My Discomfort Over My Comforter

When Farmer H decided to take my SPECIAL WEDDING QUILT for possible repairs of the tatterment that he'd inflicted along the top edge... he wanted to replace it on the bed with my comforter.

 

"Where's that comforter we used to have on the bed? Pony? Is that in the hall closet?"

 

"I think so."

 

"Wait a minute! You tore up my SPECIAL WEDDING QUILT! I don't want you to put my comforter on the bed and tear IT up next!"

 

"It's OUR comforter, HM."

 

"No. It's mine. I had it before we got married. We only used it for a little while in the middle of winter, at the old house, when Genius was a baby. I got it when I worked at the insurance salvage store! It was a brand new return, in the boxcar lot we bought from JC Penney."

 

"Whatever."

 

"No, it's not whatever! I've learned that what's yours is yours, what's ours is yours, and what's MINE is ours! I like my comforter. I don't want it ruined by your breather hose. We can use that blanket that's on the bed. The gray one you put ON TOP of the quilt, but shoved it over on my side every night."

"I don't want to use that blanket. It's too hot."

SERIOUSLY? In what universe is a blanket hotter than a comforter? That comforter is all soft and fluffy and full of comforting stuffing, and 10 times warmer than a thin gray blanket.

Farmer H only wants to use it because it's MINE! What did HE sleep under before we were married? Let's use THAT!

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I need to look in the hall closet. I DID have an older comforter, which is white with brown plaid, that I wouldn't mind using. It's not real big, though. I had it in college, so it's probably a full size, not queen. The comforter that's a bone of contention is queen size, and a multi-colored gray plaid on white background.

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A Real Jackhole

Farmer H sent me a picture on Tuesday. You never know what you're going to get from him. In this case, it was a picture he took of a real Jackhole.

When the weather is REALLY, REALLY cold, I ask to bring the dogs in. Not to sleep in our bed under a ratty SPECIAL WEDDING QUILT, but in the basement, in the workshop, where they can slumber in a crate on an old towel. Nope. Farmer H decrees no dogs in the house. The only exception being during a tornado a few years back, when we couldn't entice Juno inside.

Anyhoo... Farmer H's logic is that Juno has an insulated house right up against the side of the Mansion, out of the wind, with a pile of cedar shavings to burrow into. Yes. That's true. Farmer H says that Jack has a house too, if he wants it, on the other end of the house, also full of cedar shavings and out of the wind, as there are two dog houses with doors facing each other, one sometimes a guest dog house for Copper Jack.

However, my little Jack does not like to sleep in a dog house. He prefers the hollowed out hole in the gravel under the Gator. Except in cold weather, when he goes to sleep over by the goat and chicken pen, now bereft of goats and chickens, but still with a metal shed holding hay.

There it is. A REAL JACKHOLE! The bed Jack has burrowed out for himself in the hay bales, surrounded by walls and under roof. He's a smart little guy, although quite stubborn. Lest you misunderstand, I'm talking about JACK.

Don't go feeling sorry for Jack. He's an outside dog. All dog. A dog's dog. He might be happy inside for ten minutes or so, to be near me, but after that, he'd be bored to tears. He'd have the legs chewed off the couches, and the recliner shredded with his spade-like paws' claws, and I daresay my CROCS wouldn't stand a chance. Farmer H's leather boots would give Jack indigestion. He's most happy running free, keeping an ear out for invaders in his kingdom.

That last part could also apply to Farmer H...

Mrs. HM Must Be A Freak

Guess what I found out on Tuesday! Okay. I'll tell you. It's not like that day a few years ago when I discovered that ENGLAND is an ISLAND! Nothing so earth-shattering and mind-boggling. And I didn't find out from a teenage Pony. This discovery was revealed by a certain relative through matrimony who happens to have been a local elected official.

I AM A FREAK!

Okay. That wasn't said in so many words. Maybe it was not so much even implied. But the result of our discussion has led me to believe this is fact.

We'll call my enlightener XM. I think you know why. Last fall, XM had the VIRUS. I don't dispute that. He was ill, and had the test, which showed a positive result. I haven't really talked to him since then, until Tuesday, when I stopped by the house to drop off something. There's another story there that will show up someplace.

Anyhoo... as I sat in Dirty Dirty T-Hoe, chatting with XM, talk turned to his illness. At the time, I'd been in telephone contact with his wife my relative, who relayed that XM wasn't feeling all that bad, but had isolated himself in their camper. Don't you worry about XM! It had all the amenities of home. It's not like he lived in a camper shell mounted on the back of a pickup truck.

Anyhoo... XM said that his illness was way different from a cold.

