Farmer H has been up to his old tricks again. Not only did he break the passenger mirror off my T-Hoe while I was in the hospital, but he tried to poison himself, and turn our boudoir into a circus tent.
The first shenanigan, he was afraid to tell me. I suppose he had thoughts that I might kick off, and he would never have to confess. It's bad enough that this is not the first mirror he's broken off a car of mine by backing out of the garage. He waited until I was ready to be discharged, then confessed, because he knew I would see it when I climbed into my chariot for the ride home. Never mind that T-Hoe has the fancy mirrors that fold in and out at the push of a button. Farmer H could not be bothered to push. "I was worried about you. I wasn't thinking." Uh huh. The first time, on my old Suburban, he did not have this excuse. And he still destroyed that mirror. He says he's going to heal T-Hoe himself.
"I ordered the part. The mirror itself did just what it was supposed to do. It bent backwards. But that darn glass shattered! Now I need one little piece, or I'll have to get the whole thing from the dealer, and that will cost two or three hundred dollars." Indeed.
When I got home and opened Frig, I saw a package of bologna in a zip-lock bag. "Oh, did you go buy yourself some bologna so you could eat?"
"No. It was in there."
"I haven't bought bologna for at least six months."
"Well, the date was good."
"Are you sure the YEAR was good?"
"I think so. It didn't make me sick."
Such are the feeding habits of Farmer H.
That night, when I went to lay my head on my own stack of three pillows, I discovered that Farmer H had changed the sheets. Gone were the sticky flannel velcro sweat-inducing demons. In their place were cool new cotton sheets. Crisp sheets. Very crisp. So crisp that they could not have been washed. Ever. It was like covering myself with a plastic tarp. Crinkle, crinkle. Stiff. And they still came up over my head by three feet. Farmer H admitted the next morning that yes, he had changed the sheets. Took them right out of the package and put them on the bed.
The flannel sheets are still crumpled on the bottom of the clothes hamper awaiting my wash. Farmer H's domestic sense of duty only goes so far.