It's Maddening, I Tell You!

I just can't deal with this guy lately! You know full well the guy I'm talking about! Farmer H! Hoarder of all knowledge! But willing to share, to enlighten the people who cain't understand nothin'!

I hardly know where to begin. Perhaps with his latest treat, a package of strawberry wafer cookies. He opened them Wednesday evening after supper. A couple hours later, I saw them on the cutting block, the end of the wrapper tucked under, wedged up against the unopened package of generic iced oatmeal cookies.

"You're welcome! I closed up your cookies for you. I can't believe you were so lazy that you couldn't take ONE STEP to get a rubber band to close up that pack of cookies!"

"Oh. Thank you."

Then I opened FRIG II, and saw that after getting his slaw for supper, Farmer H had put the giant container on the only empty space, on the bottom shelf, that I had cleared to put his chicken and dumplings that I will make for him tomorrow.

"Can you not put anything back where you got it?"

"What did I not put back?"

"The slaw!"

"I put away the slaw!"

"What's so hard about putting something back where you got it??? Sitting right on top of the butter. For two nights in a row. But tonight you had to take up the space I cleared out on the shelf below it."

"I don't know what you want from me! I put it up!"

Then there was the discussion of our ongoing neverending sale of Bargain House, and the info we got from our Realtor Guy that came from The Buyer's realtor guy. Farmer H kept referring to the "buyer's agent."

"Who is that? What are you talking about. You keep saying AGENT! Does he have somebody else representing him?"

"The guy who's handling the sale. Who showed him the house. Like our guy."

"Why do you call him an AGENT? That's confusing me."

"What am I supposed to call him?"

"Realtor? Like ours? A person who buys and sells houses for a client."

"They ARE agents, HM. That's their name: Realtor State Agents."

SWEET GUMMI MARY! I could picture The Pony pounding a hoof against his forelock when I related this tale over the phone.

"Um. That's NOT what they're called!"

"I know! I guess maybe he was getting at Real Estate Agent?"

"You better HOPE that's what he meant. Because that's just... no."

THEN Farmer H told me that he was leaving early on Thursday morning because he had things to do before his two doctor appointments.

"I'm stopping by the motel."

"MOTEL? What in the Not-Heaven are you doing at a motel?"

"I mean hotel... you know... the apartments."

"Apartments are a lot different than a motel! I don't know what you've been up to lately!"

"Oh, HM. The apartment building used to be the National Hotel."

"I thought that was up the street, in the next block. It was the National Hotel, then the Y Apartments, and now it has that coffee shop downstairs."

"No. You're wrong. It was always where my apartments are."

Well. Who am I to question anything Farmer H decrees as true, anyway?

Farmer H makes my brain hurt.