"What do you want to get done this weekend?" The text came out of left field Friday afternoon. A welcome left field to be sure, but still I was left a bit off balance by it. While the Mr. is always begrudgingly agreeable to assisting when asked, he never volunteers. As I mulled over this strange new development, another text arrived. "Pick one project. ONE. And we'll get it done." One project? He might as well have asked me to count the hairs on my head and choose the prettiest one. I have a million projects. They're my children, greatly flawed and in dire need of discipline sure but I love them all. How can I be expected to choose? Indecision is undoubtedly my strongest character flaw. It's a wonder I can decide which underwear to put on every morning. I eenie meenied my way to a project that seemed the easiest to complete with a minimal amount of argument or stress, and this is how the wicking bed came to pass. The next morning he came out and helped me chick proof an old dog run so I could finally corral the chicks who seem to have made it their mission in life to shred one quarter of every tomato they could find. Later that evening he asked about guineas. Were they noisy? Did they taste good? Would they live with our chickens? Sunday found him in the okra patch pulling weeds and talking about sectioning the back yard so the dogs only had access to 1/4 of it and the rest could be used for gardening. Oh, and did I remember to order those fruit trees? What did I think about planting nut trees? And when do we need to order bees for next spring? Yesterday he came home to announce the truck was paid off. He'd done the math, realized how much he was paying in interest on it, vs this old IRA that was barely earning $150 a year now, and decided it made more sense to cash out the IRA and pay off the beast, not only freeing up nearly $600 a month but saving a fortune in interest payments as well. More astonishing was his decision to use the remaining money to remove even more debt, rather than blow it on a vacation, which he admitted to considering but ultimately decided against. I've woken up with a Stepford husband, and I know who to thank for it. The last 5-6 years at his job have been pretty rough, and as cutbacks and layoffs came around and around again, the guys who survived began to wake up. Of the original 300 who were there before the company sold, there are only a dozen left, and all but one of them have turned prepper. What's more they're not shy about it. Suddenly his lunchtimes have gone from talk of vacations and kid activities and the latest in electronics to what I like to call the Three Gs. Gardening. Guns. G$#d@!* Obama. And suddenly I have gone from the crazy wife who hoards rice and has chickens in the back yard, to a beautiful genius he is obscenely fortunate to be married to. I am being texted by the guys he works with to discuss things like building sorghum cane crushers and where to score free fruit for canning and offers of assistance to butcher rabbits. If my ego swells any further I will be hard pressed to fit through standard doorways. But the real heartstopper here is seeing Mr. Minecraft suddenly take an active interest in ensuring we're not hung out to dry if TS ever HTF. Not just going along, but coming up with his own ideas for things we could do to make ourselves less dependent on others. I could get used to this. I owe the guys he works with many cupcakes for dragging him into the light.