By Julie Carter
It comes up from time to time—those daily little events or things that qualify a gal for the “You might be a rancher’s wife if …” list.
These are a few that have been suggested.
You might be a rancher’s wife if:
• you have blackleg vaccine in the refrigerator next to the ketchup;
• you remodel your house just to get a mud room;
• your stationary has a checkerboard design on it with “Purina” written across the top;
• you have bull semen straws in the freezer next to the ice cube trays.
However, in order for there to be a rancher’s wife, there must be a rancher husband, who by the way, does not come with an operating manual or a warning label.
You know, like the one that comes with the hair blow dryer that says, “Do not use while sitting in water,” or the lawnmower that says, “Toxic fumes are dangerous. Do not operate indoors.”
A simple description of a rancher-type husband would be warning enough.
A rancher husband is:
• a man who tromps in leaving a trail of dirt from his boots and a black handprint on the door and asks, “Any chance of cleaning this place up before my mother gets here?”
• a man who eats potatoes 365 days a year but will say, “This must be third time this month we’ve had corn. Are we out of grub?”
• a man who eats mountain oysters right off the branding fire and says, “Is the mashed tators supposed to have something gritty in them?”
• a man who comes in from the branding fire, smokes a cigar, reeks of sweat and manly odor and says, “That damn scented candle of yours is plumb fogging up my sinuses.”
• a man who will write a grocery list that reads: “bunch of viannie sawseges, beer, scours medicine, don’t forget the beer, 4-way or 7-way or whatever it’s called, and don’t forget the beer;”
• a man who will get up at the crack of dawn, turn on the weather channel and sit there for two hours without moving and then say, “you can’t ‘spect me to go to the movie and jus’ sit there for damn hours without movin’.”
• a man who will spend $56,000 on a big yellow machine whose first name starts with DC, but won’t spend $28 to fix the dishwasher.
The operating manuals for appliances or such written 25 years ago were only a couple pages long, while today’s resemble the size of the old Sears and Roebuck catalogs and seem to be just as useful in the outhouse.
Cowboy husband manuals, if they existed, would likely follow the same expansion trend. There’s a whole lot more that needs to be warned about today. In compiling this list, one ranch wife offered a disclaimer: “In no way is my list an example of my husband. I was talking about other people’s husbands. In fact, I want to point out that there is nothing that makes me love my husband more than listening about other people’s husbands.”
Ain’t it the truth!
Julie can be reached for comment at firstname.lastname@example.org.