Must Farmer H Ruin EVERY LITTLE THING?

The school which bestowed my valedictorianship, and where my sister the ex-mayor's wife retired, and where her daughter currently teaches...has been in the news. That's NOT a good thing. It's because some students took pictures of BEDBUGS crawling on the floor, and on a backpack!

That happened a couple weeks ago. The school notified the parents. Their stance is that the building is disinfected nightly, and that a concentrated effort is made in the area the bedbugs were sighted. Of course the parents are up in arms. I don't know the best solution here.

The school can't call in an exterminator every day. I have a feeling that the bedbugs are not so much a problem of the school, as of the students who carried them in. What are the odds that the students' homes are being disinfected to the extent of the school? Not odds that I would place a bet on. And I'm a GAMBLER, by cracky!

I imagine some people will point the finger at some disadvantaged students. While in reality, it might be some more advantaged students, who perhaps went on a trip over Christmas vacation, and picked them up unknowingly on a cruise or at a hotel.

Anyhoo...just one more reason why I am pleased as punch to be RETIRED!

Here's the deal. In our daily current events chat, Farmer H and I were discussing the bedbugs. Farmer H said,

"I googled them. They look like LADYBUGS!"

"They do NOT!"

"Have you ever seen them?"

"I have seen pictures of them. They had them on the website where I read the story. I saw the actual picture of the backpack, and the floor."

"They do TOO look like LADYBUGS! Here. Look at this!"

Farmer H shoved his phone under my nose. About six views of bedbugs.

"They don't look ANYTHING like a ladybug! First of all, they're elongated, not rounded--"

"That's when they're EMPTY! When they're full, they look like LADYBUGS!"

"NO. They DON'T! They're BROWN, not red or orange. And they have SEGMENTS on their hard shell part, not spots! They're not even the same shape!"

"They look EXACTLY like LADYBUGS!"

What a crackpot! Now he's trying to insinuate that my special friend, the ladybug, is actually a bedbug!

Farmer H is definitely the pooper at this party. If you know what I mean...

The Shaming

You know how in the opening credits of The Shining, you wind along those twisty mountain roads, with no guardrails to save you, toward the Overlook Hotel, with that ominous music playing?

Well, today you're going to wind through my convoluted story, no yard sales to save you, toward the overlooked brain cell that had been keeping Farmer H's poop off the toilet seat, with your own screams playing the only tune in your head.

Now is the time to bail out if you're not strong enough for the journey...

Farmer H had been on fairly good behavior since he threw a fit a few weeks ago, and I stopped doing any of the myriad of underappreciated jobs that make his life more cushy. No picking up after him, no shopping, no cooking, no cleaning his dried poop off the toilet seat. It only took him a week to see the error of his ways. I think he saw the light when I asked how that laundry tantrum 30 years ago had worked out for him. HM don't play.

Anyhoo...Farmer H started doing more things for himself, trying to get back in my good graces. Until Friday morning, he had either gone without pooping for a month, or had been cleaning up his own mess. You can bet that I brought up the issue during his pre-auction meal.

"I'm pretty sure you're not constipated, because the evidence is on the toilet seat. I am NOT cleaning it off."

"There you go. You must have run out of other things to complain about, because now you're on me again."

"Don't EVEN sit there and act like I'M the one who's unreasonable. Normal people don't leave their poop on a toilet seat! Why should I be the one to clean it up? It's YOUR poop! Even animals don't sit in their own poop. Cleaning it up is a basic human behavior."

"Huh. When I go in there, I guess I'll look at it."

"I don't know how you can miss it! Here's an idea. Since you're always twisting around and popping that one screw thingy loose, why don't you just pop the whole toilet seat off and take it in the shower with you? You know, since you say you just get in the shower to wash your butt after you poop. That way, you can wash your butt AND the toilet seat. Problem solved."

"I don't know where you get these crazy ideas."

"Uh, I am NOT the one who's crazy. I'm not cleaning that seat. I'll sit in it over and over again. I'm NOT cleaning it. It's probably half gone already, because I've sat on it so many times today. But YOU'LL be sitting on it, too! Sitting on your own poop. Because I am NOT cleaning it! I need to go right now, but I'll just hold it until I get back downstairs."

Sometimes, you've gotta go a little crazy to make a point. The toilet seat was clean the next time I went in there.

The Jabby Codger

Farmer H needs to give up that pipe dream of me being gentle while moving his arm off my pillow when I go to bed!

Wednesday night (early Thursday morning, actually, around 4:00 a.m.) when I felt to make sure there was no arm lying in wait for me...I deduced that the coast was clear. I settled down for a short winter's nap, on my left side, facing away from the (perhaps coronavirus) spewing breather of Farmer H. He seemed to be on his back, so not a direct spray, but more of a settling mist. I pulled the quilt up over the side of my head, to prevent any droplets from invading my brain through my ear canal.

JAB! JAB! JAB!

What in the NOT-HEAVEN? A pointy object pounded against my spine, right between my shoulder blades.

