Terror at 85 Degrees

For 28 years, Val had nerves of steel. Not much rattled her in the classroom. The captain of the ship must maintain an even keel. Be ever-ready to act or react with composure in the event of dangerous undercurrents and havoc-wreaking marauders.

Now Val is retired.

I'm not really a jumpy gal, even though reports of seeing (what I thought was) a dude peeping through my kitchen mini-blinds might lead you to think otherwise. I'm generally calm. Don't like to make a scene. But having Hick roaming at will is getting on my last nerve. Whether he is or isn't gaslighting me remains to be proven. Every time I hear something unexplained, and explain it by naming him as the explainable...he denies that he was out of bed walking around, or that he came into the house slamming the door while I was sleeping. Okay. He admitted to coming in at 8:45 a.m. last week, but not to entering or leaving at 9:15. I clearly heard both, and looked at the clock each time. He's lying, we had an intruder, or I need Ghostbusters on speed dial.

Anyhoo...today I got home from town and set about putting away the few groceries I had picked up at Save A Lot. This week has been really hot. No spring, just straight from winter to summer. It was 85 degrees when I stopped T-Hoe at the end of the driveway, and got out to wheel the big green trash dumpster back to the garage. I'd considered leaving it until evening, when the sun was down, but I wanted to get it over with. I parked it and walked back up to T-Hoe, then drove to the garage with the air conditioner blasting. It was not quite a long enough trip to cool me off.

Once inside the house, I didn't want to crank up the air conditioner. I was planning to descent to my dark basement lair anyway, and it's cool down there. But while stowing the purchases and getting my lunch together, I was roasting. We keep the thermostat at 74 degrees, which is fine if you're just lounging around, and haven't pulled a big green dumpster 2/10 of a mile over gravel in the bright sunlight.

Whew! My scalp was soaked, sweat trickling down my forehead and around my ears. Sheesh! I washed my doggy cat-kibble hands, and let some cold well-water run over my wrists, but I was still sizzling hot. Oh, what the Not-Heaven! I took off my shirt. There. I said it. In the privacy of my own kitchen, I partially disrobed. Hick was selling at his Storage Unit Store. I saw his Trailblazer there as I went by. They had customers walking around. Hick stays open on Fridays until 1:00, then goes to have lunch, and from there to his doctor's office for a shot for his pernicious anemia. He has a standing appointment for Fridays at 2:00.

I had the freezer stuff put away, and had set aside the baby carrots and onions that I'll be using tomorrow. My Chicken Bacon Ranch pinwheels were already on my tray. My 44 oz Diet Coke had been Cherry Limeaded, and a bubba cup filled with ice. Oh, wait. I wanted to look over the mail.

Juno was going crazy out in front yard. Then Jack started yipping. I figured they were carousing with Copper Jack. Juno hates him, you know. And I'd just doled out cat kibble when I came in, so Copper Jack was in her sight. Dang those darn fleabags! I heard thumping on the back porch, and saw Juno lope around toward her water bowl and food dish.

Back to ripping open the mail with a letter opener Hick got me at Goodwill. Not the cute little sword one. It proved too fragile, so he found another. Huh. A little bill from insurance for added liability we put on the 10 acres where HOS (Hick's Oldest Son) is living. A little refund check from insurance for lesser coverage on our aging 4-wheelers. The Sprint bill. More barking. This time on the back porch.

"EEEEEEEEEEE!"

The kitchen door was yanked open! And there I stood without a shirt! I'm surprised that letter opener didn't end up embedded in the ceiling.

"Stop your screaming. I came home to get my medicine I forgot this morning." (Hick takes it to the doctor's office, and they give him the shot. It's cheaper that way.)

Do you know how hard it is to pull a buttoned-up cotton shirt over your head while you are shaking with adrenaline?

"You don't have to put your shirt on. It's just me."

"How was I supposed to know IT WAS YOU? It could have been anyone! So don't tell me not to scream. I was minding my own business, without a shirt, in my own kitchen, and the door yanked open. So don't TELL ME to stop screaming! Why don't YOU stop popping up when you're not even supposed to be here?"

Hick didn't even slow down. He strode through the kitchen on the way to the master bathroom for his medicine, and then made the return trip clutching it in his hand.

I'm pretty sure he's trying to kill me. So it's probably a waste of breath to ask him to look for a defibrillator at the auction.