The Functioning Idiot

I don't like to call Farmer H names, unless it's in jest, in an over-the-top exaggeration (as opposed to an insufficient exaggeration). He knows a lot of technical stuff that I can't fathom. But when it comes to common sense, Farmer H is sorely lacking. I often question how he has survived into elderlyhood, with some of the antics I've observed.

Tuesday morning, Farmer H started down to the basement at 6:00 a.m.

"While you're down there, would you bring up my old red Crocs? They're in my office. Just knock the dust off of them."

Farmer H did as asked. There's a small victory! Baby steps.

"You can set them anywhere. I'm going to wash them in the sink. The ones I have on have been hurting my heels."

There's my mistake. I should never have told Farmer H to put them "anywhere." I thought he would set them behind the short couch, where my other shoes are. But no.

Farmer H put my old red Crocs by the glass case that holds my grandma's two sets of dishes she gave me. The red depression glass, and the china. That case is at the end of the piano in the hall that leads to the boys' bathroom. At the area where the living room turns into the kitchen. There's nothing there for me to hold onto to balance myself while leaning over precariously to pick them up. Or even to step into them, if I hadn't been planning to wash them.

"Um. That's not a good place. I don't want to fall into that glass and break it. Maybe you could set them in the kitchen, by the wastebasket."

Farmer H went off to the kitchen. I didn't turn to watch. After he'd left, and I was ready to go take my meds and wash dishes (BEFORE the Crocs, of course!) I saw where Farmer H had put them.

ON THE CUTTING BLOCK!

That's right. Filthy Crocs that had been in the basement for three years, soles black, dust bunnies attached, sitting on the paper towel I use to dry my hands, on the cutting block.

Farmer H is a functioning idiot. That's all I have to say.