JAB! JAB! JAB!

I sighed heavily. It continued.

JAB! JAB! JAB!

I twisted away. Just out of reach. But that was uncomfortable. Like my boobage was crushing my lungs, like a sponge being squeezed of dishwater. I had to lean back onto my side.

JAB! JAB! JAB!

I grumbled and mumbled. No reaction. I swear, I wanted to grab that arm and fold it backwards at the elbow joint. Let Farmer H try jabbing with a broken chicken wing! But I didn't. I endured.

I either fell asleep to the rhythmic jabbing, or fell unconscious. When I awoke 90 minutes later, the jabbing had stopped.

When confronted later that afternoon, Farmer H denied all accusations of jabbing.

"Huh. I sure don't remember doing that. You might THINK it happened. But it wasn't me."

Sure it wasn't.

Something Tells Me Farmer H Is Not Meant To Have Saver Points

Oh my gosh! The saga of Farmer H's quest for Casey's saver points continues!

Tuesday, I stopped by the School-Turn Casey's on the way to get a copy of The Pony's birth certificate. I went inside with the sole purpose of buying scratchers. I didn't take my $25 worth of winners to cash in. No siree, Bob! I took a twenty dollar bill, and bought four tickets. I'd cash in those winners later when I got my magical elixir at the Gas Station Chicken Store.

I was confident. Smug, even. Knowing that I was outsmarting Casey's, making that cash purchase to get Farmer H's points. I waited until the clerk was ringing up the tickets. The ENTER thingy came on for the phone number to punch in for points. I put in my own phone number for Farmer H's account. I pushed enter. I even asked for the receipt.

"Okay. We're good." Said the clerk, meaning I should get on out of there.

"Can I have my receipt, please? To show my husband that I entered his points?"

She gave me a funny look, and then handed me the receipt. I didn't have my glasses on, and just glanced at it. I saw Farmer H's name at the bottom. So I knew the points had gone into his account.

After the birth certificate, and mailing it in a small package at the main post office, I proceeded to the Sis-Town Casey's. I wanted to get two more tickets, to put in Genius's letter this week. New tickets came out on Monday. I like to get them at the beginning, because I think they put a lot of winners up front, to entice people to buy them all month.

Anyhoo...I went inside, and I'll be darned if it wasn't that wench who said she was putting in my gas and scratcher points last week, and DID NOT. But her line was open, and she called me over. I bought two tickets. As she rang them up, I punched in my phone number. I also asked her for my receipt.

"Can I have the receipt? To see that I got my points."

She got a look on her face like, "Oh, crap!" But she gave me the receipt.

Here's the deal. When I got over to the Gas Station Chicken Store, I moved the receipts from my glasses case to my purse. But first I looked at them, with my glasses on.

The one from School-Turn Casey's showed Farmer H's name and account, but no points. I figured maybe that's how they do it. Maybe he has to look up the points online.

The receipt from Sis-Town Casey's did not show anything other than my purchase of two scratchers, and the total. Not Farmer H's name. No numbers for his account. Doggone it! That gal had done it again! I was livid! But at least the receipt had her name at the top. Heh, heh! EVIDENCE.

I explained the situation to Farmer H when he got home. He looked up his points. NONE of them went into his account! He said maybe that girl didn't know how to put the points in, and was faking it. Farmer H thinks the clerk has to push some button on the register to make them count. He said he would ask "his girls" at the Hillmomba Casey's the next morning.

WELL! According to Farmer H's girl, points are not allowed for the purchase of LOTTERY, ALCOHOL, or TOBACCO! That's poppycock! People might as well buy that stuff elsewhere, if they're not getting credit for their purchases. Besides, they HAVE given me points for lottery at that very Casey's. And why, then, could I not get credit for my GAS over at the Sis-Town Casey's?

Muddling matters even more, we got the points for lottery at the Steelville Casey's on our way home from Oklahoma.

I think Casey's has a lot of left hands who don't know that the right hands are doing.

They shall rue the day they upset Mrs. HM. When I get my gas on Friday, I'm going to pay for the gas. Enter my points. Get my receipt. Then say, "Oh, I also want to buy some scratchers." Heh, heh! They won't get me out of line that easily. They'll have to do TWO transactions, rather than one.

I'll show THEM!

Life Is Passporting Me By

Tuesday morning, I got a text from my sister the ex-mayor's wife. She asked if she could use me as an emergency contact for her passport. Of course. If she's ever locked up abroad, perhaps in a Turkish prison for sneaking pharmaceuticals (unsuccessfully) out of the country, then I'm her gal. I think, perhaps, she's more likely to need that passport when she flies to Florida for vacations. A Missouri driver's license is not good enough ID at an airport now.

Funny thing, when I got that text, I was on the way to the county health center to pick up a birth certificate for The Pony. He needs one to get a passport! He says there's an office on OU's campus that does passports. Takes the picture and everything. He just needs ID and an official birth certificate. And a social security card, and the fee, and proper paperwork. Anyhoo...it's pretty certain that The Pony will need to fly somewhere at some time, what with a degree (and hopefully career) as a chemical engineer. He's already flown to three job conferences, I think in California, and Minnesota.

