If this is what retirement will be like, I might just work until I drop.
Farmer H is driving me crazy. "It's just you and me now. This is how it's going to be. Just you and me."
Agh! Save me! I cannot cater to his every whim. I cannot bear being the sole recipient of his investigative techniques. One would think Farmer H is Geraldo, Magnum P.I., and Dog the Bounty Hunter all rolled into one. One with the mustache, but less hair.
When he's at work, he calls to check on me. Or so he says. I think he's just keeping tabs on my location. I'm surprised he hasn't stuck a lo-jack on me in a hard-to-reach place. When he's home, he needs to know where I've been, and what I've done. If the phone rings, Farmer H checks the display and hollers, "It's your mom! It's Mabel!" Even though my phone has a voice that announces such information after the second ring. Yes, Farmer H is a caller ID. Unless it's some entity calling for him, in which case he does not answer.
During phone calls, my fellow conversationalist will ask, "Is that your line or mine? Did you hear that? It cut out. There must be a reception problem." Nope. It's me, not you. That's just Farmer H picking up his receiver and listening to make sure who I'm talking to, and what about.
Farmer H comes and goes as he pleases. He's like Theodore Cleaver, roaming the neighborhood from dawn to dusk, never checking in, nor deigning to answer his phone. Any questions as to his previous whereabouts are met with incredulousness. Like I surely read it on his nonexistent day-planner, or telepathically intercepted his thoughts. "I was putting brakes on my car!" Or, "I went to town for cat food!" Yet when I tell him the day before, the morning of, and upon gathering my purse, that I'm heading to the store, he stops me in the driveway to ask where I'm going.
I am a prisoner in my own home.
This morning I dared to object. "I can't stand the way you keep me under your thumb!"
"Ha! You never do ANYTHING for me! I'd like to know how you can say I'm keeping you under my thumb!"
So much for all those years spent heating food in the microwave or warming it in the oven. And who bought that bologna six months ago and put it in the refrigerator in the event that I might sometime be hospitalized for three days, thus saving you from certain starvation?
I might start a tunnel under the desk in my dark basement lair.