I arrived home Monday evening to find that Farmer H had been up to his old tricks again. He took the week off. Which means he plans on totally disrupting our peaceful Mansion lives with projects that cannot wait. Yes, time off gives Farmer H a bee in his bonnet. And blinders. He goes all out with a new project that requires money and gives off foul odors. Times three.
This week, he's painting the #1 son's room. And staining the door frames and removing doors and taking them to the barn for staining and bringing them back right at the time I get home. For maximum smellage, you know. Which a more efficient person might have done...oh...I don't know...let me think...perhaps...WHEN HE BUILT THE HOUSE THIRTEEN YEARS AGO. Oh, and the third project is applying some magical sealant to the shower enclosure to plug a crack.
The crack is what wet my pants. For some reason, Farmer H could not seal a shower crack without also cleaning the triangle bathtub on the other side of the master bath. Props to him for cleaning, I say. What better use of a short attention span than to clean a tub when you have three other projects already percolating?
Now is where Farmer H and I diverge on proper tub-cleaning procedure. I say that if you need to remove from the side of the tub a pair of comfy capri sweatpants, gray with a wide purple stripe, that Mrs. Hillbilly Mom likes to wear after a long day of work educating the future of our nation, along with her black school socks and red Crocs and a yellow-and-white striped camp shirt, you simply toss it into the bathroom closet beside her pajamas. It's not that hard. The closet door is over in the barn, for cryin' out loud. You don't even have to open it. Pick up the pants, turn, toss. Mission accomplished.
Farmer H begs to differ. When he begins his self-made chore list shortly after we leave for schoolin', he chooses to take those sweatpants and stuff them over the towel rack. The towel rack which holds Mrs. Hillbilly Mom's towel, fresh from a bout of drying after her morning shower. Which results, upon Mrs. HM's return to the Manse that eve, in a pair of sweatpants that make her feel like she is wearing a wet towel.
I fear the encore for Farmer H's week-long performance.