The Day the Redneck Husband Layed Down his Gun

Rednecks hunt. Apparently it's part of joining the club or something. You hunt.
I don't hunt. Jasen brought home a fresh turkey he and his friend raised (not at my house) and butchered a few days before Thanksgiving.
The Redneck said "it wasn't as bad as I'd thought." His blood-splattered Carhartt jacked led me to believe otherwise. Regardless, he dumped a mostly-plucked, 24 pound turkey carcass into my sink. I told him that was it. That was my redneck wife limit. He is not allowed to bring anything less dead into the house and expect me to do anything other than scream. I do have to say, that was a damned good turkey. And will be for the next 6 months. He cooked it for the three of us.
My husband lets his best friends hunt on our land. In return we get venison. Yum. He has old deer stands in trees, but doesn't use them. The reason? Pregnancy and raccoons.
I was maybe 7 months pregnant. And there was a raccoon eating the cow feed. This is not good. It makes for loud, hungry cows. And cow feed is not cheap. They weigh a literal ton, and eat a literal ton. Feeding cows is not cheap.
So Jasen waited until dusk, grabbed his shotgun (or rifle, I don't know the difference) and headed to the barn. Fifteen minutes later I hear the shot. Ten minutes after that, Jasen comes into the house, tears in his eyes.
"I got it."
"Good, honey. What's wrong?"
"I shot it. And then three sets of tiny eyes popped their head out of the corn. She had babies. I killed their mother."
One tear slides down his stubbly cheek.
"Awe, honey, I'm sorry. What did you do?"
"I couldn't kill them. I stuffed them in an old grain bag and let them go as far in the woods as I could. They're old enough to survive. But they're still babies. I killed their mom."
"Is this because I'm pregnant?"
"Yep. Pretty sure it's making me soft. I don't think I want to hunt anymore. And I'm getting a lid for the feed."
I loved that night. It was the night I knew my rough-and-tough Redneck Husband would make an amazing father. Seven years later, and the only thing he's shot are snakes. But we as a family despise snakes. And their babies aren't at all cute. So snakes don't count.

Catching Crabs

I'm not talking the edible kind. My husband and I stayed at a 5-star hotel a while ago in Roanoke. This place is nice. More than nice. It's immaculate. Historical. Renowned.
We were getting ready for dinner, and I took a shower. Five hours in a car does that to a woman. I needed a shower.
So I get out of the shower and what do I see? My husband, in all his glory (aka naked as a jaybird) sprawled out on the couch. Enter shocked wife. I'm standing there, in a robe, with my mouth to my knees.
I'm not saying the male body isn't a work of art. It is. It's just not the kind of art you want awkwardly
displayed on a hotel couch.
"Umm. Babe. You realize this is a hotel, right?"
"Yeah. Knowing how much I'm spending kind of clued me in to that one. What's your point."
"Well, honey, how many people do you think have sat on that couch? How many people do you think have...done things on that couch? How many people do you think ..."
"Ahhhh! Stop! Shit. I feel itchy. Can you catch crabs from a hotel couch?"
I can't help but laugh until I cry. But Jasen was so paranoid he jumped in the shower again.

As a side note, the fact that I don't think the male figure ranks up there with Monet drives my husband crazy. If he knew who Monet was it would piss him off even more. But I get a pass on that one. He could care less about his flaws. We all have them. It's just that, as a woman, and as a particularly crazy woman, I obsess over every flaw I have. OK. ADD side note over.