Two Rageaholics Walk Into A Mansion

It's the stressful holiday pre-season, and Farmer H and Mrs. HM are not on the same page. They are not sympatico. Not mind-melding. They are getting along like opposite poles of a magnet. Oil and water. The Mansion needs signs posted, declaring ENTER 

AT YOUR OWN RISK.

Of course I have been busy cooking. Getting as much out of the way as possible before Christmas Eve (when the evening is taken up by the party at the home of my sister the ex-mayor's wife) and Christmas morning, when I must have everything cooked and on the table by 11:30. I've done some shopping each day, because I know that I have to carry in everything by myself. 

Right now it's Tuesday. I've made four batches of Chex Mix, and three Oreo cakes. And some Hidden Valley Ranch veggie dip. Boiled 40 eggs. Boiled 5 pounds of russet potatoes. The big push comes on Wednesday. Putting together the hash brown casserole, deviled eggs, potato salad, cutting up broccoli and cauliflower, roasting potatoes/carrots/onions with bacon. And then Thursday, getting it all cooked/warmed, along with the ham, stuffing, and making the 7 Layer Salad and two individual salads.

There. Proof I've been busy, and will be busy. Not saying Farmer H hasn't. He does a lot of work. OUTSIDE the Mansion. On the flip house and his business and those time-consuming elderly apartments. It was kind of him to volunteer to vaccuum and clean the bathroom on Tuesday.

It was not so kind of him to switch up the plan...

I came home Monday shortly after 4:00. Normally, Farmer H doesn't get home until 5:00. I carried in my two bags of groceries. I knew he was in the house. SilverRedO was outside. The TV was still on the Cooking Channel, where I leave it for listening. Farmer H was not in his recliner. He was in the boys' bathroom, the one I use all the time, on his hands and knees.

You know. Because there's no other time to do that task except a day before he SAID he was going to. And at the precise time he knows I get back from town, and want to change clothes. Which I leave hanging on the towel rack in that bathoom. The bathroom which I clean every week. Which will be "possibly" used by our guests (Genius and Friend), who are here for four hours, once a year. There is so much more worthwhile "cleaning" that Farmer H could do. As in years past, when he's Swiffered the kitchen floor. Or even just put away his tighty-whities that are stacked on the long couch from his laundry folding. 

Anyhoo... I had the audacity to ask, "WHY are you doing that NOW?"

Well. I suppose that was a sensitive subject. Because Farmer H erupted. He jumped to his feet like an agile Chinese gymnast, and began waving his arms like a signal man on an aircraft carrier. How dare I complain about him HELPING ME! He was sick of it. He had THINGS TO DO! And thus stormed out the kitchen door into the gloomy soon-to-be dark evening.

I proceeded to ice my second Oreo Cake in town clothes. Wash the pile of cake-making dishes. Farmer H came in the front door 25 minutes later. Apparently having DONE HIS THINGS. He sat in the recliner. 

I changed clothes. Started my scratchers. It was Farmer H's night to warm his leftover cheeseburger mac. Yet he made no move to do so. He left the TV on the Cooking Channel, which he does not watch. At 6:00, I head it switch to Gunsmoke. At 6:15, Farmer H went to bed.

I have a feeling he thought he was really hurting me by sending himself to bed without supper. On the contrary. I enjoyed the peace and quiet. Because he had put the TV back on the Cooking Channel. But turned the volume down so it could not be heard in the kitchen, where I was listening to classic rock on Spotify anyway.

Every Christmas, Farmer H says he hates this time of year, because I go crazy.