It's Hard Out Here for a Hick

Hick is about to set off for a fun-filled Florida adventure on the company's dime. Not HIS company's dime. But A company's dime. Three days and two nights at a trade show for some kind of supplies and equipment. As you may notice, I don't put a lot of effort into deciphering exactly what it is Hick DOES for our living.

A tug-of-war ensued Saturday morning over a small bone of contention brought to the forefront by Hick's table manners. Or lack thereof.

Genius had cooked himself some french toast sticks. He had tried to order me into the kitchen to prepare this frozen feast, but I stood my ground. "You are 18 years old! I think you can manage to warm some french toast sticks in the oven according to package directions." Never mind the near-backfire when he used a rectangular tray instead of a pizza pan, a tray which gives a loud "POP" and tosses its contents toward the roof of the oven as it expands. Nor his penchant for opening the oven door and standing there in just his jeans with no shirt, basking in the warmth like an Arizona lizard on a flat rock shortly after sunrise.

Genius suffers from a congenital deformity which rendered his eyes bigger than his stomach. He offered three leftover french toast sticks to The Pony. Sensing a trick, The Pony passed. "Here, Dad. You can have them."

"He can't have that! He can't have sugar! What are you trying to do, kill him for the insurance money you think he has?"

"No, I didn't think of that. Anyway, the syrup is sugar-free, and it's only three little pieces of bread."

Hick was on those french toast sticks like Kobayashi on a Nathan's Hot Dog. As he stood behind the long couch by the front door, devouring them before letting the goats out, I saw it. His pinky finger was extended like that of a refined English noblewoman sipping from a delicate China cup of Darjeeling.

"There you go again, sticking out your pinky finger! That is not a good look for you." Genius craned his neck from his contorted, accordioned body on the short couch to get a look, and snorted.

"Oh, you're always on me about something. I guarantee you that I've eaten in more fancier restaurants than the two of you! All over the world! And there's never been any complaints." Genius and I met eyes. More fancier? We did not have to speak. We DID have to laugh. Loudly.

"Oh, you mean like that time at the inside sidewalk table at that sandwich shop in Harrah's Casino, when you sucked your fingers loudly and tilted your head back to shake the potato chip crumbs down your throat? While people were walking by on the other side of that little wrought-iron railing, staring?"

We did not get a response, as Hick had passed through the portal to the front porch, slamming it behind him, about halfway through the questions. Not in anger, mind you. But in desperation, because he knew that he was no match for our method of interrogation.

Hick's more fancier restaurants all over the world include places like Hendersonville, North Carolina, where I'm pretty sure it's normal to lick BBQ sauce off your fingers in public, and Brazil, where they serve brontosaurus haunches on a metal pole and whittle pieces off as it is carried through the dining room like a bigger, meatier Olympic torch. Oh. And New Jersey. So let's not go filing a business license for Hick's School of More Fancier Dining Etiquette just yet.

I am dreading a headline on Google News about strange slurping noises in Florida, feared to be sinkhole suckage, which turn out to be a the sound of a certain tourist gluttonously consuming oysters.

While flying his extended-pinky-finger flag, of course.

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Hey, let's try again to catch my blog buddy at Mommy Needs a Xanax on Good Morning America. She has been told it will air MONDAY, March 11. I'm setting my DVR.

**OOPS! Postponed again! She'll keep us updated. **