That's a CROC, You Thieving Hick!

Hick has a problem. Actually, The Pony and I have a problem. A problem called Hick! 

Hick considers himself the king of the castle. Everything here is HIS. I used to catch him showing people around the grounds, saying things like, "And this is my BARn. This is my house. This is my creek. These are my sinkholes." On and on. It used to bother me. I'd call him out. 

"These are OUR things! Not yours! They belong to US!"

 

Hick said I was splitting hairs. Well. Not really. Because he doesn't speak in flowery language like that. He said they WERE his things. Just as they were mine. So he should be allowed to call things HIS if I wasn't around. It doesn't bother me anymore. I don't go out where I can overhear him.

 

Anyhoo... Hick appeared on Monday around noon. He said he was going to eat some of his pizza left over from Friday night, then go to the BARn. (Notice he didn't say HIS BARn, since nobody was there to impress.)

 

I entered the kitchen to find that Hick had set out the open pizza box under the microwave. He'd been sidetracked by a task I shamed him into. As I looked at the pizza box, I noticed that it was NOT Hick's pizza! It was THE PONY'S pizza. Hick had thin crust, topped with ham, mushrooms, and onions. The Pony had hand-tossed crust, topped half with plain cheese, half with spinach. Those two pizzas looked nothing alike. When Hick returned, I informed him of his error.

"Oh. It IS? It don't matter."

"Yes, it does matter. The Pony is having his for supper. He doesn't want ham, mushrooms, and onions."

"Okay. I'll get the other one."

What in the NOT-HEAVEN? We buy separate pizzas to have leftovers for several meals, and so we can have the kind we like. It DOES matter. I'll tell you what ELSE matters!

When I put on my Crocs Monday morning, they were out of place. I keep them by the end of the bookcase, at the entrance to the kitchen. I can step my bare feet into their cushy confines, and avoid the cool linoleum of the kitchen, or cold tiles of the laundry room. My Crocs weren't a LOT out of place. But they were skewed to the side. Up against the wall, not a couple inches out. How odd! It was almost as if SOMEONE had been wearing my Crocs. I filed that anomaly for later butt-chewing reference.

Monday evening, sitting on the short couch, I began my inquisition.

"Did you wear my shoes?"

Silence.

"Well. DID you?"

"Shoes? What shoes?"

"You DID! I know you did! You wore my CROCS! Didn't you?"

"Oh. Only out to turn off the Christmas lights."

"I KNEW IT! We've had this problem before! I don't want your stubby feet in my Crocs! That's why I bought you YOUR OWN Crocs! The camouflage ones!"

"I don't know where they are."

"How can you lose a pair of Crocs? You put them on. You wear them. You take them off. It's not like you walk out of them without knowing."

"They must be in the bedroom. I didn't want to go in there."

"Can I have NOTHING of my own? I don't want you wearing my Crocs!"

"Oh, Val. We've been married 30 years. It's OUR stuff. I don't know what you're complaining for. Everything down in your office is yours."

Huh. I have a pair of Crocs down there, too. Now I'm not quite sure they're safe.