Don't go jumping to conclusions! Mrs. Hillbilly Mom is not a potty-mouth! She even says Not-Heaven instead of that H E Double-Hockeysticks place. Sweet Gummi Mary! It's not like she deserved it, like Ralphie helping his dad change a tire in A Christmas Story.
No, the reason for the tongue-laundering was not a punishment for foul language. The reason was carelessness.
Monday night, Farmer H grilled some hot dogs on Gassy G. If I was my ex-teaching colleague Sir Gabs-A-Lot, a former tablemate from the Semi-Weekly Meeting of the Newmentia Lunch Time Think Tank, I would say that Farmer H grilled some wieners. Heh, heh! The students loved it when Sir Gabs-A-Lot read the lunch menu on hot dog day.
Anyhoo...we had hot dogs and potato salad and SLAW for supper. I put mine in little plastic ramekin thingies that Farmer H got at the auction a while back. A LOT of them. That he got. Not that I filled with potato salad and slaw! What good would that do as a portion control tactic? Precious little, that's what good it would do.
Anyhoo...I had TWO plastic ramekins of slaw, and one of potato salad. That's as it should be, you know. I set them on my tray to take down to my dark basement lair. By that time, Farmer H was already done inhaling his entire meal in the La-Z-Boy. I had a paper plate on there. And an individual stick of sharp cheddar for a snack later. And an individual bag of plain chips. So my tray was pretty full. I found a sliver of space in my side dish assortment, where I could lay a fork without it sliding off the tray.
I have a white plastic fork that I like. It's smooth, without grooves in its molded plastic, and it doesn't taste of metal. I only have one fork like that, and it was laying on the kitchen counter awaiting a washing. I picked it up and slathered on some Bath and Body Works White Citrus Deep-Cleansing Soap from the pump top bottle that my sister the ex-mayor's wife had given me for Christmas. I scrubbed that single fork under a stream of cold water, dried it on my favorite ratty old baby blue sweatshirt (it's utilitarian, like Linus's blanket!) and put it back in that crack between ramekins on the tray.
As I navigated down the 13 steps to my dark basement lair, I noticed that white plastic fork moving. NO! I was hoping it wouldn't go over the side. Because I didn't want to step on it and destroy it. Forget about it being freshly cleaned. A fall to the floor wouldn't keep me from using that fork! I have an infinity-and-3-second rule.
By the time I got to my office, the white plastic fork had its handle laying across one of the slaw ramekins. Which I might have overfilled slightly...
No problem. I picked up that white plastic fork to lick the slaw juice off the handle. Only it wasn't slaw juice.
It was the liquid soap that apparently had escaped the drying capabilities of my favorite ratty old baby blue sweatshirt.
Soap is not tasty. The flavor lingered for about five minutes.
I kind of had the urge to cuss.