Imagine my surprise when I groggily slid open the frosted glass door Saturday morning, and beheld my new Shower Buddy: the toilet plunger. He is not a fellow I prefer to share a shower with. I know where he's been. And it ain't in the land of unicorns and rainbows. It makes me no nevermind that he was lurking at the far back corner of the double stall, like some Who's That Lady kitchen mop stalker. Anywhere inside the shower enclosure is too close. I gave him the old heave-ho, and set his jets to cooling on the heater vent. Right where Plumber H deposits him after a bout of plunging The Pony's manure. That little dude really needs more roughage.
Yes, I am sure the Shower Buddy surprise was part of Domestic God H's plan to drive me crazier. He's always hooking me up with new friends.
The Eternal Bulb mocks me in the wee hours of the morning, when I wake up in my basement recliner and ascend the stairs to H-Land. For some reason, Helen Keller H does not notice that the range hood light remains on long after he has partaken of the fare lovingly left on the stovetop for those evenings he is out playing with his goats at suppertime. You would think that a man so obsessed with turning off lights and TVs when leaving the room would click that beacon off. But no. Like a snack scarfed over the kitchen counter has no calories, the Eternal Bulb uses no electricity.
Perpetual Aluminum Foil is the Siamese twin of Eternal Bulb. Though I suppose, to be politically correct, I should call it a conjoined twin, or a Thailand twin. But I wouldn't want it confused with any of those Thailand Cats with their pretty blue eyes and seal point markings. I digress. Tightwad Skinflint Cheapskate H apparently thinks Reynolds Wrap is reusable to infinity. Sure, I can warm some garlic toast on it, then get another using for leftover pizza, and score a trifecta with fish sticks. But by the time charred, crumbled coatings are fused to Mr. Reynolds, he has worn out his welcome. T/S/C H would have him remain as a permanent guest, like Norman's mama at the Bates Motel.
I am never without a date to join me for the morning news after my 5:30 nap in the La-Z-Boy. Companion Can perches near the remotes, on the plastic lid of a Hot & Sour Soup container that moonlights as a coaster. Hey! Don't act shocked. Have you forgotten that we're the Hillbilly family, by cracky? King Of His Castle H sees no reason to pick up after himself. That's why he's got Mrs. HM. Every now and then, he deems it necessary to remind her of her official duties. Last week when The Pony and I arrived home an hour after King H and Prince #1, and I asked why he waited an hour instead of tossing the supper he knew we were having into the oven, he said, slowly, as if to a foreigner who magically understands English if it is spoken loud enough and slowly enough: "Because that's what a mom does--fixes the supper for the family."
This afternoon, Survivalist H waltzed in smelling like my newest chum, Captain Kerosene Heater. We're expecting an ice storm. At least that's what the weathermen tell us.