Revenge Would Be So Easy, But Mrs. HM Is Not A Vindictive Woman

While Farmer H was out and about Monday morning, he went to get me some larger bandaids to cover my door-slammed leg. It's not a big wound. Maybe a quarter-inch of a little hole, and a scratch. T-Hoe's door was not as bloodthirsty as that of A-Cad, which left a deep gouge of more than two inches long, and an inch wide. So this owie doesn't require a large bandaid to cover it. We already had some 2 x 4 inch bandaids that I got at Country Mart, to cover the place on Farmer H's rumpus where the incision was made to insert the shocker thingy he got a month or so ago.

Farmer H returned from town, bearing bags and boxes and pouches. He had a skin thingy excised from his shoulder, and his doctor gave him gauze squares and tape. He was sure to state:

"Them are for me. For my shoulder. We have to change it every day. But I got you some bigger bandaids. They're 4 x 8."

That sounded awfully large! How would I even have him apply it? Across my calf? Up and down? I picked up the box to look at it.

"Um. These are NOT 8 inches! They're 2 7/8 inch by 4 inch. So barely bigger than the ones we already have two boxes of."

"Are you sure? Huh. I guess that must have been the OTHER box I picked up..."

Which is not a tragedy. I don't need an 8-inch bandaid. These will cover it, but won't be any different than the others. It will cover, and then get sodden, and peel off. So I'm not faulting Farmer H with his purchase, but only with his inattentiveness to detail. In case size might have mattered.

Here's the bone I have to pick. After my shower, and before I headed to town, Farmer H put a bandaid on my leg for me. He could have been ready. I told him I'd be out of the shower at 2:30, and he said he was leaving at 2:45 to meet a guy at his old storage locker for something. Yet when I went to the living room at 2:30, Farmer H was still in his recliner. Nothing ready.

"You know we always need a paper towel, to make sure the area around it is dry so the bandaid with stick."

"I'll go get one."

"And the ointment."

"It's already here on the table, from doing my hip this morning."

So... I stretched out my leg while leaning on the marred coffee table. It seemed to take Farmer H forever to rip open the bandaid, put on ointment, dab at my leg skin, and then position the bandaid. Sill, all was going fine, until...

"YOUCH!"

"That didn't hurt you."

"I think I'M the judge of what hurts me! You pushed RIGHT ON THE HOLE!"

"No I didn't. I was smoothing the edge."

"I think I know where you pushed, and how it hurt! You always do that! Push RIGHT IN THE MIDDLE OF THE INJURY!"

"No I don't."

Yes. He does. I guess he thinks he has to pat in the middle of the bandaid to make it stick. I don't know his motives. I'm pretty sure it's not malicious intent. Just stupidity.

I could really make his life miserable, poking the center of his shoulder incision, or that rumpus thingy that is not looking right. (Farmer H has an appointment Wednesday for that.)

Good thing I'm not vindictive.