Because we have not yet begun to plumb the depths of Farmer H's annoying habits...
He couldn't think of more ways to irritate me if he stayed up past 8:00 p.m., or strapped on a thinking cap along with his breather! Don't get me wrong. I'm not ready to murderize him. I just get tired of his antics, and need to vent. Or as Farmer H might say for the 1000th time: "You'd complain if you was hung with a new rope!"
After all the times I had to carry in groceries by myself, because Farmer H did his disappearing act, he has now found a way to be home, and come out to shoulder part of the load.
Like an overexcited teenager on prom night! Farmer H rushes to T-Hoe to grab his portion of groceries with wild abandon. No time for me to assign bags for carrying, he snatches them all willy-nilly, regardless of what must be kept from the dogs, or might be too heavy for me. Sweet Gummi Mary! I don't even have time to walk around to T-Hoe's rear before he is off!
Once inside, he starts to put them away, WITHOUT CONSULTING ME! Never in the places where they have been kept for nigh on 25 years. But where HE thinks they should go. Bananas torn apart and arranged around the fruit bowl regardless of ripeness. Cheeses put on top of other cheeses that are near expiration. Foil boxes left atop the kitchen counter, rather than left on the cutting block for me to stow away in the pantry. A couple days ago, he put my hard-to-find Romaine lettuce in the bottom crisper that is designated for MEAT!
Monday evening, I arrived home to find the water running in the kitchen sink. Farmer H was ensconced in his recliner. I don't mean just a drip. Running water. A stream the thickness of a pencil lead in one of those big fat kindergarten pencils!
"Why is this water running?"
"Oh. I guess I didn't turn it off all the way."
What good is partially turning off running water? That would be like carrying hot soda in from the garage, and then setting it on the floor of the kitchen. Oh, wait...
Yesterday, it was all I could do to remain silent as Farmer H dipped sliced potatoes and onions onto his supper plate. He held his plate in the left hand, and chased that pan of potatoes around the stovetop with a fork grasped in his right hand. Okay. I did not actually remain silent.
"I left the oven mitts there, so you could hold onto the pan. And there's a spoon."
"I can get them fine with my fork."
Can you imagine a less efficient way to serve yourself sliced potatoes and onions? He was not stabbing the potatoes, but trying to balance them on top of his fork. They were slippery, having been baked with butter and onions in a foil packet inside a pie tin, to accompany our BBQ pork steaks. The pie tin spun around on the burner. All Farmer H needed to do was set his plate on the counter beside the stove, hold the edge of the pie tin with a mitted hand, and dip out potatoes to his plate using a serving spoon.
As I type this, he is no doubt dreaming up new ways to drive me crazy.
3 comments:
I could forgive the meaningless distribution of groceries, but not the running tap. And chasing the potatoes and onions around the pan had me laughing.
How else will he manage to spill something on the stove? It is like a calling card that says. I am a big boy and served myself! Like we won't have to clean the spilled food in their wake!
River,
It's not like that water was costing us anything. It's just the idea of being so careless that you halfway turn it off. That potato pan was getting the best of Farmer H. It was spinning like an overweight, aging whirling dervish whose heart was not really in it.
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Kathy,
Yes, I swear I saw him drop some baked beans, but he swore he didn't. I need to look down in the burner!
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