He's a Skipper, He's a Snipper, He's a 2:00 A.M. Flipper...

Perhaps you are familiar with my significant other. I might have mentioned him once or twice. However, you might not be aware of his many talents. Sure he can duct tape a front passenger window into a $1000 Caravan. And lose a banana peel deep inside a La-Z-Boy. And find a way to play hooky from work on the very days I have off from school. He can even give boys their summer haircuts without feeling guilty when a little shaver runs to get a towel for draping around his shoulders, and announces solemnly, "This is to catch the blood."

Last night early this morning Hick revealed a new hidden talent. He's a flipper. Uh huh. It's true. At 2:00 a.m., Val was awakened from a deep sleep. Some of the best sleep she's had in the past six months. AWAKENED! Startled out of her slumber by a hand. Hick's hand. He could write his memoir and call it "My Left Hand," so noteworthy was its performance.

You may not want to know the point on Val's person where The Hand made contact. Quick! Cover your eyes, and yell, "Too much information!" It was on the left buttock. Okay. It's safe to read again. The Hand was like a pinball flipper being played by a world-champion hyperactive pinball player all hopped up on Monster.

While I nodded, more than napping, suddenly there came a tapping
As someone un-gently slapping, slapping at my left buttock.
"'Tis that Hick again," I muttered, "slapping at my left buttock-
I shall tell him, 'That's a crock.'"

Yes, The Hand was in fine form, flapping away to flip my left buttock like some adolescent youth snapping a towel in the junior high boys' locker room. Flipping as fast as a woodpecker would if a woodpecker could flip wood. On and on, like a jackhammer breaking up pavement.

I rolled out of bed to escape this torture. Made a detour to the bathroom to sooth my ire. When I came back, Hick denied it all.

"I did not! I was not slapping your butt. No. I don't know what else it could be. But I wasn't!"

Sure he wasn't.

After the alarm went off at 4:50, I made the lunches and took my shower while Hick slumbered. Unencumbered by the flip-hand. When I came out of the bathroom at 5:30 and woke Hick, he was already awake. So sad. That sleep time wasted.

"Did you call me?"

"No. What do you mean did I call you?"

"Did you holler my name?"

"No."

"Well, at 5:15 I heard you call me."

"I didn't."

"Well, then who was it?"

"I don't know. I guess you're hearing things."

Funny I should mention this name-calling thing to The Pony on the way to school.

"SEE? Now will you believe me?"

"What do you mean?"

"All those times I run up the stairs and ask why you called me."

"Oh. I just thought you heard me complaining about stuff, and thought I was talking to you."

"No. I hear that. But those times I run up there, it's because something said my name. And I thought it was you."

"Huh."

Come to think of it, The Pony has been doing this frequently since we were off for Christmas break. And I didn't think anything of it at the time, but one night last week or on the weekend, I woke up because somebody called my name. I figured I had been dreaming. The first thing I thought of was, "Does Mom need me?" That was my only plausible explanation. I was having a psychic bond with Mom when she needed something.

Or maybe not. There might be a flipping name-caller on the loose.