The Man Who Could Not Take A Hint

It's no secret that Farmer H is not very adept at pickin' up what I'm layin' down.

Last night, as I came upstairs to make him the spaghetti he requested for his supper, I noticed that the light through the windows that border the front door was gloomy. Normally at this time, a ray shoots through and blinds me as I climb the steps. Like a ray through the top of that Indiana Jones staff.

"Oh, is it raining? I didn't see it in the forecast."

"--"

"Is it raining? Looks cloudy."

"Huh? What?"

"For the third time, is it raining?"

"I don't know. I think maybe I dozed off for a minute."

"Why is it freezing up here?"

"I turned on the ceiling fan."

"Yeah. And I see that you have the thermostat down to 73 already. TEN hours early!"

"I was hot."

"Oh, I can see how you would be...sitting there in the recliner doing absolutely nothing. While I'm in the kitchen toiling over a hot stove frying hamburger and boiling noodles."

"Yeah, yeah. I never do nothing."

"I'm glad you see that now."

I went on to the kitchen to get the Master of the Mansion's dinner going. Three cans of mushrooms, people! That's what he likes in his sauce. I'm going to start buying the bigger cans.

"Huh. Look at that wastebasket!"

Let the record show that I had pulled the tall kitchen wastebasket out from under the opening in the counter that was left for a dishwasher. The bag had been full when I got up. Was still full when I left for town. Full when I got back. And now I saw that, where I had pulled the drawstring ties tighter, to keep Jenga-ed stuff from falling off the top of the heap, that Farmer H had added two Diet Mountain Dew bottles, and a plastic individual container from ice cream. Not only had he NOT gotten the visual hint to take out the dadgum trash...he had ADDED TO IT!

Well. Two can play that game. And Mrs. Hillbilly Mom can play it like a pro. I added the plastic container from my lunch pinwheels, and the three mushroom cans, and the spaghetti sauce can, and the squeeze bottle of minced garlic that I used up. I had to tighten the drawstrings a little more. I had that black Hefty bag poofed up over the top of the wastebasket like a pan full of Jiffy Pop ready to take off the burner.

While I was making his supper, Farmer H got up to look out the front door. "It's not raining."

"So...whoever takes out the trash won't get wet."

Can you believe that Farmer H walked right back to the La-Z-Boy and reclined?
I'm sure you can.

"It'll be done in about four minutes. Do you want to add your own sauce? Since you always say you don't want so much sauce. After you're finished eating."

"No. You do it okay."

"All you have to do is dip it from the pan onto the bowl."

"I don't like as much sauce as you think I like."

"Then come make your own!"

Sweet Gummi Mary! It's not like I expected him to find the pans, and fry the hamburger, and soak up the grease with bread for the dogs, and find the can opener to release the mushrooms and sauce, and open up the spaghetti box, and stand over the watched pot until it boiled, and add the noodles. I even had them drained and in a bowl. All he had to do was add sauce to his liking.

Don't even get me started on Farmer H's new debit card that arrived in the mail.