The Etiology Of A Spat

Do you ever talk to yourself? Yeah. Me too. That's because I have a rapt audience. Sometimes, I also have an uninvited audience. A eavesdropper. Or so it seems.

This morning, I wanted to get a jump on the Devil's Playground excursion. Last I heard, a storm was due to arrive around 9:00 a.m. I figured The Pony and I could leave an bit earlier, and be home by then. Of course the best laid plans of Hillbilly Mom always go awry. I did not get up until 8:00. I hollered to The Pony that I was making a list, no time to check it twice for naughtiness or nicety, and that we would be leaving at 8:45.

Farmer H chose that time to arise and muddle around underfoot. Any other day of no work, he would lay abed until 9:30 or 10:00. Unless, of course, I wanted to sleep in, in which case he would be up clanking his belt and bobbing his butt on the bed like a trampoliner getting ready to send me into the stratosphere while tieing his shoes. Farmer H acted like he was doing me a big favor, traipsing through the living room in his saggy tighty-whities on the way to take a shower in the boys' bathroom. I finished up loading the washer with The Pony's shirts, and went to the La-Z-Boy to make my shopping list. I could hear the water running in the boys' bathroom.

I knew that water had been running for 15 minutes by the time I was ready to step into the shower. Forgive me for talking to myself. I wanted to let myself know that the hot water would probably be all used up before I was through, so I should skip the hairwashing part of my toilette at this juncture. No big deal. It wasn't as if I would be having high tea with the Queen this afternoon. When I exited the shower, while I was running around putting on socks and grabbing my list, Farmer H stated from the short couch: "I heard you say I was using all the hot water."

"I was talking to myself." I continued in my rush to depart from the Mansion and forge toward The Devil's Playground.

"I did not use all the hot water. You're always badmouthing me."

"I was talking to myself."

"I heard you through the door."

"You know we always run out of hot water. You'd been in there 15 minutes by the time I got in. I didn't want to finish with cold water."

"I was NOT taking a shower for 15 minutes! I was on the toilet."

"I was not even talking to you. I was talking to myself. If I wanted to talk to you, I would have yanked that door open and yelled at you on the toilet that you were using all the hot water."

"I don't know why you're always fighting."

"You are the one who is fighting. I just came out to put on my socks and leave. You started in about the hot water. Not me. I didn't say anything to you. I was talking to myself. How was I to know that the minute I closed my bathroom door, you would jump off the toilet and run across the house to listen to my private conversation with myself? And still...you seem to have completed your shower."

"I'm sick of this. All you ever do is accuse me of not doing what you want."

"You're the one talking and complaining. I'm ready to leave." I went to the laundry room to hang The Pony's shirts. Unfortunately, I forgot to apply the ActiveOn to my sore neck. I stood on the other side of the kitchen counter, by the door, waiting for Farmer H to get his sausage biscuit out of the microwave. I keep my ActiveOn right there by the stove, where I charge my phone. It doesn't behoove one to gallivant through The Devil's Playground with a sore neck.

"What are you doing now?"

"I'm going to put on my ActiveOn before I leave."

"HERE! I can't do anything! THERE! All you had to do was say something!"

"I was only waiting until you were through. I didn't want to say anything. Then you would have flipped out. Like you are now."

Farmer H threw up his hands like an 8th grade drama queen. He always escalates the most innocent situations into a scene worthy of a Razzies award.

I have no idea what goes on in that man's head. But I do know this: I have a blog. And he doesn't.