Hick's Bright Idea

Hick has seen the light. And now I am forced to see it, too. Be careful what you specifically ask for.

Last night, Hick announced that after supper, he was making a trip to Lowe's to pick up a light bulb. Of course I asked him what he was talking about. Because he's not known for his intuitiveness. And I had only mentioned the darkness of my kitchen once. How the light fixture had three sockets, and only one bulb was burning.

Hick said he was going to pick up a light for outside, next to the pool. That's because it's necessary to have a light burning by the pool all night, illuminating the french doors that lead from our master sleeping chamber out onto the back porch, which overlooks the pool. Not that he would know. He of the quilt pulled over his face every night. A pool light, you see, is much more needed than a kitchen light, where the short-temper cook endeavors to keep all of her digits intact.

Upon being informed of my lack of kitchen foot-candles, Hick said, "Huh." Pretty much his standard response to anything I bring up. He went and got the step stool and took the cover off the kitchen light. "You have TWO bulbs burning." Indeed, I did. Two of those tiny twisty pig-tail lights, two of which are as bright as one regular bulb. They would be fine if I had six of them in my kitchen light fixture.

This morning, I noticed that I could see better in the kitchen. But barely. Because my retinas were blown out by the other good deed performed by Hick last night. Which was installing two big round bulbs over the bathroom mirror, where their predecessors had long been dead. The other six in that light strip were real dim bulbs compared to the new pair. I felt like I was on the surface of the sun. It was all I could do not to scream, "Bright light! Bright light!" like little Gizmo the Mogwai when Billy had to bandage a boo-boo on his noggin.

A kitchen counter is an area where bright light is welcomed. A strip above the bathroom sink that now makes Broadway, 42nd Street, and Times Square look like McDougal's cave after Tom and Becky ran out of candles is not. I don't need to see my morning face in the light of ten thousand suns.

I can see it all night long in the mirror beside the bed.