"I have your wipes."
That's the text I received from my loving significant other yesterday after school. Such a silver-tongued Lothario is he. My wipes. Like I'm a poopy-butted baby. A drooling hunchback of questionable hygiene. A preschooler just in from making mud pies. Wipes. Indeed.
I texted him back. Even though I despise texting like Rene Zellweger as Ruby Thewes in Cold Mountain despises a floggin' rooster. Except I don't decapitate my texts and tell Nicole Kidman, "Let's put 'im in a pot!" I told Farmer H that I HOPED he was talking about my windshield wipers for T-Hoe. The wipers that he had tried to replace the day before, with wipers that did not fit.
Farmer H was sure they would fit. He told me so as he entered the garage. "I just picked them up. Of course they'll fit. Yes, I'm sure. Or Steve gave me the wrong ones. But it says on the receipt they're for a 2008 Tahoe."
They didn't fit.
"Huh. Steve has some explaining to do. I'll go by tomorrow and return them."
The second-time-around wipers fit T-Hoe like two rubbery thin gloves. My windshield was spotless this morning in the rain. According to Farmer H, the AC DELCO wiper blades were different, because he didn't specify if they were early-model or late-model. Huh. Good think he took a picture of the faulty wipers with his phone, because Steve didn't want to believe him, and said they WERE the right wipers. I guess he was schooled by Farmer H. Better him than me.
Mrs. Hillbilly Mom. She has trouble finding wipes to fit her.