Forks. They're All the Rage.

Pardon me while I take a moment from brushing the silky pink mane of my unicorn, while playing "Greensleeves" on an antique harp with my toes.

I am so mad that the top of my head is about to shoot into the stratosphere.

I'm like a cartoon quitting-time whistle. The pressure must be released. Each day, Hick finds a way to get under my skin. I'm sure he's taking valuable time away from poking venomous snakes with sticks, taunting bulls with red capes, and lobbing stones at hornets' nests. He would be much safer sticking to those pursuits.

Hick arrives home any time within a 90-minute window. It is hard to guess the time to have his supper ready. We rarely sit down to eat, what with Genius being gone most evenings, The Pony ready at a regular dinner time, me not having lunch until 2:00 and not ready for another meal, and Hick popping in at his convenience. Tonight I served Hick some baked fish, a grilled pepper-jack on Nutty Oat bread, some slaw (yes, my mother's favorite side dish), and a bowl of strawberries. Actually, I did not physically serve him. Which was the problem.

Hick got home before I had started his meal. In addition, he declared that he would be making a trip to Lowe's as soon as he was finished eating. So I popped the fish in the oven, slathered some I Can't Believe It's Not Butter on the bread, heated up the non-stick skillet, washed and beheaded the strawberries, and set out the slaw and pepper jack. I noticed that my skillet had a few new scratches. I've only had this one since Christmas. Like Lucky Ned Pepper told Rooster Cogburn about Mattie Ross when they left her at the camp with Tom Chaney, "She was in wonderful health when I last saw her." That was the night I cooked up some mushrooms and onions. Now my skillet had more grooves than the rumble strip on an interstate highway shoulder.

I called to Hick that his food was ready. Silly me. I should have plated it for him. I usually don't, because he sometimes wanders in to eat after goating and chickening all evening. This time, I was standing right there to see what transpired. Hick ignored the plate I had set out for him. He grabbed a different one. Then he whipped a fork out of the drawer, and before I realized what was happening, he jabbed it under the grilled cheese in the non-stick pan. A FORK! ON MY NON-STICK PAN! Oh, the Teflonity! Not only did he scrape it under the sandwich, but the sandwich started to bow in the middle. Who scoops a grilled cheese out of non-stick pan with a fork? That's some crazy behavior right there! The spatula was conveniently resting on the plate I had set out for him. No wonder he ignored it.

Okay, so it's a metal spatula. I know how to use it. I prefer my old blue plastic spatula, but I broke it over Tank the beagle during a 3:00 a.m. bout of barking. I didn't break it over the beagle. That would be not right, and bring PETA down on me. I don't believe in whacking animals unless they first pierce flesh. Hick has whacked our shepherd Ann with a dead chicken, which dissuaded her from killing, though he probably should have done it with the first corpse, not the fourth. I told him that idea of tying a dead chicken around her neck would only make her think, "Ooh! A chicken necklace! I need another one of these."

Let's see, where was I...Tank was baying at the neighbor's dog in the early morning hours, and, can you believe it, he would not stop when I told him, "SHUT UP!" and poked my finger in his face. Must be because he still has his baby-makers, because I can't imagine any other dog refusing to stop barking when faced with such a logical request. So...I had taken my favorite spatula out there, because I didn't have a rolled-up newspaper, print is dead, haven't you heard? When Tank had the audacity to snarl at me for getting in his face, like I was challenging him by looking straight into his eyes and waggling my finger, can you imagine that, then I slammed that spatula on the porch boards to get his attention and show my displeasure with his behavior. Funny how that didn't really stop his barking, but broke my favorite spatula! You'd think if they could send a man to the moon, they could make a plastic spatula able to withstand contact with Wolmanized lumber.

I know I did not scratch my own non-stick skillet with my metal spatula. I have a feeling a man who would scoop a grilled cheese with a fork would also scoop mushrooms-and-onions with a fork. He might as well have asked Freddy Krueger or Edward Scissorhands to grab a fistful and toss them onto his plate. Of course Hick denied any wrongdoing in the case of the gouged non-stick skillet. Short of nailing up a game camera on my kitchen cabinets to catch him in the act, I am powerless to prosecute him for the crime.

Writing is the BEST medicine. Forget that laughter crap. I'm feeling much better. That vein in my temple has quit throbbing.

I'm off to peruse the innernets to see if the local junior college has an evening class in spatula-wielding.