Impatiens Ain't Just A Flower In Hillmomba

Lately, you might have detected a hint, a smidgen, a skosh of impatience in Mrs. HM's typing voice, regarding the behavior of Farmer H. If so, you are quite skilled to pick up such a nuance!

Let the record show that Farmer H is NOT the King of the World. Please, I implore each and every one of you, READ THE RECORD TO FARMER H!

I am pretty sure the world would keep spinning if Farmer H refrained from passing judgment on one or two events per day. Like Wednesday, when I returned from the weekly shopping at The Devil's Playground.

Farmer H was there, by cracky! There to help me carry in groceries! I'd said I would be home around 12:30, and I pulled into the garage at the digital click of 12:32. I actually followed Farmer H down the driveway, he on his Gator, the dogs forsaking him to run beside T-Hoe, like dolphins escorting a ship into port.

Farmer H went directly to T-Hoe's rear. I opened the hatch for His Royal Highness's carrying pleasure. He took some bags and carried them to the kitchen. This is where we differ in our technique. I carry bags to the porch, and when they're all out, I go up the porch steps, and start carrying the bags inside. Farmer H makes multiple trips up and down the steps, taking his bags on their full journey before getting more.

I can't see all that wasted wear and tear on knee joints. So I started carrying items from T-Hoe's rear to the side porch, for Farmer H to take into the kitchen. I was actually doing him a favor! Bringing the work halfway to him.

Of course the wind blew the garage people-door shut midway of one of my trips. So with arms laden and hands full, I leaned over, put my head against the safety-glass panes, gripped the doorknob with the plastic bags looped in the webbing of my hand, turned the knob, and used my foot to push open the door, which took a strong leg against that wind.

Farmer H had appeared on the side porch, and decreed, "You don't need to kick the door open!"

Au contraire. I DID! I did need to use my foot. No kicking, per se, because a kick would have given me a broken toe, like kicking a bowling ball. I used the ball of my foot to push that door wide, so I had time to get through before it slammed on me with the headwind. Yet somehow this was affecting the King of the World while he stood there watching me struggle through that door, while helping him...

Of course I let it go. The decree, not the door. I finished fighting that door to bring four six-packs of 20 oz bottled soda to the porch. And a bag of 7 one-liter bottles of flavored water, and a bag of canned goods. Still doing Farmer H that favor. I returned to close up the garage, and fetch my 44 oz Diet Coke and my purse and water cup. Crossing the kitchen threshold, I left the door open as I reached for a treat for the dogs.

That's our routine. They know if the door is open, even a crack, that they're getting their treat. If I close it, that means Old Mrs. Hillbilly Mom's cupboard is bare, and they get none. Jack often stands with his front feet on the threshold, his nose crossing the plane that demarcates OUTSIDE and KITCHEN.

"Jack! Get out of the house!" Decreed the self-appointed King of the World. Farmer H's head would explode if he knew this is standard operating TREAT PROCEDURE.

"You're not King of the World, you know. Your opinion of every incident under the sun is not absolutely necessary."

Of course that led to sputtering and the throwing up of hands. I was only trying to relieve him of some self-appointed, unnecessary duties.