Val is Probably on the Naughty List

Hey, remember the whole "Pam called Santa" debacle? I know I do! Even Steven is poking the bear Val. Tuesday evening, as soon as I sat down on the short couch to talk to Hick about the day's activities, his phone rang. Hick's phone. Not Even Steven's. I don't think Even Steven even has a phone. But wouldn't it be handy to have him on speed dial? Oh. Wait. Maybe there's no such thing as speed dial any more.

Anyhoo...Hick of course ignored me in mid-sentence, and turned his attention to his phone. He answered, even though he said he didn't recognize the number, with an area code from the city.

"Huh. That was the gal at the costume store. Calling to say they have looked for a one-piece Santa beard, and couldn't find any. I know I gave her my number, but I'm surprised she bothered to call and tell me they can't get what I'm looking for."

AHA! I was RIGHT in questioning Hick about his mysterious phone call at the casino as we were leaving! (Because that call MIGHT have been the costume store, calling about the wig/beard, necessitating a trip back to the store.) But I didn't bring up that unfortunate event. No need for me to poke the bear Hick. I'm not as obvious as Even Steven. Revenge doesn't have to be served cold to be the best dish. However, it's pretty tasty lukewarm after a few days.

Actually, my revenge dish was handed to me on a platter. Let the record show that Hick loves hot dogs. I can hardly keep them in the house. I might have a pack lolling around in FRIG II, to prepare Hick's chili dogs, or put in homemade Beanie Weenies, or wrap in biscuits, or submerge in sauerkraut, or slice down the middle and fry for a sandwich...but that pack dwindles when I least expect it. Hick either scams them for his lunch if he's home, or treats them as a late-night snack after the auction. Because he never tells me of his hot dog plans, I don't know when to buy them.

Let the record also show that Hick NEVER throws anything out. Even foods that he alone consumes, like pepper jack cheese, and bananas, and chicken tenders from the Walmart deli. They will sit until they mold, turn black, or dry up to dust.

Tuesday evening, I was preparing Hick's requested supper of smoked sausage sliced lengthwise, fried, with onions and pickles (and sometimes mustard) on a steak roll. I've had the steak rolls for about a week, keeping them in FRIG II, for freshness, because we don't use them all at once. Earlier that day, I'd been shopping, and cleaned out the bread pantry as I put a new pack of hot dog buns in there. Throwing away the old buns, and some Hawaiian Rolls that had been in the freezer until last week, from Hick's class reunion leftovers.

The Hawaiian Rolls looked fine, but they were dated October 4, and even though frozen before then, had been thawed out for at least a week. The dogs loved them. The hot dog buns went straight in the trash. There was a layer of mold on top. Let the record gleefully sadly show that Hick ate hot dogs for lunch on Monday.

"Hey! I'm putting your sausage on a steak roll. I got new hot dog buns, though. The others were moldy so I threw them out."

I swear, I heard the GULP in Hick's throat all the way across the living room and kitchen.

"They were moldy?"

"Uh huh. All across the top. There were only two left. I didn't even give them to the dogs. Just threw them away. I don't think mold is good for dogs."

"Huh. I just ate two of them yesterday...and...they weren't moldy."

"Maybe not. But they sure were today!"

Hick has a mold phobia. Especially about moldy bread. He's always searching through a loaf, to make sure it's okay. I don't know if he ate mold as a child, or what his deal is. But he fears that bready mold as much as he fears hairless baby mice in the pockets of his coveralls.

Hick didn't really have any reason to know that the buns in the pack he ate from the day before were covered with mold the very next day. But I made sure he did.