Sunday, April 28, 2013

Like a Slice of Buttered Toast Falling Buttered-Side Down

I have a small confession. Tiny, really. Inconsequential. But I must let my dastardly deed see the light of day. Air it out like dirty laundry. Cleanse my palate of the bad taste it's left in my mouth.

There was no plan to carry out this inadvertent act of marital sabotage. It was just a happy accident. There I was in the walk-in shower, surveying the items resting on top of the door frame, contemplating why my tube of hair conditioner seems to have become anorexic of late. If she was Jethro Bodine, she would have to tighten her rope belt a couple of knots. I know that Hick has been using it. And he has hardly any hair! He tries to be tricky, flattening out the tube from the bottom. Not like the way he squeezes the toothpaste in the middle. But he can't fool me. I do not use conditioner at that alarming rate.

Funny thing. As I reached for my flattened friend, my hand must have hit Hick's blue disposable razor. That, or Razor suddenly decided he was not good enough for this world any more, and flung himself over the side without having the common courtesy to leave a note.

Upon exiting the shower, I searched for Razor's remains. He was not on the floor. Not shattered, not broken, not bruised. I looked more thoroughly, though I stopped short of calling in a search dog. Razor was a real nowhere man. No part of him was in evidence. I went on about my post-shower business. After dressing and combing my freshly-conditioned hair, I turned to give one last cursory glance toward the shower.

There he was! Razor was in the corner, between the shower and the toilet, up in that ninety-degree angle formed by the shower base and outer bathroom wall. Yes, there he reclined, all smug and camouflaged, his dark blue plastic blending with the pattern of the toilet brush upon which he perched. There. I said it. Hick's razor was laying on top of the toilet brush.

I thought of throwing it away and putting out a new one. They're disposable, you know. Hick would never know the difference. Until he cut his throat with a brand-new razor that he assumed was the broken-in one he had been using. No. Better not subject Hick to a slashed carotid artery. I grabbed Razor between my thumb and forefinger and put him back on top of the shower door. It was a new toilet brush, I'm sure. The tag was still on the handle with one of those plastic thread thingies. I doubt it has even been used yet.

What Hick doesn't know won't hurt him.


  1. Not even a cursory trip under the faucet?

  2. Val--Don't listen to that whisper from Joanne. No swish under the faucet's flow. No wipe with a wet wipe. No swipe with a tissue.

    Let Hick live on the wild side. And see what develops...

  3. I can only imagine the things my wife doesn't tell me about. Of course this works both ways. Sometimes when I'm supposed to capture a bug and flush it down the toilet I just flush the toilet and call it a day.

  4. A fate deserved for the hair conditioner thief, I say. At least of it's YOUR L'Oreal conditioner--that stuff is GOLD.

  5. My toilet brush still has the hangie tag thing and it has to be 5 years old. Or perhaps older.

    This is the best passive aggressive post I have ever read. I will go as far to say it is awesome! That'll learn 'im.

    Question - Does he read your blog?

  6. Joanne,
    I'm pretty sure this specific toilet brush has never seen the inside of a toilet. The other toilet brush in the holder thingy is the scrubber. I bought a new brush, and since the old one is still in the holder, I think this one is merely waiting in the on-deck circle for his turn at bat.

    I say I'm PRETTY SURE it's never been used. By me, that is. Now if, for some reason, Hick felt the urge to scrub the toilet with that brush...NAW! That would never happen.

    Yeah, I could have swished Razor under the faucet like your head in a women's faculty restroom sink...but I didn't. The other suggestions are not feasible. I do not wish to slice my fingertips off by wiping and swiping a razor with a wet-wipe or tissue. OSHA will have your head for those suggestions concerning my domestic workplace.

    So I take it that in your household, you are both inadvertently consuming MORE that your fair share of spiders in your sleep.

    IT IS MY GOLD! And Hick is a claim-jumper. There has been a bottle of Paul Mitchell conditioner sitting on that shower door for a year, and it has not been used. Genius won it at a trivia contest, and gave it to Hick. Not good enough. He craves my L'Oreal.

    I have a better passive aggressive post, but not about Hick. He does not read my blog. That would mean he would actually have to log on to a computer and stay inside away from his goats and chickens.