This is not just my narcissistic personality disorder talking. I have evidence that points to my all-powerful influence over people, places, and things. But first, lets put a screeching, stereo-needle-skipping halt to the flow, and delve into some backstory.
Hick showers every morning, dresses, pops two Eggo NutriGrain Blueberry Waffles into the toaster, goes out to feed the dogs, and returns to scoop up his on-the-go breakfast.
I, on the other hand, arise thirty minutes before Hick, prepare myself for public presentation, and recline under a comforter in front of the TV until time to wake up The Pony. It's a finely-choreographed ballet. Heh. I almost typed buffet. Freudian slip. Anyway, I am usually on my six o'clock phone call to my mom while Hick is waffling about the kitchen.
Tuesday, I told my mom to hold on. I hollered to Hick, "Do you smell something burning?"
"No. I'm making waffles."
"You don't smell that?"
"Something smells kind of burned. I thought I smelled it last night. I told Genius to check and see if anything was cooking, but he couldn't find anything."
"Well, that's something burning."
"I didn't do it."
"You're in there using the toaster. I thought you might know something about it."
"It might be from this bread sack laying by the toaster."
"Most people would make sure the toaster was clear."
"Well, I didn't put it there."
"Take it off."
"It's not really touching. It looks like a bread tie or plastic clip down in the toaster."
"Well, shake it out!"
"You always blame me for everything."
"Uh. I'm IN HERE under a comforter. YOU are the one using the toaster, where there is something burning."
"I TOLD you, I didn't do it!"
Hick stormed out in a huff. I told my mom how I had started a toaster fire while talking to her on the phone. I wanted to regale her with my mad skillz of telekinesis, rivaling those of Carrie White, she of the dirtypillows and pig blood conditioner, life of the prom...but I don't think Mom reads Stephen King.
It gets better. Even Steven popped in. The great karmic equalizer. But first, more backstory. I made a pot of chili on Sunday. Hick enjoys toast with his chili. He must have had some leftovers Monday evening, after I retired to my dark basement lair to blog away the hours.
When I checked on the toaster, I did not find anything inside. But the stale half-loaf of bread that I set on the counter to feed the chickens was down to only two heels. Rather than harvesting the fresh whole-grain from the bread cabinet, Hick had raided the chicken bread. There's nothing that makes Hick squeamish more than hairless baby mice and moldy bread. While I can vouch that the kitchen is mouse-free, I can't verify the status of the stale bread.
I'm laughing best.