Hick and Val Get Along Like Salt and Vinegar

Every now and then, I feel a tiny twinge of remorse for the way I treat Hick. Not often! And it's the tiniest of twinges. I probably wouldn't feel it at all except that I'm a distant descendant of that pea-under-the-mattress princess. However...yesterday, I felt that tiny twinge of remorse.

We don't hide treats under a towel on the kitchen counter around here. Treats are treats, earmarked for the person who requested them, lines drawn, territory established, orders right out in the open. Hick has his treats, and I have mine, and there are those we share. Nobody eats Hick's treats. Mainly because they are mainly sugar-free, and I don't have a fake-sweet tooth. And Genius is out of the house, and not here to scam the sugar-free oatmeal raisin cookies.

For my lunches, I have a little individual bag of chips. I buy the big 20-pack collection of assorted flavors. I used to buy the brand name, but neither Hick nor I like Doritos, so those bags went to the dogs. The dogs didn't mind, but when I'm spending my once-hard-earned money on chips, I'd prefer that a human eat them, not canines. I eat the BBQ chips first. Then the Sour Cream and Onion. Then the plain. Whatever is left is fair game for Hick. He knows this.

I switched to the Great Value pack of assorted chips, because they don't have Doritos. After my three flavors, there are four bags chips left. They're light blue bags. I told Hick, who has his own large bag of chips, Bacon and Cheddar Loaded Potato, so don't go feeling sorry for him like he's chipless..."You can eat these light-blue bags of chips. They're ruffled. But don't take the BBQ or Sour Cream and Onion, or the plain. I like those." Hick agreed.

Then I noticed that the light blue bags were not disappearing. I especially noticed when I was sitting on the short couch conversing with Hick as he got some chips to go with his lunch.

"Where did you say those chips were?"

I'll be ding-dang-donged if Hick wasn't over at the kitchen table, snooping! I have a big pack there to take The Pony next week, but they're all Cheeto varieties. If I don't separate the ones Hick is allowed, he has a homing beacon that seeks out the freshest chips. He only eats six-week-expired hot dogs.

"In the pantry. In that pack. The light blue ones. Have you been getting them off the table? Because I just opened that pack, and there are still three bags in the pantry, and you said you ate some chips last night."

"I did."

"Have you been eating the yellow bags? The ones that look like fake Lay's?"

"No. I haven't been eating your chips."

Hick came to the La-Z-Boy with a mini bag of Cheetos. Crunchy.

"WHY do you have Cheetos? Where did you get those?"

"Cheetos are fine. I got them out of the pantry."

"The PANTRY! I can't remember the last time I bought those! Probably back when The Pony was here. And that was over Christmas."

"They're fine. I had some last night."

"Do I have to do EVERYTHING myself? I'll get your chips! It's pretty simple, really. They're right in the pantry in that pack."

"You don't have to get them, Val. I couldn't find them. Cheetos are fine. The blue bags? They're Salt and Vinegar."

"No they're not! If they were Salt and Vinegar, I'd be eating them with my lunches! I LIKE Salt and Vinegar."

I went to the pantry and saw the three bags of chips still in the pack. Salt and Vinegar. Huh. I went to the table and looked in the new pack. Blue bags. Salt and Vinegar. What in the Not-Heaven?

"Well...these blue bags ARE Salt and Vinegar. I swear, the last time, they were ruffled plain chips!"

"Yeah. I remember eating them."

"Huh. Maybe that was in a brand name pack."

"Well, get me some of those when you go to the store."

So easy for him to say. Since the store won't sell chips to HIM, I suppose. But I put them on my list. I couldn't find ANY brand of chip packs that included mini ruffled chips.

Guess I'll be eating more chips now. And Hick will be taxing himself by taking the clip off a big bag and putting some on his plate.

I almost feel bad for berating him over not eating his allotted chips. Almost. The tiny twinge is a manageable kind of pain.