I'm still pretty sure Farmer H is trying to kill me.
Since that T-Hoe passenger-seat plot did not work to blind-spot me and cause a crash with oncoming traffic, Farmer H has moved on to more subtle tactics. Like a slow, lingering death from blood poisoning, perhaps.
It's no secret that I keep odd hours. It is not unusual for Mrs. Hillbilly Mom to toss in a load of laundry at 2:00 a.m., and transfer it from washer to dryer at 5:00. Nor is it a secret that while Farmer H tromps round the Mansion in his crusty clodhoppers, Mrs. HM pitter-patters about in her stylish red Crocs until bedtime, when she prances barefoot from room to room. Including the cold gray tile of the laundry room.
In the wee hours this morning, as I dumped in a load of assorted colored togs, I noticed a pebble on the laundry room floor in front of the washer. Darn that Farmer H. More droppings from his Jed Clampett boots. I made a mental note to sidestep that crippler when I returned for the dryer.
Guess what? Mrs. Hillbilly Mom is not good at reading mental notes at 5:00 a.m. I padded my bare feet right up to the washer, and screamed in pain. That rock was under my heel. Check that. That rock was IN my heel.
THAT ROCK WAS A NAIL!
Uh huh. It's true. Farmer H set a trap to impale my sole. Possibly give me a case of lock-jaw. Except the joke's on him, because Mrs. Hillbilly Mom has had a tetanus shot within the last ten years. Two in the last 13 years. First there was that biting chipmunk incident, then that case of the fishing-pole-holding nails in the garage ripping the flesh from my forearm like that town ripped the bones from the back of Bruce Springsteen. Darn that Farmer H. Darn him all to heck! And I AM quoting Alex the lion in Madagascar.
That might actually be a screw with the end broken off. AND STILL IN MY FOOT. Maybe.
Yeah. It's becoming clearer. Farmer H in the laundry room with a short nail.