He Can't Win For Being Married To Mrs. Hillbilly Mom

Don't stow away that wood chipper just yet. The salad days of Farmer H's heroism are fini. Farmer H is done resting on his laurels. A new transgression was committed just this afternoon. Seems a leopard really can't change his spots.

Oh, sure. Farmer H was well on his way to Mother-Teresa-dom when he volunteered to drive me to town for the grocery shopping. Even though he wanted to use my T-Hoe. Okay. It's our trusty 4WD vehicle. So I guess he gets a pass on that. I even tried to hold my tongue when he did not put T-Hoe in 4WD mode to slide down and up our narrow twisting ice-packed gravel hills, preferring instead to leave on the Auto4WD. It's like thinking enough is as good as a feast. Not for Mrs. Hillbilly Mom! She's a glutton for feasting AND four-wheeling.

I even tried to give Farmer H a pass on his car alarm faux pas. Did he not accompany me into Save A Lot voluntarily? And carry the heavy box of chili-makings because I scolded him for wanting to set it on top of the box containing my fragile Chex Mix makings? Just because the entire patronage of the Subway sandwich shop, Dollar Store, and laundromat stared at the two of us standing behind a black Tahoe that was flashing and honking to beat the band was no reason to throw Farmer H into the wood chipper. After telling him three times that yes, he must have locked the doors, and that he needed to put the key in the ignition to stop the alarm, then click twice to allow T-Hoe's hatch to open...things were again all right with Mrs. Hillbilly Mom's world.

I didn't even mind that Farmer H had to stop at Casey's General Store for a pee break. Or that he we arrived at the unstinky post office four minutes too late to deal with an issue (yep, you got another eyeful comin' on the crooked postal service). And I'm sure many men park the vehicle over halfway up The Devil's Playground's parking aisle and allow their beloved wifey to walk like a wobbly new-born fawn across the wide expanse of three-inch-thick sleet clumps that were broken, not plowed, by the snow-removal service. Losing him inside the Playground because he did not rendezvous as instructed also did not make Mrs. Hillbilly Mom blow her stack like a Flintstone's quarry whistle. Some would have seen the insistence to wheel everything out and load it himself and pick up the little woman beside the door as sweet. Even though the lady protested too much, and was proved right when Farmer H almost plowed down a young couple who thought they were safe on the sidewalk. He did not take kindly to the decree that never again should he do her that favor.

The final straw that broke Mrs. Hillbilly Mom's knees was the attitude of put-uponness that emanated from Farmer H on the whole way home. Specifically, his passive-aggressive refusal to put on his seatbelt, which resulted in T-Hoe pinging a warning every five minutes for the entire drive back to the Mansion. Did you know that the Hillbilly home is more than a few five minutes from The Devil's Playground?

One step forward and three drives back. That's the state of Farmer H's hero status at the present time. We'll see what develops when he hauls us to my only niece's baby shower tonight.

The wood chipper is in the wings.