Hillbilly Mom Is Never Happy

That's right. Hillbilly Mom is never happy. Go figure! If I was happy all the time, or even every now and then, I wouldn't need this blog, now would I? And y'all would have to get your free entertainment elsewhere. Yep. There would be no need for blogging as I went about my unquiet life of undesperation, frolicking under rainbows with butterflies and unicorns, cheerfully teaching the world to sing, with rose petals floating out my butt at regular intervals. You're so lucky I am never happy. It's not my nature. It makes for less boring stories.

My issue today concerns privacy. MY privacy, of course. Mrs. Hillbilly Mom is a recluse. She is not touchy-feely. She does not like people messing with her stuff. Give her a wide berth, and she will not harm you. Go on about your business, and she will not attack. If she hears you coming, she will hide.

HH has not learned this major personality quirk of Mrs. Hillbilly Mom in the 100 years that they have been married. He bulls his way through the china shop of her life each and every day, oblivious to what makes her tick. At their old house, during his bathroom reconstruction project that left the only bathroom without a wall for several weeks, HM, who is quite talented, but can not hold her body fluids for three weeks, commanded sternly: "I have to go. Don't look." The missing wall faced the kitchen area. No need to worry. HH would never enter the kitchen. He was ensconced in his La-Z-Boy recliner watching TV. The coast was clear. Mrs. Hillbilly Mom settled down to do her bidness, looked to the right at the missing wall, AND SAW HH STANDING THERE WATCHING HER! It was more traumatic than putting her hand under a school desk and pulling it out with a streamer of snot attached.

Then there was the childbirth issue. Mrs. Hillbilly Mom labored for 14 hours with HH's big-headed offspring, who happened to forge his way out of the womb sunny side up. As the doctor sat between Mrs. Hillbilly Mom's splayed legs, repairing the damage with numerous stitches, HH darted out to the waiting room and dragged in Mrs. Hillbilly Mom's parents. The astounded doctor shouted, "Here, now! Just a minute!" Mrs. Hillbilly Mom was too weak to chastise HH that day. But she planned to do so as soon as her strength returned.

HH does not understand the privacy issue. Mrs. Hillbilly Mom is his property, after all, and he should be able to show her off as he sees fit. Mrs. Hillbilly Mom only wants her privacy. She is quite unlike HH. She does not run around the Mansion grounds in only a pair of tighty-whiteys, or pee beside the pool, or behind the camper, or off the back porch, or right out in the front yard. In fact, Mrs. Hillbilly Mom wants to tape up the door cracks in public restroom, lest some stranger see her very private parts. HH practices the philosophy of Jeff Goldblum in The Big Chill, when he states: "That's the thing about the outdoors. It's one great big toilet."I do not try to change HH. He can pee at will, and expose himself to his heart's desire. That is his nature. But he needs to realize that he cannot change my nature. He needs to respect my idiosyncrasies.

Mrs. Hillbilly Mom demands her privacy. Just this morning, she told the boys she was retiring to the master bathroom to revitalize her lovely lady mullet. They understood. No fighting or bone-breaking for an hour. It was L'Oreal time. Imagine Mrs. Hillbilly Mom's surprise when she emerged from the shower to find a new Entertainment Weekly lying on the bathroom sink. That could only mean one thing. Somebody had opened the sacred closed door of the bathroom. That is OH SO WRONG. Mrs. Hillbilly Mom stops short of locking the door, just in case an emergency should happen while she is incommunicado. Something like, "We've got a bleeder!" Like when the #1 son put his teeth through his bottom lip performing kitchen acrobatics. The boys know not to open the sacred closed door of the bathroom. They will bang and thump and slip notes under, but they will not open it. Which leaves but one suspect: HH.

When interrogated about his alleged privacy faux pas, HH replied, "I was just doing you a favor. The boy said you were in there, so I gave you something to read." Hmm...the boy who told him why I was in the bathroom is the boy who also brought me three books (at my request) to pass the time. Before I sealed the crypt. So why would HH think I needed something to read? He must have done the dastardly deed while I was in the shower. You can't see the shower from the door, but you can see its reflection in the mirror. Sure, it has opaque glass doors, which are also covered in soap scum, making them fairly impenetrable to the human eye...BUT IT'S THE PRINCIPLE OF THE MATTER. When questioned about whether he bothered to knock, HH stated: "No. I could hear that you were in the shower, so I knew you couldn't hear me knock. " Which begs the question, "Why would I need a magazine to read while I am in the shower?" Which is a question I did not bother asking, because HH's logic, much like his head, is full of holes. Mrs. Hillbilly Mom deserves her privacy. At no other time in history has HH ever brought Mrs. HM a magazine in the bathroom. What gives him the audacity to boldly open the door, and then declare that he was doing her a FAVOR? Methinks it's HH's King of the Castle mentality. Everything belongs to him, and he can come and go as he pleases. And he will act out these little episodes every so often so nobody dares forget it. Kind of like a dog marking its territory. Like HH peeing all around the yard.

If Mrs. Hillbilly Mom ever wins the PowerBall, or the Mega Millions (courtesy of Mabel's part-time Illinois-residing significant other), she is going to invest in a hermit cave. With round-the-clock security.

I'm done now. Quit staring at me, by cracky!