Timing Is Everything/Timing Is Nothing

Farmer H has an uncanny sense of timing. I'm sure I've mentioned it before. The very worst time possible is when he unofficially schedules his inconvenient phone calls, tasks, requests, trips, and scams.

I believe the most recent big event was the moving of furniture from my mom's house on the night before school started. Couldn't be done any other time. Not all summer. Not on a weekend. The Wednesday night before school started on Thursday. At least my surly response persuaded him to leave the kitchen table and six chairs in the garage (on his side) rather than tearing up my kitchen at 9:00 p.m. ON THE NIGHT BEFORE THE FIRST DAY OF SCHOOL.

Friday was a tiring drawn-out day of tedium for me. I had two sets of grades per class to enter, which is 200 papers to grade and computerize. Then I had odd assignments to grade and assign for the rule-breakers referred to me by the office. Top the afternoon off with a trip by the credit union to withdraw the #1 son's monthly expense money, and a stop for gas to fill up T-Hoe, and an hour wait to get a flu shot for The Pony and me...and...well...I was in no mood to fiddle-faddle around when I got home after 6:00 to wash a sink of dishes and immediately start supper.

All I wanted was to slip into something more comfortable, namely my blue sweatpants with the white stripes and the gaping hole on the hip that shows my not-blue granny panties when my shirt hikes up. And the shirt itself, a tasteful short-sleeved camp shirt with purple pinstripes and a salsa stain on the pocket. And my red Crocs that are so comfortable with my work black crew socks. Everything was under control. Food coming out of the oven and microwave at the same time. Baked fish and a broccoli/cauliflower/baby carrot medley topped with tasty melted Marvella (that's Save A Lot Velveeta). Mmm...finally time to sit down and relax with my flu shot arm and my meal.

Farmer H was nowhere to be found. Let the record show that I had sent him a text, (which he answered) from school telling him of our many stops, our running late, and the plans for supper. I now sent him a text that supper was ready. Waited. The Marvella was wanting to congeal. Finally, a text that Farmer H's Number One Son was here with money for the car. Farmer H is selling him the Pacifica, and he was on the way from the BARn to the house to get the title. I heard him come in the front door. I knew I would have to sign the title, so I stood by the kitchen counter, near a pen and a light and my glasses, waiting. I heard talking. I called up The Pony from the basement, where Farmer H had gone to open one of the two safes for the title.

"Is Number One down there?"

"No. His son is, and I'm supposed to be watching him while Dad looks for the title."

Oh. Excuse me. I should have known better. How long it takes for a man to find a car title is a mystery to me. After 10 more minutes, I hollered back down.

"WHAT is your dad doing? How long does it take to find a title?"

"I don't know. He's in the workshop."

That spurred Farmer H to get'r'done. He came upstairs with the title. Told me where to sign, and where to print the names.

"HM! You're printing my name where I have to sign!"

"I told you these glasses are crap! It's so small. I couldn't tell where your finger was pointing."

We got it signed. Then Number One Son came in. Not that he's unwelcome in my house...but I was wearing my comfortable clothes. Not the kind I parade around wi in front of anyone other than Farmer H and The Pony and our #1 son. I guess he always suspected I eat salsa.

Perfect end to a perfect day, thanks to Farmer H the bad-timer. Mrs. Hillbilly Mom does not ask for much. Because she receives so little.

Yes. The fish was cold and the Marvella was congealed.