"I lost my taste and smell! It was terrible. I was cooking something in the microwave, and saw smoke, and I had to wonder, 'Is that just steaming? Or is it on fire?' I couldn't tell! I couldn't smell a thing. If the house had been on fire, I couldn't have smelled it."

"Oh. I lose my taste and smell every time I have a cold. It IS terrible! And by that I mean the TASTE part! I hate it when I can't taste my food."

"This was so much worse! When I have a cold, I can always blow my nose, and get a whiff of smells. And be able to taste."

"WHAT? I can't!"

The conversation took a turn to other events of his quarantine, so I let it go. But I couldn't help dwelling on that revelation as I drove home.

Doesn't EVERYONE lose taste and smell with a cold? Or am I the only FREAK that it happens to? I don't want to doubt XM. I fully believe he was sick with the VIRUS. But it blows my mind that when he has a regular cold, he can blow his nose and get his taste and smell back! Is that possible?

See, the way it goes for me, and believe me, I had more that my fair share of colds during my first 10 years of teaching... I always lose those senses on about day 3-4 of a cold. The snot goes from runny and drippy to where it stays in my nose, but my sinuses are clogged. I have that muffled way of speaking. I have to chew with my mouth open to breathe.

Even after I start to feel better on about day 6 or 7, the stuffiness stays. I might get to where I can breathe through my nose. But my sinuses are still swollen. No smell or taste. THAT'S when it's so frustrating. I consider my cold to be over, but I can't enjoy my food again. Sometimes it's 12 days or a little more, from the onset of the sniffles, before I can smell and taste.

Believe you me, I've tried everything! Blowing my nose being first on the list. It doesn't make me able to taste and smell, although it may get rid of some clogging snot. It's the swelled sinuses. I've had a modicum of success with eating SALSA or FRANKS ORIGINAL RED HOT SAUCE before each bite of food. It doesn't fully bring back all the levels of taste, but I can usually tell what I'm eating. That works over half the time, but not every time.

Surely EVERYBODY loses taste and smell for a few days during a cold. Again, I'm not calling XM a liar. I fully believe he had the VIRUS and was ill from it. HOWEVER... if he can regain taste and smell during a regular cold from simply blowing his nose, he's a MEDICAL MIRACLE!

Or else I'm a FREAK.

It Takes A Teacher Eye To Keep A Farmer Nose Clean

Mrs. HM has a roving eye. Not a roving eye that seeks a secret paramour for clandestine dalliances. As Farmer H's friend Buddy's wife used to say, when he accused her of such glances: "I already have YOU. Why in the NOT-HEAVEN would I want another one?" It was not a compliment.

No, Mrs. HM's roving eye is her Teacher Eye. Not the Stinkeye, which is also a vital tool in the teacher's toolbox, used to restore order without saying a word. The Teacher Eye is almost all-seeing. It susses a situation in a second. Can detect anything hinky that might lead to shenanigans. It's like ESP, but not all that extra. A seasoned teacher scopes out a venue without conscious thought.

Mrs. HM may be retired, but she has not lost her teacher edge.

I went into the laundry room Monday evening, to remove some delicious crispy FREE chicken patties from the mini freezer. ALAS! They looked like the delicious crispy chicken patties, but they were sausage patties! Nevermind. They can be eaten on a bun and taste delicious in their own way. This is not a tale of mistaken identity in frozen chicken patties. The Teacher Eye had more pressing matters which needed attending.

Something was off. I knew it the minute I stepped through the louvered door from the kitchen. AHA! The spigots to the washer were in the ON position. We turn them off after washing a load of clothes. Buddy had a flooding incident in his almost-new house, because one of his water lines to his washer exploded while he and his wife were at work. The same thing had happened overnight in my $17,000 house. So Farmer H decreed when we moved into the Mansion that we would always turn off the water spigots unless actively washing a load of clothes. No big deal. A habit of 23 years now.

 

Of course I stepped over to the washer to turn them off. It had been three days since I did laundry. The Pony did his the day after. And Farmer H had been in and out of there on Sunday, his laundry day. I guess he forgot. I lifted the lid of the washer. There were clothes inside! Perhaps The Pony had done another load while I was in town. I'd ask when he came out for (the disappointing chicken-patty-less) supper.

 

While the sausage patties were warming in the oven, and before I sliced the onion and pickles that Farmer H still wanted, even on sausage, I asked HIM.

 

"Did you do some laundry? Do you have something in the washer?"

 

"No."

 

"The water was turned on, and the washer is full of what looks like a load of jeans."

 

"Oh. Well. I guess I forgot to put them in the dryer."

 

"Today?"

