Farmer H was born too late for Sesame Street. He could really have benefited from sessions with The Count.
Tuesday before last, I was minding my own business, puttering around the kitchen, having just arisen at the crack of 9:00, when I heard a text come in on my phone. It was a message from Farmer H. Seems he had this cockamamie idea to retire completely.
Farmer H said we would talk about it when he got home. You bet we would! I can't presume to tell Farmer H when to retire. That is a personal decision. We'll get by, no matter when he chooses to pull the plug. We'll get by, because Mrs. Hillbilly Mom has a cool head and a disciplined approach to a budget. Whereas Farmer H is as flighty as a flibbertigibbet. He was all set to go tell his superiors that he was giving notice. That come the end of August, his company would be completely Farmer-H-less. Not able to use Farmer H as 3/5 of a mechanical savant any more. Okay. Not in those words, exactly. Because Farmer H doesn't know a savant from a croissant, and would be sorely disappointed if he bit into one.
That evening, I told Farmer H that I understood his position, and that he should retire whenever he sees fit. But to please give it two weeks. Think it over. Put a plan in place for our finances. Have an idea of what he will do with his days when he they are stretched out endlessly ahead of him. Make sure this is what he wants. Realize that while he will have more time for starting projects here at the Mansion, he will have less money available for completing projects here at the Mansion.
Farmer H agreed to think it over for two weeks.
This past Wednesday, Farmer H informed me that he had told his boss and office manager that he is retiring completely at the end of August.
Let the record show that Farmer H's original plan was to work until December. That I have a sneaking suspicion that Farmer H is having trouble being an Indian, not a chief. He's never been one to respond well to taking directions. I know this has been hard for him. I can imagine what it would be like if I returned to Newmentia as a substitute teacher. You have the responsibility, but not the respect. It's hard to relinquish one's status.
"I told [REDACTED] today that I was done at the end of August."
"Wait a minute. You said you'd wait two weeks to think about it, and make sure. Remember how you had me dropping my insurance down to the worst plan, because you said we'd use yours until December. Good thing I didn't do what you told me."
"I DID wait two weeks, HM."
"HM! I gave it two weeks."
"No. I have the text where you brought it up."
"HM! I only work three days a week. I gave it two weeks."
"How many days a week you work has nothing to do with it. You only brought this up last week."
"Yeah. Last week. That was one week, and now it's been two."
"No. It's barely been a week."
"You don't know what you're talking about."
"Here. Look at the text. TUESDAY. June 6th."
"Yeah...and today is...what?"
"The 14th. Today is the 14th. It's only been ONE WEEK."
"Sure. If you're going to count something silly like calendar days for the week! I thought about it last week, and I told them today it's for sure. That's two weeks."
Looks like I'll be having a full-time companion, come the end of August.