Pardon me, people. I am about to vent like a sewer pipe. And not some beautiful, brown-and-white sewer pipe that is so aesthetically pleasing that it might be mistaken for a Ming vase. By one near-sighted Val Thevictorian, anyway.
My honor has been besmirched! My privacy invaded. My modesty sullied. And in the confines of my own castle, even!
There I was, post-shower, standing in front of the sink and mirror, parting my lovely lady-mullet so my coif did not dry in an unruly manner as I dressed...when the French door handle turned down and the portal to my personal toilette area swung open six inches!!! Believe you me, that six inches was plenty to catch an eyeful of Val, what with the sink being adjacent to the opening, and a wide mirror to assist a peeper yanking his head back as my right elbow slammed the door shut.
This is the perfect situation for shouting WTF? But I didn't. Because a lady only thinks such things. Or mutters them under her breath after the fact.
But let's start at the beginning, shall we?
I arose before Hick. Put in a load of laundry. Told him I was getting in the shower. He may or may not have responded. It's hard to tell with those noises emanating from his breather. Especially with his head under the quilt, soon to be under my forbidden pillows once the shower starts running.
When I got out, I thought I heard Hick moving about. I wanted to tell him to get my Stubs card before taking The Pony to see The Three Stooges. I hollered through the door, "Hey!" There was no response. I no longer heard any movement. So I assumed that Hick was still in bed, or had left the master bedroom/bath area. Then my waking nightmare started. Of course it turned out to be Hick.
It's not like Hick has never pulled this stunt before. In fact, he's kind of like a toddler. As sure as you tell him DON'T do something, he weeds out the DON'T and does that exact thing. But we have had discussions about his transgressions. More like lectures, actually. Which are about as effective as those given by a dry PHYSICS 101 professor in a lecture hall of 500 students giving discourse on the topic of Work = Force x Distance.
I snapped at Hick. "What do you think you're doing? No knock. No voice. You just can't barge right in when I'm in the bathroom."
But Hick was of a different opinion. Because, you see, he thinks it's his right to check up on his property any time he feels like it, and that property better like it, too, and thank him for barging in, because that property no longer has any rights of its own once it has a ring on its finger. (Let the record show that Val does not often wear her wedding ring. For this very reason, perhaps.)
"Why are you always so hateful? You called me in. Why should I have to knock? Or say that it's me? Who ELSE is it going to be?"
Well. I don't know. Perhaps one of two teenage boys who live in this house? An escapee from the maximum security prison five miles down the road? Queen Elizabeth here for tea? The point IS, I didn't know. It was at least five minutes after I called out to you. Am I supposed to stand there and let the door fling open for any curious room invader who happens by? I think not.
I will not let the perpetrator turn himself into the victim. I am in the right here.
The Geneva Convention probably guarantees prisoners of war the right to privacy. But they are not married to Hick.