 

"No. Last night. I wondered this morning when I put on my jeans. 'These ain't the jeans I planned on wearing...' I guess I better go put them in the dryer!"

 

"I turned off the water. But you might want to run them through a cycle again if they've been there all night. Sometimes they sour if you leave them 24 HOURS in the washer! I didn't smell anything bad when I lifted the lid, though."

 

"They smell all right. I'm putting them in the dryer."

 

Thank the Gummi Mary we didn't have a plumbing flood! Perhaps Even Steven banished his French Cousin Unfair Robert to our other 10 acres up on the hill for the night. 

 

The Teacher Eye. The Farmer Nose. It all comes out in the wash.

Early To Bed, Too Early To Rise, Makes A Farmer Subject To Hundreds Of Whys

Daylight Savings Time has returned! Saturday night, I set back the clock in my office, and the clock in the basement living area. I knew my phone would update itself. I'd have to check upstairs to see what Farmer H deigned to reset. There's no rhyme nor reason to it. 

I was still wide awake, watching a DVR of Tough As Nails, the reality competition on CBS Wednesday nights, when I heard Farmer H stumping through the kitchen at 5:45 a.m. I heard the laundry room door. The back door. The water running in the laundry room sink for the pitcher to fill the dogs' water bowl. Then the kitchen door slam as Farmer H left! At 5:50 a.m.!

That was a little strange. Even for Farmer H. He leaves for the Storage Unit Store so he can be there by 8:00. Sometimes a little earlier, so he can get his not-quite-clandestine Casey's donuts. But 5:50 a.m.???

I went to bed around 6:00. Still dark outside. When I got back from town, I brought up the topic with The Pony.

"Do you know why Dad left so early this morning? It was before 6:00!"

"I heard him. I don't know why. He didn't mention anything."

"Maybe he wanted to run by the Devil's Playground first. He mentioned something about picking up some Diet Mountain Dew himself, while he was in there, in case you weren't going for a few days. Maybe he went to see if they had any of those bullets that they'll only sell one box at a time. Maybe he has a buyer for them today."

Later in the evening, as I was getting supper ready, I asked Farmer H himself.

"WHY did you leave before 6:00? It was still dark!"

"Well. I messed up. I set my clock before I went to bed."

"How can that make you leave an hour early? You set it AHEAD, right? Spring ahead, fall back. When you left at 5:50, it was actually 4:50 a.m. in yesterday's time!"

"I know. I got up around 5:30 to go to the bathroom. I came back and laid down and looked at the clock. It was going on 6:00, but I thought it was going on 7:00. I didn't remember setting my alarm clock. So I thought it was actually going on 7:00 with the time change! I didn't realize the real time until I was in the shower. Then I was already ready to leave. So I did."

"And WHO says that I can't remember anything? I don't remember stuff you convolutedly explain to me, but I'm SURE I could remember setting my clock!"

I guess Farmer H was kind of lonely sitting at his Storage Unit Store waiting for sunrise. Oh, yeah. He'd set the bathroom clock. But he left the living room clock and the microwave clock for me.

The Universe Has Been Busy Conspiring

Contrary French Cousin Unfair Robert reared his antagonistic head Saturday.

Starting around 4:15.

 

THE INTERNET WENT OFF!!! 

 

Of course that was right after I sat down with my lupper of fried chicken and a salad. It coincided with the exact moment I heard Farmer H’s tread on the basement steps. Or perhaps it’s just a coincident that I noticed the outage at that time. I’d been watching a YouTube video (a slot machine player), and it stopped. I thought it was just being cantankerous about loading, even though I play back at 240. Nothing extravagant. 

 

Anyhoo… I hollered through the wall to King Farmer H, who was in the counting house, counting out his money. He declared that he had no idea why the internet was off. I tried to text The Pony, but my texts wouldn’t send. So as Farmer H went back upstairs, I told him to ask The Pony about the internet.  

 

“It’s off. When it went down, I just came out to make my supper.”  

 

“Is the weather bad? Is it down from the weather?” 

 

“Hmm. The sky is cloudy. Looks like rain, but no rain yet.”  

 

Well. Sometimes that happens. I let it go. Got out a DVD to watch on New Delly. Every now and then I gave the internet a try. Sometimes it worked. Briefly. Off and on. All night. At 11:30, I got sick of it, and went to unplug the router and the DISH satellite that gives us internet. It worked long enough to load a couple pages. Then down again. Not sure if it’s the weather. MY BILL IS PAID! 

 

I was quite displeased to see, upon entering the workshop for the unplugging, that the big hose for the dryer vent is hanging down where my head will hit it. AND there’s new junk piled in front of the wooden workshop bench where I lean to the wall to reach the electrical outlet. A cedar chest. The big box that the Christmas tree (still up!) goes in, some assorted DVD players, two baseballs, and a camouflage soft gun case.

