So...Mrs. Hillbilly Mom was in the doghouse for most of last week.
Of course it was not her fault! And she didn't mind sharing such comfy quarters with her sweet, sweet Juno. After all, The Pony had stocked it with fresh cedar shavings. After the last debacle when he tried carrying handfuls of cedar from the garage to Juno's house on the back porch...he was given a cardboard box from Save A Lot to use for transport.
What could possible have sent our angelic, Mother-Teresa-ish HM to the doghouse?
TOTALLY UNREASONABLE FARMER H!
Here's how it went down. On Tuesday evening, I was making pasta for The Pony, a plate of Super Nachos for myself, and nothing for Farmer H. That's because he had BBQed hot dogs and bratwursts left over from Sunday. Only two days old! Farmer H has eaten six-week-old hot dogs in the past, without a second thought. And he specifically said he was going to work outside, then warm up hot dogs for his supper.
There I was, putting garlic butter on Italian bread to sprinkle with garlic salt and pop in the oven (now with two working elements) to go with The Pony's pasta, when Farmer H entered through the kitchen door. I offered Farmer H some garlic cheese bread, which is the same as The Pony's bread, but with some mozzarella sprinkled on top. He accepted the offer, then passed on through the kitchen to exit out the front door. He did not appear to have his nose out of joint. After all, he was getting some bonus garlic cheese bread to go with his meal.
The Pony's food was ready, and I called him up from his cheap basement couch to get it. Then I started on my Super Nachos. I had the plate lined with 10 chips. The queso and the salsa and the olives sitting on the counter awaiting their addition. The shredded chicken breast was warming in the microwave (now with two drawer handles instead of one microwave door handle). I grabbed the bag of shredded lettuce out of Frig II and snipped off the top. I was on the last handful (#2 of 2) of lettuce to complete layer 2 of my Super Nachos when Farmer H returned unexpectedly through the front door.
Farmer H walked into the kitchen, reason unknown, and huffed. He grabbed the door of Frig II and slammed it shut. "You don't leave the refrigerator door open." Farmer H has a thing about refrigerator doors, apparently. Like his thing about splashing water from the big triangle bathtub onto the wallpaper of the master bathroom. Both boys, in their youth, were routinely chastised for errant splashes. To hear Farmer H tell it, they took bath toys and pointed them at the wall and hosed it down every few seconds. He also has a thing about leaving the pantry door unlatched. Closed, you know, but not pushed all the way in until the latch clicks.
"I was just putting this bag of lettuce back. I only had it out for 30 seconds. That door doesn't fall closed like the original Frig's door. I've asked you several times if there's any way you can adjust it."
"HM. I'm sure even your parents taught you not to leave the refrigerator door open."
There are few things I hate more than condescension. King Farmer H needs to learn how to be more in tune to his serfs, lest they overthrow the crown.
"That door wasn't hurting anything. It was open less than a minute. It was fine until you came in."
"I don't know why you always have to start on me. Every night, you do this. I'm sick of it!"
And from there, things pretty much went downhill. Let the record show that Mrs. HM was told a new destination she could visit, and it was NOT-heaven. Various adult behaviors were suggested that she would participate in. The decibel level increased considerably. Let the record show that Mrs. HM did not let a profane word pass through her lips. In fact, she did not let a single word pass through her lips, where Farmer H was concerned, until after work on Friday.
Let the record further show that on Sunday morning, when putting away Farmer H's multi-grain blueberry waffles...she let the door to Frig II's freezer stand wide open while she ripped the end off the box of her mini sausage biscuits and sorted through them before placing them on the top shelf.
There's more than one way to skin a King.