I think having your gallbladder taken out must be bad for your memory. Or your disposition. Or maybe it takes away your give-a-darn. Farmer H is skating on thin ice. Which I presume is not recommended so soon after surgery.
Friday night, I came upstairs to get supper ready for the invalid. Even though he'd been out running around across four counties all day. I'd picked up a pork steak dinner for him at Country Mart's deli, along with a big salad for all of us to share. Farmer H had mentioned the night of his surgery that a salad sounded good. He's had the pork steak meal before, and usually gets 2-3 meals from it, because it's a lot of food.
As I rounded the banister, and asked Farmer H how he wanted me to warm his pork steak, he said, not a little churlishly,
"I don't want a lot of food!"
"You don't have to eat it all. I guess you'll want a small bowl of salad."
"No. I don't need salad."
"Okay... last night, you said you liked the salad, and wanted one. So I bought one to help you poop."
"You get yours! I'll make my own!"
"If I'd known that, I wouldn't have come up for another hour. I've barely finished my lunch."
"You make yours, and then I'll come in and make mine."
"Okay. I'm making myself a McRib out of my pork steak."
"I'll do mine."
"Do you want some onion?"
"Okay. I won't use a whole one. So I'll just throw the rest away."
"I might eat some. Just a couple of slices."
THEN he had the nerve to say it would be nice if I was concerned about his operation!
Dang it! His passive aggressive ways make me so mad! I think it might be time for him to learn another lesson. Like his 30 years of self-laundry duty. Only with meals.