 

In fact, there’s a week’s worth of stuff to discuss with Farmer H during “This is the time of day we talk about the most recent thing you’ve done wrong.”

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I used my down time to type this up in WORD. I figured I might as well try the troubleshooter for the eleventeenth time. No solution. Just no internet connection. THEN I decided to give my old stand-by a shot. SYSTEM RESTORE! Funny how an update had occurred the DAY BEFORE, at 3:55 p.m. Almost as if my internet problems started 24 hours after that update....

 

For a couple days, New Delly had been saying something had stopped working. So I did a restart, and it was normal again. But now I saw that ANOTHER update had happened on March 8. SO... I chose the last update point (March 2) from before my issues started. Uh huh. I closed out everything. Was ready for my final click to start the system restore... when I noticed the hateful yellow triangle was gone from my internet icon!

Yep. I threatened a SYSTEM RESTORE, and New Delly shaped right up. I'm pretty sure that's a coincidence...

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On To The A-Cad Complaint Department

Of course Farmer H was the driver of A-Cad on our trip to the casino. He managed to stay within the wake-up bumps most of the journey! Maybe his equilibrium was off. Anyhoo... the drive down wasn't too stressful. He even unwrapped his own Sausage Egg McMuffin at 75 mph, and didn't scare me. I usually do that task for him, FOR MY OWN SAFETY, but he couldn't wait until I was done with my phone.

We arrived without incident. Farmer H dropped The Pony and me off at the door, then went to make his merchandise-buying rounds. Of course he is always on the lookout for firearms and ammunition. But this time, he bought over $100 worth of FISHING POLES. A-Cad was stuffed to the gills when we left the casino. The poles were loaded from A-Cad's hatch, but stuck up through the seats, beside The Pony. He was not thrilled with his riding companions on the trip home.

"Look out, Mom. Don't reach back for a tissue or the wastebasket, because you'll get hooked."

"There's no hooks on them fishing poles."

"If you say so."

We meandered back through town to the highway. We didn't see Her Majesty the Queen in the back seat of a small sedan this time. Back on the road, I mentioned that I was having vision issues.

"I can't seem to focus sometimes. Even with my glasses. I could hardly see to scratch my lottery tickets last night! And I have to lean really close to my computer."

"You know you have a cataract. You need to get that taken care of."

"He said it wasn't that bad."

"Mom. They change."

"Oh. Now you know all about cataracts? Such an interesting topic for one so young."

"They DO change, HM. The doctor says they can't do surgery on them until they're ripe. That's what they told your grandma."

"EWW! Can we NOT talk about ripe cataracts? Just don't. I'd take a nap, but I might wake up blind. Sometimes it's worse after I close my eyes."

"Well, they shift around. All you need is eye drops a few days before. Then they do the surgery in the office. And you have an eye patch for a day. And more drops. And then you're fine. Buddy (of the Badly Blacktopped Hill) just got his done. He was home in three hours."

"Enough. I'm done talking. I've having a nap."

This is the most boring stretch of road ever. On the way there, I am excited at the prospect of gambling and lunch. But on the way back, it's mind-numbingly boring. The Pony won't talk. He puts music in his ears, and texts or does laptop stuff. Farmer H is not a scintillating conversationalist. We have to listen to a country music radio station. So I try to sleep from mile marker 110 to 154. It's quite refreshing if I can pull it off. Usually, I cannot.

 

Ah. I was snoozing like Rip Van Winkle when it happened. 

 

I WAS CATAPULTED FORWARD LIKE A BUBONIC-PLAGUE-RIDDEN CORPSE OVER A CASTLE WALL DURING THE MIDDLE AGES!

Too bad those corpses didn't have seatbelts. I stopped short on my tether, and avoided crashing through A-Cad's windshield.

"What in the NOT-HEAVEN? I hope you bought a defibrillator at the pawn shop. My heart is stopped. My kneecaps slid down my shins. And I think you popped off my cataract!"

"Oh, HM. You're so dramatic. I didn't do nothin'. Just barely tapped the brake to take off the cruise control. To let this big truck in. But he didn't go."

"Um. Dad? There ARE hooks in some of these fishing poles. I can see them now that they shifted."

Yeah. Farmer H, not paying attention. Probably looking at his phone, driving on cruise control in the fast lane, not allowing for the ebb and flow of traffic. Just riding along at the rear corner of a double-trailer UPS semi for miles, keeping him from changing lanes to get around slower traffic.

I guess I'm lucky that I wasn't pierced by a fishing pole, and snagged by the hook...