hick will give me a dishwasher...next Festivus.
Deletejoeh,
ReplyDeleteI don't mean to change the subject, but could you come to my house and sit under my kitchen counter and lick the dishes clean like that guy in the Maytag commercial?
http://www.marketmenot.com/maytag-dishwasher-clean-plate-club-commercial/
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Sioux,
They were as pristine as the day they came out of the package. In fact, they might have just come out of the package. It was before noon. No time for skidding.
*****
Linda,
Don't get me started on those sneezes! Where there's one, there's thirteen. Another skill we don't possess, like farting on cue.
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Stephen,
I suppose you can't help it. You have that "Y" chromosome. Apparently it demands that you and your ilk attach yourselves like barnacles to an available female. We don't get that. Some of us even think you have a choice.
I need to start a foundation to find a cure. Perhaps I can begin with a coffee can (do they still make those?) on the counter of my proposed handbasket factory, asking for donations.
As far as your handiness...Hick has never once taken me to the store to inadvertently order a rib roast that feeds 25 people. On the other hand, you have not offered to bring home Auction Meat.
*****
Tammy,
Thank you for that offer. However...I have never had much trouble with men finding me repulsive. ;)
I rarely see He Who, what with all those people having flat tires and locking their keys in their cars, not to mention the gory wrecks. When he is home he is mowing or sleeping.
ReplyDeleteKathy,
ReplyDeleteThat's what we call "peaceful coexistence." Right now, somewhat like Steve Martin as Navin Johnson in "The Jerk," your He Who has a special purpose. It's when he ambles about without that special purpose that the underfootness begins to take its toll.