The Scapegoat Lines Have Become Blurred

I'm pretty sure I've given The Pony a case of PTSD. It was unintentional, I assure you! It's not my fault that he seems to break or stain most things he comes in contact with. And forget things like two beautiful ribeye steaks ($14.99!) in the back of T-Hoe on a 92-degree day. And get stung by a wasp simply because he walked under a nest that I've walked under a thousand times before.

Farmer H grilled those steaks on Wednesday evening. I made them baked potatoes, and garlic bread out of steak rolls. I had hamburger for myself, with a sliced tomato, onion, and pickles.

As The Pony was plopping his thick ribeye onto one of the GOOD paper plates, the slick kind with a pattern and a rim... I said

"You should take two plates. So it's sturdy enough. You can put the bottom one back on the stack when you're done, if it's still good."

The Pony took his plate, along with the special REAL butter he'd bought for himself (his picking, my money), to the coffee table in front of the long couch. I went to sit on the short couch, until all the activity was out of the kitchen. Farmer H was filling his plate, buttering his potato with I Can't Believe It's Not Butter, and adding a tomato that I sliced for him.

Let the record show that I didn't command them to use paper plates. That was their choice. I already had a few other dishes to wash. Real plates would not have made much difference.

Anyhoo... Farmer H was sitting in the La-Z-Boy (with a butt-pinch in his future when he stood up), with his plate on the arm of the chair, cutting into his steak. If I had been planning to eat in a recliner, I guaran-darn-tee you that I would have cut the meat and the tomato slices in the kitchen while unbelieveably-buttering my potato. Because that's just awkward to do in a recliner.

Anyhoo... a few short minutes later, Farmer H held his plate out in front of himself, and arose from the recliner. He had commented that he didn't get his steak done as well as he preferred. While The Pony said HIS steak was not as rare as he would have liked. Of course they didn't mention switching with each other. The Pony had slathered butter on top of his, like the Mansion is some fancy steakhouse.

Anyhoo... when Farmer H got up, headed toward the kitchen, I said

"Oh. Are you going to microwave it?"

"No it's done enough. I'm getting another plate. This one leaked on the arm of the chair."

Indeed. I could see the darker color, from the wetness. Farmer H returned with two select-a-size paper towels. He began scrubbing the chair arm.

"Um. I'd probably blot it. Because when you rub with a paper towel, it leaves little pieces behind."

"I'm not rubbing it! Do you see me rubbing it! I'm blotting!"

"NOW. But yes, I most certainly DID see you rubbing the paper towel. That's why I said not to do it."

"Oh, I was only rubbing it for a minute!"

The Pony rolled his eyes and smacked his forehead.

"Pony. Seriously. Do you know how Dad has managed to live this long, without a shred of common sense?"

The Pony did not.

"And I can't believe Dad brought a steak and tomato in here on ONE plate, and thought that sawing them with my Pioneer Woman knife would be a good idea!"

The Pony nodded.

"Mom. Really. If you had just seen that chair stain tomorrow... you would have blamed ME, wouldn't you?"

"Well. Yes. I would. Because let's face it, Pony. Almost everything you touch gets damaged in some way."

"I know. But for once, it WASN'T ME!"

"You DO take after your father... And you only have two plates because I TOLD you to get two plates!"

Poor Pony. He can't help himself. And neither can I.