Lint Fetish

Biddy has a lint fetish.

Yes, lint–the white, black, red, or whatever color fluff and junk that accumulates between one's toes due to sock residue. Biddy finds it equally fascinating and icky and is simultaneously thrilled yet disgusted when finding a clump. Lint is Biddy's quest, his holy grail. 

There's no rhyme or reason as to when he must stop and check for lint but when the mood strikes, he must indeed immediately stop whatever he's doing and check. Do not pass go, do not collect $200. He could be taking a bath (hard to find lint between wet toes but he gives it a good ol' go), reading books, eating, playing legos or as it happened this morning, riding his motorcycle from one end of the house to the other. 

It's like he's a lint whisperer or perhaps it's the other way around. Perhaps the lint whispers, "Come find me. Please come find me NOW." and all of a sudden he must stop, sit down, pull off both socks and check between his toes. He stretches each apart studying studiously for fibers. As he goes, he mutters "Nope," as he finds nothing, "Nope," as he finds nothing more, and "Nope," as he finds yet one more clear corridor. If and when he does find lint, he picks at it like a teenager might pick at a pimple. And when he finally grabs hold? He holds it up for inspection and then summarily flicks it away. 

It isn't just his lint he's obsessed with either. It's B's and my lint too. B eggs him on, asking Biddy if he wants to check for his lint as soon as he walks in the door from work. Yuck! I wouldn't go near B's toes with a ten-foot pool, after they've been cooped up in shoes for eight hours, but Biddy just dives right in. 

Nope. Nope. Nope. Ahhhh–Jackpot.