Genius has a passport, because he needed one when his first employer sent him to TAIWAN on a job, during the first two months he worked for them. That was in 2018, so I know his passport is still good, and Genius can fly all willy-nilly around the country, or to any hemisphere he desires.

Farmer H still has his passport from when he was a world traveler with his old company before retirement. Germany, Switzerland, France, Wales, Brazil, New Jersey...he made the rounds! I think he said his passport is good for 12 years. So he's all set for flying if he gets the urge.

Me? I have no plans of getting a passport. I've been on a plane. No desire to get on one again. I'd have to be tranquilized! Though I don't begrudge the rest of my family their air miles.

He's KILLIN' Me, I Tell You

Yes, Farmer H is killin' me! I'm not so sure this was an actual attempt. Kind of like his antics described yesterday, when trying to throw away a soda cup.

There we were, tooling along central Oklahoma in A-Cad, when Farmer H started his rant. I'm not even sure what set him off. Perhaps he was trying to garner sympathy from The Pony in the back seat. Heh, heh! We all know what a futile attempt THAT would be! The Pony cares not for helping people.

Anyhoo...the general topic was that I am mean to Farmer H. I'll own that. He gets what he deserves. But I will NOT own this specific blame he was trying to pin on me.

"You're even mean to me when I'm sleeping!"

"I don't think so. I'm so GLAD you're sleeping...why would I do anything that might accidentally wake you?"

"When you come to bed, you do all kinds of things to my arm!"

Sweet Gummi Mary! Exactly WHAT was Farmer H insinuating? What did he think I was doing to his arm? Bending it back at the elbow, twisting the bones apart like a chicken wing? Boiling it in oil? Using it as a pincushion? Stubbing out my nighttime cigars on his flesh? Tattooing his own phone number on his forearm so he can remember his Casey's account?

"Sure. At 3:00 or 4:00 a.m., as I'm coming to bed, I want to take extra time to torture you. All I do is move your arm, because you have it stretched out across my pillow. What do you want me to do, lay down on it? I can do that."

"No."

"If I wake you and ask you to move it, then you'll be mad because I woke you. All I do is lift your arm and put it on your side of the bed."

"And you're not at all gentle about it!"

Well. That got me to laughing SO HARD that I couldn't breathe. The very idea that I should treat Farmer H's arm like it was spun glass, or a fragile container of nitroglycerin! Every time I tried to be a smartass right back to him, I was overcome with wheezy giggles. FINALLY, I was able to squeak out:

"What do you expect me to do, wrap it in cotton and gauze, and lift it with a sling made of silk?"

The Pony was smirking in the back seat. I know it's not all that funny, but you just had to be there, and see and hear Farmer H's indignation because I DARED move his arm out of the way before I lay down to sleep.

When actually I should be the one who's indignant, having my sleep space invaded by the long arm of Farmer H.

Who Knew Farmer H Could Be So Entertaining?

Sweet Gummi Mary! I laughed so hard on Saturday that I thought I was going to pass out. Farmer H was the unintentional comedian. Quite a feat, since he was born without a funny bone.

We spent the weekend with The Pony in Oklahoma. On Saturday morning, we picked him up, and he asked for a McDonald's sausage biscuit meal. Farmer H drove onto the parking lot, and saw that the drive-thru line reached around three sides of the building. He parked A-Cad, and announced that he was going inside to save time.

Farmer H came back with, of course, the wrong order. He had the sausage biscuit, and a Sprite, but no hash brown. He said the THOUGHT the price seemed awfully cheap. Then he buckled his seat belt, and backed out of the parking space. The Pony and I cut eyes at each other, but The Pony was already resigned to going without his hash brown.

Farmer H yanked the wheel over to the left, because he spotted a trash can, the kind you drive your car up to.

"I'm going to throw away my soda cup from yesterday, or your mom won't shut up about it." He told The Pony conspirator-like, even though I was sitting right there.

Farmer H wasn't quite close enough to the trash can. He put down A-Cad's window, and attempted to toss that 32 oz foam cup, with about 10 oz of Diet Mountain Dew left in it, into the snout of the trash can.

The Pony and I knew it was a futile attempt. We know our physics. Farmer H does not. That cup landed on the edge of the snout, kind of teetered there. Farmer H threw open A-Cad's door to push it in. He had one leg out of the car. But his seatbelt held him in. The cup rolled onto the edge of A-Cad's window. Got pinched between it and the trash can snout. Diet Mountain Dew spattered on A-Cad's window ledge.

Farmer H may or may not have let a curse word escape. He had to unbuckle his seatbelt and get out to pick up the foam cup.

I laughed like cartoon Muttley of Wacky Races. All wheezy and almost unable to catch my breath.

Farmer H is hilarious. Although unintentionally.