I Coulda Been A Statistic!

You're reading this, so everything worked out okay. Don't panic and wonder if I'm going to make it out alive. The telling of the tale is a major clue for you. So don't sweat it.

As you have been sporadically informed, Farmer H went on a little trip to Nevada for 10 nine days. I'm sure you can imagine my glee. I was positively giddy with delight. Especially the first day he was gone. My sister the ex-mayor's wife had invited me to accompany her and the ex-mayor to pick up their comp gifts at two casinos in the city. So the initial daytime hours of Farmer H's absence were lost on me.

That evening, though, the reality hit me. I got home around 4:30, and dutifully called Sis as she had requested, to let her know that I was home and safely inside the Mansion. I prepared myself that 3-days-past chicken enchilada from The Devil's Playground deli. Descended to my lair for computing on New Delly. The only event to mar the kickoff of The Near-Fortnight of HM was my queasiness, perhaps from that meal.

Much later in the night, I left the lair for the comfort of my OPC (Old People Chair). It was shortly after 1:00 a.m., fully reclined, seat heating, that it happened.

I'd just used the remote control for my OPC to turn on the seat heater. It runs for about 10 minutes, then shuts itself off. I was turning it back on again, to continue the warmth. I'd have also put on the massage feature, but it's kind of loud when I'm trying to hear TV. Ahh... so comfy.

I leaned over the right arm of my OPC, to set the wired remote on the lamp table. I do it all the time. It's not like I'm a novice. I'm well-seasoned in remote-setting. This time, however, I suppose I grew lazy. The remote was close to the side of the lamp table, and the weight of its wire

PULLED IT TO THE FLOOR!

The minute it happened, I yelled "NOOOOOOO!"

Consider my predicament. I was leaned back in my OPC. The controller that could fold up my OPC to sitting position, allowing me to get up out of the chair, was out of reach. My arm was not long enough to touch the floor and remote, no matter how much I leaned over the side. It's not like a regular recliner, with a handle on the side to collapse it. Or an old-style recliner where you can just squeeze with your legs to fold in the footrest.

Sweet Gummi Mary! Farmer H would not be back for 10 nine days. My cell phone can't call out from the subterranean level of the basement. It can text, but who's going to wake up and answer a text at 1:00 a.m.? Certainly not my sister the ex-mayor's wife. The Pony, possibly, but him being nine hours away in Norman, Oklahoma, was not going to help me. Even if he called Farmer H, who was also there. Even if The Pony could have called Sis, she had no way to get into the Mansion.

There's a house phone sitting in a charger on the lamp table. Where I coudn't reach it. No matter. That receiver is dead. Can't make a call, can't take a call.

What in the Not-Heaven was I going to do? Lie there and decompose, to be found by Farmer H 10 nine days later, covered in feasting millipedes?

Lucky for Mrs. HM, she has an itchy back. On that lamp table was my trusty red wooden backscratcher, that one of the boys had given me for Christmas years ago. And I could REACH IT!

I think I held my breath AND darted my tongue out one side of my mouth as I fished with the curved, carved wooden fingers of my red backscratcher to scoop under that remote control's wire, balance it just right, and lift it within reach.

I DID IT!

But you knew that already...