Tonight concludes our 12 Days of Hickness festival. Sorry I didn't devote a post to each day. I can hear you all grousing about being cheated out of detailed stories of Val's issues with Hick. I understand. It's so seldom you get to read about that subject. I'll try to do better!
A couple weeks ago I had lunch with my favorite gambling aunt, over at The FelineFish Skillet. I brought home quite a spread of our leftovers for Hick to sup on. I figured I could get at least two nights off from cooking. After all, I had a stack of containers containing:
[I packed up two rectangular foam containers with 2 pieces of catfish,
about a dozen shrimp, 1 chicken strip (for ME to have tomorrow), a pile
of wedge fries (because they were cold when we got them), mashed
potatoes, three hush puppies, and two tubs of tartar sauce. I had three
round foam containers that I filled with slaw, baked beans, and the
pickles/onions. They have some crunchy bacon-striped pork rinds that
they put out when you are waiting, and I put them in a plastic sack.
Auntie wanted me to take the tubs of butter as well, but I didn't want
to be a hog.]
Long story short, Hick ate all of it the first night.
When I went to the kitchen to plug in my phone for charging at 3:00 a.m., my sock feet stuck to the burgundy-patterned linoleum. "That's weird," I said right out loud. Because I can talk to myself all I want at 3:00 a.m. in the privacy of my own kitchen. "My feet didn't stick to the floor when I got the dogs' evening snacks ready. I was in my socks then, too, because I took off my walking shoes to let my feet air out a minute before putting on my Crocs to go out on the porch." Sometimes, my self-conversations contain too much information.
I went to bed, making a mental note to ask Hick about the floor. I knew he would wake me at 5:50 a.m. as he was getting ready to leave for work. No reason. He just does. This time it gave me the window I needed for his interrogation.
"Did you spill something on the kitchen floor last night?"
"Did I spill anything on the kitchen floor last night?" (Repeating the question. Never a good sign for the defense.)
"Yeah. Did you spill something on the kitchen floor last night?"
"No. I don't think I did."
"Oh, so you don't THINK you did. But you might have."
"I guess I could have, and didn't know it."
"Over by the sink area? My socks stuck to the floor. Something sticky was all over it."
"Oh. Well. My plate flipped over when I was taking it to the trash. But it was in front of the stove."
"So you DID spill something on the floor last night."
"No. My plate was empty. All I had on it was some slaw juice. And I wiped that up."
"A paper towel and water from the sink."
"Oh. That must be it. You smeared the slaw juice all around. I'll use some soap later."
"But I cleaned it up! With water."
"Yeah, yeah. Go to work."
When I got up and went to the kitchen, IN MY BARE FEET, in the hours before Croc time...my foot stepped on something squishy right in front of the stove.
Yeah. That's a floor onion. A limp floor onion that's been laying there all night. Looks like Hick had a little more on his flipped-over plate that he didn't spill anything from before he wiped the floor with a paper towel and water.
Hick has a penchant for telling me what he wants me to hear. It's not the first time. Nor is it the 12th. There's not a song long enough to devote to all the Days of Hickness.