Like a steady drip
can erode solid rock over the centuries, I'm pretty sure Farmer H is
trying to erode my sanity by planting minuscule ideas in my noggin.
Slipping them in there, passing through the scraggles of my lovely
lady-mullet, vibrating through my hammer-anvil-stirrup apparatus, until
my brain stores them for later perusal.
We went to
lunch with my best old ex-teaching buddy Mabel on Thursday. When we
returned home, Farmer H stopped A-Cad down by Mailbox Row to get our
mail out of EmBee. Genius had sent two packages, which were in the
lockbox. Just envelope packages, not boxes. Farmer H handed them to me.
"It's not the package you've been looking for, but they have your name on them."
"I
don't know. Genius said they'd be arriving today. I can't read the
address, because my glasses are in the case, in my purse, and I just
jammed the envelope mail in there."
"You can't
read THAT? You used to be able to read that without your glasses. Have
your eyes gotten that bad? Didn't the doctor say you had cataracts?
Maybe you need to get them looked at. That's why you can't see. You have
cataracts."
"LOOK at the size of that print. Seriously? You think I can read that? I've worn bifocals for 15 years."
"I have bifocals too. But I can read that without them."
"This size?"
"Well. Not from over here I can't. But from a normal distance I can."
I
held both envelopes up close to my face. Careful not to jab myself into
a papercut wound (thank the Gummi Mary, I'm no longer on that demon
Xarelto) as Farmer H jabbily swove A-Cad up His and Buddy's Badly
Blacktopped Hill.
"Huh. That's amazing. Because
NEITHER of these have my name on them! They're both addressed to Genius.
And besides, IF I had a cataract, wouldn't it affect my total vision,
not just my up-close vision?"
"Not necessarily," said Farmer H. Ignoring the fact that his bionic eye had not actually read my name in the fine print of the address label.
I wonder if he has a cataract...
2 comments:
A cataract? Or a contract? out on you!
Be very careful if he suddenly starts buying bags of concrete and asking what your boot size is.
River,
AHA! Farmer H is bandying words that might disclose his evil plot! I'm sure he has some bags of concrete stashed in the BARn or his expensive yet useless garage. He knows my boot size because he wears my shoes! His tiny feet were encased in a pair of my black sneakers when we had lunch with my best old ex-teaching buddy Mabel. I know I've mentioned how he STEALS MY CROCS to walk outside, when he has a pair of his own right in front of the La-Z-Boy.
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