I'm Not Saying He's Turning Into One, But Evidence Is Not On His Side

Could Farmer H be slowing getting in touch with his feminine side?

You know how...um...pardon me for being indelicate again...so unladylike of me...but... well...remember that time Farmer H had a hemorrhoid? He still has it. In fact, just like his doctor nurse practitioner told him, it resolved itself on its own. Kind of. I don't think it's actually resolved yet. Anyhoo...after a week or so of hearing him moan and groan and limp and sit gingerly upon his rumpus, you recall, Farmer H summoned me to the shower one evening to "take a look at it." Which I declined.

Have you ever seen the movie Carrie? From the Stephen King book? The original Carrie, with Sissy Spacek and Piper Laurie? Do you remember how it starts? With that locker room scene, all foggy and these-days-inappropriate, with Carrie herself in the shower, discovering her menses? I swear, that is what this reminded me of! Farmer H thought he was bleeding to death! From a hemorrhoid!

Sweet Gummi Mary! This is why men don't have babies. They truly are the weaker sex. They can't handle a little blood loss. Farmer H put a towel on the cushion of his La-Z-Boy. He strapped up with stick-on feminine hygiene products that he rummaged around under the bathroom sink for. Not that I need them anymore, of course. Good thing for him I was prepared for those little surprises that sometimes happen, or he'd have been plugging up with something more invasive.

Anyhoo...Farmer H continued to complain that he was bleeding to death. He didn't go anywhere without his "diaper" as he called it, and he spread a towel down on the mattress at bedtime. I reminded him that he takes a daily aspirin, and that makes the blood clot slower. Also, every time he said he was going in the bathroom to "try to poop," I had to remind him that he should probably drink more fluids and eat more fiber, because sitting there on the toilet trying to make the magic happen was not helping his hemorrhoid heal.

I think maybe things in the rumpus department are on the mend, because I don't hear daily anymore about how Farmer H is bleeding to death. He doesn't curtail his activities, and the towel has been washed and folded and he doesn't haul it around like Linus's blanket. He spends all day getting stuff set out in his storage container store. So I don't think I'll need to order a tombstone any time soon.

Farmer H mentioned that he needs something to keep his money in at the flea market. He has to get small bills for change, and he doesn't need his wallet to explode like George Costanza's when he put that tear-off strip for free guitar lessons in there. I looked for a money bag at The Devil's Playground the last two trips. Apparently, The Devil doesn't want us to accumulate money. There was nary a one in either of the two stores.

Wednesday, I found Farmer H the next best thing to a money bag. It's a makeup bag! I resisted the urge to get the pink-and-silver glitzy one. I brought him basic black. You can still tell that it's a makeup bag, not a money bag. But it'll get the job done.

I don't know if I should tell Farmer H about the pink-and-silver bag. He might've preferred it.