You know how husbands are always underfoot when you are simply trying to go about your daily routine? Yeah. C'mon. Admit it. They're like toddlers who always need to be in the same room with you. Sometimes there aren't enough BARns and cabins and Tiny Towns and tool sheds and hay sheds to keep Farmer H occupied on a rainy day. Sweet Gummi Mary help me when we both retire!
So...I had returned from a slightly more than two-hour trip to town to deposit the #1 son's paycheck, mail him a scholarship letter, cash in some lottery tickets, shop for vittles at Save A Lot, pick up Subway for The Pony and me (Hey, Farmer H, NO SUBWAY FOR YOU!), and grab a fountain beverage. The Pony helped me carry in the groceries. I could see that Farmer H had already partaken of Thursday night's leftover pizza.
When I first walked in, and was instructing The Pony on what went where, Farmer H hollered from the living room, "I bet your mom is out there in the cat food."
"No she isn't. She's right here."
Hmpf. Juno did not come running to greet me. I can only assume (and hope) she was busy slurping up fresh-laid eggs. But perhaps she was locked in the BARn. I might need to check on that.
After stuff was stowed away, The Pony grabbed his Subway and trotted down to the basement to strap on the old feedbag. He stated, over his shoulder as he made his getaway, "If you're looking for Dad, he's asleep in the recliner."
Indeed, he was. I noticed as I tried to get into the bathroom to slip into something more comfortable. Farmer H had that La-Z-Boy cranked back past 180 degrees. My best ol' ex teaching buddy Mabel knows what I'm talkin' about. Farmer H's head was lower than his feet. That's just wrong. Like Ben Stiller in There's Something About Mary getting his frank below his beans. He looked like a patient needing an upper-molar filling in the dentist's chair. If he was a bat, I'm sure that was comfortable sleeping. For the man who slumbers with a breather, not so much. He almost suffocated himself with his soft palate every ten to twenty seconds. Even when not following me around, Farmer H has ways of impeding my progress.
I tried to navigate the narrow opening between the head region of that reared-back La-Z-Boy and the glass-doored curio cabinet flush against the living room wall. An Ethiopian would have scraped both butt and nether region in this attempt. An onion-skin tracing of a skeleton would have had to suck in its breath to squeeze through. I am sure my stomach/chest area gave the glass a dusting it has never experienced in this Mansion. Good thing Farmer H got a haircut this morning. My buttocks polished his noggin to a fine sheen.
It's a trap to monitor my comings and goings. Just like night time, when he throws an arm across my bed space, then whines when I lay down on it.
Mrs. Hillbilly Mom does not sleep upside down, nor can she echolocate appendages strewn willy-nilly about her boudoir.