Sometimes It's An Exercise Wheel, Sometimes It's a Metal Hammock

C'mon. You knew it wouldn't be long. Hick is in hot water again. Not so much hot water as greater-than-lukewarm water.

Perhaps you recall that I bought two hams when I knew Genius was coming home and planning to take some leftovers back with him. Today I baked the lesser ham. I tossed in some carrots and potatoes and onions, because how much simpler can a meal be, really, than shoving the whole thing in the oven? Actually, the ham went in first, then I removed some juice and poured it over my veggies in a smaller roasting pan. All we needed was Sister Schubert covered with foil and baked for 15 minutes, and we were in business. The ham-for-supper business.

Hick was busy flipping between two of his shows, a car make-over and an Alaskan cabin build. I told him he could slice the ham any time. That's his job, you know, as king of the castle. I checked on Sister Schubert, then shoved her back in the oven because she was still a little pale. I took out the veggies. Set out our trays left from last weekend, because what can be simpler when you have no dishwasher than only needing to clean up two roaster pans and silverware?

Still no Hick. I sliced off the end of the ham, which had been roasting face down. You'd think Hick would have heard the large butcher knife whack into the metal of the roaster pan bottom. But no. It wasn't even at a crucial part in the plot of either of his shows. It was dead-on 5:30. End of the episodes. I called to him again. And again.

"Hey! Are you going to slice this ham?"

"I can if you want me to."

As if he hasn't sliced all previous hams in this household. He came in. I set Sister Schubert on top of the stove. She was browning nicely. I turned to look over my shoulder at Hick at the cutting block. One slice for the dinner. A chunk for Hick. One slice for the dinner. A chunk for Hick.

"Are you eating the ham again?"

"I only had one bite. Just now. That's what you saw."

"You always eat more carving than you do at the meal."

"I only had one bite."

I called The Pony up from his semi-illuminated boycave to fix his platter. Carrots and potatoes but no onions. A plop of I Can't Believe It's Not Butter. A few chunks of ham. And the sight of him up to his elbows in Sister Schubert, tearing at her piece by piece, from the outer layer to the innards. I think he took five rolls. But Sister Schubert is petite.

Again, I turned to supervise Hick, who was still carving. And I caught him with the butt of the ham in the flat plastic rectangular container in which I wanted to store the leftovers. CUTTING THE HAM WITH A BUTCHER KNIFE IN MY PLASTIC CONTAINER.

I swear. The three blind mice could not have been more horrified if Hick had been cutting off their tails with a carving knife. Of all the Hick things to do! He had taken the ham butt out of the metal roasting pan, where it was safe to cut, and put it in the plastic container, where he was no doubt going to stab right through the bottom to the wood of the butcher block. His excuse was that it was too crowded in the roaster pan, what with the already-sliced ham in the way. The already-sliced ham which should have been set in the plastic container as he sliced it.

"Just leave it! I'm making beans later in the week. Leave that piece whole."

I really don't know what goes on in that man's noggin. I picture one lonely hamster on a wheel, not running, but laying on his back, his tiny hamster hands folded behind his head.