This Is Why Husbands Are Fed To The Wood Chipper

I know it will come as a shock to you, but Farmer H has gone and done something that makes my blood boil. You’d think I could heat the Mansion with one of those in-floor tubey forced-blood systems, what with all the boiling my blood does around here.

Apparently, Farmer H thinks Hillmomba is a community property state. As in, what’s his is his, what’s ours is his, and what’s mine is his. Farmer H knows no boundaries. The Mansion is his castle, and everything in the Mansion is part of his riches. Nobody else can lay claim to any property in the Mansion.

Here’s the thing. I don’t profess to be June Cleaver. I don’t wear pearls around the house while I’m vacuuming and dusting. Sweet Gummi Mary! I don’t even profess to be a vacuumer or duster! I sure don’t set my alarm to get up even earlier than my usual 4:50 a.m. in order to cook a hearty breakfast and set the table with Grandma’s china. Nope. We are on our own for breakfast. It’s always been that way, ever since the boys could fend for themselves. Farmer H knows the routine.

So…when I get up first while he snoozes, I make the lunches for The Pony and me. Which means I grab a paper plate out of the wooden holder on the cabinet beside the stove, the one my mom gave me that says “Everyday China” on the front. I use that plate to cut open a roll before slapping a precooked boneless skinless chicken breast on there for my lunch. I put the sandwich in a baggie and leave the plate so when I come back an hour later to cook my mini sausage biscuits, I won’t waste another plate.

In the meantime, and in this case, it’s really the MEAN time, Farmer H goes through the kitchen on his way out the door, and microwaves his sausage egg croissant, and perhaps pops a whole grain blueberry waffle in the toaster.

For the past two mornings, Farmer H has TAKEN MY PAPER PLATE!

I know! The HORROR! I have to reach 12 inches past where my plate should have been, and take another one out of the holder! Can you believe it? Why can’t Farmer H reach those 12 inches, and get his OWN paper plate? Like he has done every morning for years? I know why! Because on the weekend, I heard Farmer H wrestling with the paper plates. To separate one from the other. Of course The Pony picked up a pack that seems to be glued together. I think it’s a conspiracy by the Devil to make people buy more plates from his Playground, what with using two at a time because they stick together.

Farmer H doesn’t know how good he has it. Because when I restocked the holder with paper plates on Sunday, (you didn’t think HE was going to do it, did you?) I separated those plates before putting them in. Apparently, Farmer H has it pretty good. Because he can just grab a plate all willy-nilly off the counter, knowing that it was left by someone else for their own purposes.

THIS is why husbands are fed to the wood chipper! Well. That, and leaving poop on the back of the toilet seat.