Pretty Sure I Have Enough Material For A Series

I realize Farmer H has been sick lately. And he might be feeling a bit out of sorts. So I'm cutting him a break on his buttholey behavior this week.

HA HA HA HA HA HA!

Excuse me. My ribs are hurting, and my liver-spotted, paper-thin old lady skin has picked up assorted crumbs of Chex, crispy Gas Station Chicken batter, and mud from the floor as I rolled around belly-laughing. Whew! Let me peel this used Bounce dryer sheet off my back. There.

You know that Mrs. Hillbilly Mom is not one to hold back her feelings where Farmer H is concerned. No siree, Bob! Mrs. HM is not one to let resentment smolder like sneaky coals waiting to re-ignite a house fire after the firemen have departed. Not one to bury her resentment like a bandit concealing his ill-gotten fortune for later retrieval by his cronies. Not one to hide her resentment like an ostrich sticking its head in the sand. Mrs. HM lets her resentment flag fly!

That's right. I'm kind of like Dr. Pimple Popper, except I don't have my own TV show. But if I did, I'd call it Mrs. Hillbilly Mom, Resentment Releaser. Because I prod and squeeze and let my resentment burst into the light of day with sometimes explosive results.

Farmer H is getting on my last nerve.

Let's start with his sickness. I know I mentioned it here or there, but facts are, Farmer H got sick on Saturday afternoon with vomiting and diarrhea. He had been touching buttons in the casino on Thursday afternoon, and made a visit to his doctor's office for a shot on Friday afternoon. I suggested that he'd picked up a virus at one of those places. The timing was right, and I know Farmer H doesn't wash his hands regularly. Yet Farmer H insisted that he'd gotten food poisoning from BAD CHEESE that was in FRIG II. Shredded cheddar, with an expiration date in April, that I had been eating for several days with no digestive problems.

NOW, Farmer H dares to accuse ME of making him sick. "You go out to all kinds of convenience stores! How do I know YOU didn't bring something home and breathe it on me while I sleep? And all this (Farmer H mocked me clearing my throat, in a much-exaggerated manner). How many times have YOU made me sick?"

Um. None that I recall. I sleep on my left side, back to Farmer H, my breath going AWAY from him. And it probably wouldn't work its way down under the quilt over his head, or inside the breather mask over his gaping maw and snout, either. Besides...I'm not even sick.

Farmer H never takes responsibility for ANYTHING! Not even making himself sick with questionable hygiene practices. Sweet Gummi Mary! You'd think I tracked down a vial of prime diarrhea/nausea virus, and injected it into Farmer H's veins while he slept.

Also, I went to wash a load of laundry, and upon checking the dryer lint trap, which I do each time, I found a sheet of fluff that was thicker than a comforter! I peeled it loose, and took it to show Farmer H, laying on the lint trap screen. The fluff. Not Farmer H. He was sitting on the long couch with his boots full of mud propped on the coffee table.

"You do know how these things work, right?"

"Yes. I know how they work."

"I guess you just don't bother to empty it, then. Look at all that!"

"I empty it every time."

See? He thinks that by SAYING something is so...that MAKES it so.

THEN he had to bring up the cheese. Different cheese than the shredded cheddar that allegedly poisoned HIM, but not me.

"Just the other day, I would have thought the pepper jack was good if I hadn't looked at it! I got it out for my sandwich, and there was MOLD!"

Said accusingly. AS IF I should do a daily inventory of FRIG II. Take out the pepper jack that only Farmer H eats, and look it over with a magnifying glass to see if mold is starting to grow. As if you can tell, anyway, with all the peppers in that cheese. Besides, cheese is MADE by growing mold, right? And how about the EATER of the cheese be the one to determine its suitability for eating? Huh? How about THAT? Because that's kind of what adults do, right? Look at their food as they are preparing it. To see if it's okay.

Cheese doesn't come with an alarm to alert you the second it goes bad, so you can throw it out. Seriously. He acted like I bought some moldy cheese in a back alley, and prepared a sandwich for him on purpose, and then he happened to check it, and discovered that it was moldy! How in the world is it MY fault that cheese only he eats will grow mold if he leaves it there long enough without telling me it's time for new cheese?

That now concludes this episode of Mrs. Hillbilly Mom, Resentment Releaser. Tune in next week, or be on the lookout for a breaking news bulletin.