Poor, sweet, oft-maligned Hick. He of the FAT RED INDEX FINGER. He who poots at high school band concerts. The lover of towering bowls of soup. Yes, steadfast Hick, often on the outs, is trying his best to get back into my good graces. To erase that little indiscretion of Monday night.
Don't go thinking Hick made a doody on the carpet. Or disgorged a partially-digested mouse on the porch just outside the front door. And I'm pretty sure he didn't even dream of knocking over the trash can and shredding the bag and strewing its contents along the driveway. No, it was a trivial incident, and Hick's mouth that got him in a little hot water. Boiling, actually. Because he doesn't know when to turn off the burner and let things cool down. Even though another adult in this house might be screaming at him, "Turn off the burner and let things cool down!" Figuratively, of course. Surely you don't think I was cooking.
Last evening, Hick returned from a business day-trip to Rolla. While in town filling his prescriptions for ailments other than his FAT RED INDEX FINGER, he called to see if I wanted him to bring home some Hot & Sour Soup. No thanks. I'm not currently coming down with the grippe. And besides, I'd already imbibed my 44 oz. Diet Coke for the day, a necessity to fight the Hot of the soup.
Hick hiked down the basement steps bearing a gift. Another 44 oz. Diet Coke. I thanked him. Didn't even ask if he was trying to kill me by caffeine overdose. It's the thought that counts. Same as when my mom asked at the concert Thursday night if Hick could have a Three Musketeer. No. He is diabetic. That kind of treat is frowned upon. Mom persisted. "It's ONLY a Three Musketeer. He can't have it?" Um. No. The last time I checked, a Three Musketeer's main ingredient was SUGAR. I'm sure Mom wasn't trying to kill Hick. Like she wasn't trying to kill dumped-off puppy Juno by not feeding her for two days. But enough about my family's House of Borgia tendencies. We were talking about Hick's apologetic actions.
This morning I checked my email. Saw a little something that's coming down the pike. I asked Hick if he was willing to sign a release for a story that included him and his unique method of doing things. Hick said yes. No questions asked.
I'm sure that's because Hick wants me to become a bread-winning, best-selling, maligner of my better half. Because he trusts my judgment. Doesn't want to get in the way of me launching a story here and there. Yes. I'm sure that's his reason. NOT that he figures the best way to shut me up is to agree unconditionally, without making eye contact. Or the fact that he wouldn't read the directions to a gold mine if it was taped across the lenses of his glasses.
Thanks, Hick. You won't be disappointed. Because I know you'll never read it.
But where would the great and powerful Val be without Hick to provide grist for her story mill? You're so fortunate to have one so kind to bring you 44 oz. cokes and not leave a partially-digested mice on the porch. A guy like that is golden.
ReplyDeleteI dug into the crevices of this story and discovered something that piques my interest...
ReplyDeleteA release that had to be signed?
And yet you released no details...What gives? Give it up. Or do you want to avoid a mob of fans, frothing-at-the-mouth Val-Pals who will clamor for your autograph?
Sounds like the good ones never do read it or ask questions. Trust me, the bad ones read it and then punish you with computer viruses. Any man who arrives bearing Diet Coke and doesn't care if you write about him is a keeper, band-pooting and all.
ReplyDeleteCongratulations! We want to know more.
ReplyDeleteAs to the 44 oz Diet Coke, good thing you don't live in NYC, where Hick might get arrested for trying to buy the outlawed large-size beverage.
Leenie,
ReplyDeleteI AM very lucky. Hick came to my rescue on a white horse yesterday. Technically, it was a silver Chrysler Pacifica. But one does not look gift horsepower in the grill.
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Sioux,
If you persist with your inquisition, Madam, you are going to be sent to A League of Their Own remedial classes. A lady reveals nothing.
Val-Pals sound like Holly Hobby Polly Pocket Beanie Babies that can be given out in kid meals from the counter of my proposed handbasket factory. I plan to eliminate the mouth-froth, though. The meal will include gas station chicken (the leg, because I don't like that part because the little bone is too dangerous for me), Chex Mix, and a half-pint Diet Coke. I'm thinking of calling them Crappy Meals.
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Tammy,
Well, for one thing, Hick doesn't read. Period. Asking questions would take time away from his car mechanic shows on weekend mornings. But he DID bring me another Diet Coke this afternoon (true, I dropped a hint around 10:00 when he left home), and as far as I know, he hasn't pooted all day.
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Donna,
Not ready to toot my horn just yet. As long as Hick submitted my daily elixir to a taster, even bloomin' Bloomberg would let it slide, because it's DIET, and they're allowed.
Hick sounds like the kind of guy who understands the best words he can ever utter are, "Yes, dear."
ReplyDeleteLisa,
ReplyDeleteIf he knows what's good for his goats and chickens, he'd best toe the line.