Hey! Remember three days ago, when I had that little odor problem from Farmer H's pile of tighty-whities beside the bathroom vanity? That Everest-esque dirty-snow-capped and dirty-snow-sided peak, awaiting Farmer H's urge to launder it?
Well, let the record show that Farmer H DID wash this geographical master-bathroom feature on Friday night! But that's not the news here. Just a supporting fact.
Perhaps you remember (I'm saving you all from Alzheimer's, you know, by keeping your minds active like that little scraggly squirrel forever chasing that acorn in the Ice Age movies) how Mrs. Hillbilly Mom is kind of like a princess who can feel a pea under twenty mattresses and twenty feather beds. Or in this case, a pea under her heel and the fabric of one Doc Ortho black crew sock.
It really doesn't pay to be royalty when these peas are involved. Except in this case at 2:00 a.m. Saturday. Not meaning that it pays. Laws, NO! M-O-O-N! That spells it still doesn't pay to feel a pea under your heel and the fabric of one Doc Ortho black crew sock. The EXCEPT means that it wasn't a pea!
I strode past the kitchen cutting block and made a right turn into the laundry room to take some of my clothes and The Pony's clothes out of the hamper. Our clothes don't stink, you know. Because we are not sweaty-butted workingmen who wallow around in a factory all the live-long day. As soon as I stepped from the linoleum of the kitchen onto the gray ceramic tile of the laundry room, I felt a sharp pain in my right heel.
"What kind of royalty-testing idiot put a dang PEA on the kitchen floor?" I asked myself. Nah. I didn't. I was just funnin' with ya.
I stepped toward the dryer. Then back to the washer. Shook my foot like a cat at a party with drunk people who get a laugh from putting a piece of Scotch tape on all four of a cat's feet. Not that Mrs. Hillbilly Mom has ever held the cat, nor done the taping, mind you. I thought perhaps I had stepped on a piece of pea gravel (see what I did there?) tracked in on Farmer H's boots, and that I could step off of it and walk normally again while pointedly leaving that piece of pea gravel there on the laundry room floor as evidence for him to be chastised for. But it was not pea gravel.
IT WAS A PILL!
Yes. A pill. Not any kind of pea at all. A pill. The kind you put in your mouth each morning just before sipping water from a hopefully-not-stolen red Solo cup on the kitchen counter. But this was NOT Mrs. Hillbilly Mom's pill. It was one of Farmer H's pills. He doesn't even take his meds in the kitchen! He takes them in the master bathroom. Yet here it was. A tiny oval-shaped pill, about the size of a pea, but clear and gel-looking.
I put that pill on the cutting block. No need to step on that and squirt the gel out. You know who would be cleaning that up, and it isn't the red Solo cup thief. I told Farmer H (not at 2:00 a.m., but at 7:00 when it was time for him to get up and take his medicine) that I had found his pill on the kitchen floor.
"Pill? It's not mine. I don't take pills in the kitchen!" As if Mrs. Hillbilly Mom was some kind of not-knowing-what-a-pill-is kind of idiot who plays pinochle every week with the royalty-testing idiots.
"Yes. It's your pill. One of those squishy clear ones."
"On the kitchen floor?"
"Yes! I put it on the cutting block. You can look for yourself."
So Mr. Missouri Poster Boy, he of the show-me attitude, checked it out. He came back to the bedroom with it in his hand.
"Oh. That's my vitamin D. It had to have fallen out of my pile of underwear when I carried them to the laundry room."
And with that, Farmer H took that pill into the master bathroom, picked up his clear plastic
cup which I resist stealing every single day, and swallowed it.
I'm thinking it could be a new one of those Harry Potter Jellybean flavors...