You know how sometimes, you get that feeling of dread? Like something bad is about to happen? So you avoid certain places of situations? Well, I don't have that. But I'm developing such a sense.
Farmer H is responsible. He's a secret spender and a junker. And sees nothing wrong with it. In fact, bring it up, and Mrs. Hillbilly Mom is the bad guy! This week, Farmer H spent a hundred dollars on gunk and screws to repair the roof of one of his shacks. Can you believe it? The outlay for Shackytown alone is enough to force Mrs. HM back to the salt mines. Then yesterday, Farmer H spent another $23.87 for TIN for A NEW SHACK! I swear, the apopadopalyspe is on the horizon.
Farmer H also has a penchant for not telling me when he spends this money. I rue the day that our bank gave us each a debit card. I was fine with doling out allowance to Farmer H, from the sock buried in the back yard of my old ($17,000) house in town. Those were simpler times. When Farmer H was an hourly employee, not salaried. When he made overtime, but had a less flexible schedule. Meaning he spent more time MAKING money than SPENDING money. I fear that I will have to put him on a cash budget when he retires. He can't go on living this life of champagne wishes and caviar dreams.
The amounts Farmer H squanders are not that much in single outlays. But they add up. We're not paupers yet. The boys won't have to drop out of college or pay for their own insurance. The part that makes Mrs. HM wary of waking up to a retired Farmer H every day for the rest of her life is this (cue the REE! REE! REE! Psycho music):
I cannot stand to walk into the Mansion kitchen and find one of these on the counter. It's always a day or ten late, and makes the bank account a couple hundred dollars short. Farmer H thinks he deserves a medal for showing me his bill. Who does he think he is, Daffy Duck after a shotgun blew his beak around backwards? It's not that special to give your wife your receipts so she can balance the joint checking account.
There very worst part is that Farmer H leaves this afterthought right on the part of the kitchen counter that I keep clear for food preparation. And he does it in the dark of night. Stealthily. And he doesn't even bother to UNFOLD THE RECEIPT! I swear, I am having teacher flashbacks about those absentee slips that were tossed willy-nilly upon my desk, having been fished out of pockets and foundation garments and backpacks and probably shoes...strewn about my desk as if I was the one supposed to unfold them. At least Farmer H's folds are not soggy with something I don't want to know the origin of.
I think I need to designate a new throw-down area for Farmer H's afterthoughts. And keep a ledger with a running total each week, and each month, with a cumulative total at the end of each year. Surely I can find time to do that, can't I? Even with the full calendar I have with this new retirement gig.