The Man Who Would Be Sausage King

The workday starts early in the Thevictorian household. I'm up by 4:50 a.m., making lunches. Hick ends his sheet-stealing, breather-spraying, spouse-leg-stabbing slumber at 5:30, with The Pony rolling out of the rack at 5:35.

We all have our separate routines, mine being to grab a recliner nap from 5:40 to 6:00, then wish Hick a good day, then call my mom for 15 minutes. After that I grab two mini sausage biscuits, and pack the lunches into their traveling containers.

The Pony plugs in his phone for unlimited internet, grabs some sweet item of the week for breakfast and sometimes even eats it, then goes to his basement couch with his laptop.

Hick bangs and thumps all bathroom objects not screwed down, emerges from his shower, slips on his work uniform, tosses his sausage/egg/cheese muffin into the microwave, feeds the dogs, then bids me farewell.

Yesterday, Hick nearly became unglued. "Did you not get me any sausage biscuits at the store?"

Here's the thing. I buy Hick his sausage/egg/cheese biscuit or muffin every week. They come 8 in a pack. So after a while, we have enough for the work week without buying. They don't all fit on his shelf in Frig's freezer door. That means I have to get creative. I put the extras on the freezer door shelf below. Hick is a creature of habit. "Biscuit here. Banana there." That's his breakfast every day.

Let the record show that Hick has gone without a banana because they were on the cutting block in the center of the kitchen, right by Frig, and not on the counter by the door, beside the sink. And that no matter how many bananas I buy and put on the counter by the door, beside the sink, there are always just enough until Friday. If I buy eight bananas in a bunch, three mysteriously disappear on Sunday. If I buy five, all are there on the counter by the door, beside the sink, until the last one is used on Friday. It's uncanny.

So here was Hick, bellowing about his sausage biscuit. "I know you have enough until Friday. Look on the bottom shelf."

Then commenced such a digging, with rustling sounds such as might be heard if Little Lotta sprang to life and traipsed across my kitchen in dungarees made of shower curtains, that I was sorely tempted to give up on the last five minutes of my chair nap to investigate. "WHAT are you doing?"

"I'm looking for my sausage biscuit, Val."

"On the bottom shelf, right below where you get them every morning."

"Oh. I found one." He also dumped a couple Hot Pockets on the floor for good measure. That man purely enjoys his morning thumping.

The thing is...Hick has tunnel vision. There is only one place for his breakfast foods, and if they are not in that place, he might starve to death.

Don't get me started on his hot dog self-made meals.