Yours, Mine, and...Oh, Who are We Kidding Here?

This is why Val can't have nice things. Oh, who are we kidding here? This is why Val can't have THINGS.

The kitchen is my domain. According to Hick, it's where I merely heat things in the microwave, or warm them in the oven. Still, that's more than he does. In fact, Hick does not even know where kitchen stuff goes. That's why he can't put anything away. He doesn't have a diagram like the lid of a Whitman Sampler.

If my kitchen was a convenience store, that cushy mat the cashiers stand on would be at the corner of Sink and Counter. That's where I do my food prep, the 'L' with the sink at my right hand, and the stove at my left. That's where the wooden paper plate holder sits, and the salt and pepper grinders. The glass plate cabinet is directly above. The silverware drawer just below. Because this is my control center, I feel safe in leaving my red Solo cup there within arm's reach. I use it every morning to take my medicine. I use it to stay hydrated while glowing over a hot stove. No need to throw it away every day. It's only used for water.

This morning, my red Solo cup was gone. I don't know about you, but to me, this smacked of an act of provocation. Thank goodness I do not yet have nuclear capabilities. You might as well stick your tongue out at me. Kick sand in my face. Flip me the bird from the passing lane. Show me the sole of your shoe. Not cool.

Not being an I'm okay/you're okay, everyone's a winner, unicorn-and-rainbow-loving flower child hippie, I set out to apprehend the culprit. Not so much bent on revenge as on assuring that this reckless disregard for my personal possessions did not rear its disrespectful head again. Especially after struggling so hard to put an end to the confiscation of my tube of hair conditioner that comes with L'Oreal, the clandestine use of my pink plastic disposable razor, and the unauthorized removal of bites of food right off my plate.

In my house, there are really only two suspects. The one who is the food snatcher, with his very own red Solo cup that sits on the cutting block, and the one who takes everything else. The interrogation of Hick was not suitable practice for my dream career of high-profile prosecuting attorney. More like catching a toddler with his hand in the cookie jar and melted chocolate chip residue around his mouth.

Did you take my red Solo cup?

Red Solo cup?

Yes.

What red Solo cup?

You know what I'm talking about.

I drank out of a red Solo cup last night.

Where did you get it?

What do you mean, 'Where did I get it?'

Did you take it off the counter?

I don't know.

Well, that cup I leave there to drink out of every morning is gone.

Huh.

You know you took it.

Okay, so I took a cup off the counter. There's always a stack there.

No. There's ONE cup. The one I drink out of. Get your own out of the pack in the pantry.

I don't know why you're making a big deal.

That was MY cup. You were just too lazy to walk three steps and get your own.

Believe me, I don't want to drink out of your cup, the way you hack and sputter.

That's funny. Because you took my cup. Even though I've had this cold since Friday.

I swear, I'm going to get my own stuff and keep it in the BARn.

You do that.

See, it's the principle of the matter. What if I took the plastic cup Hick keeps by the bathroom sink to take HIS medicine every morning? I'm sure he would notice something amiss.

Unless he was too busy shaving with my razor and revitalizing his meager tresses with my L'Oreal conditioner.