Caustic Cowbow

Poor Allen, his brunet hair is falling out as fast as oak leaves descend in the fall yet stands straight up in the mornings making him look like Julius Caesar with an olive branch crown. He wakes up at precisely 6:05 a.m., yelling, “It’s time to get up!” He then rolls on his side, sleeps 15 minutes, then suddenly jumps up loudly asking, “Are you awake?” and whistles toward a well-rehearsed daily schedule.

He rolls out exactly 2 sheets of paper towels, slathers and sprinkles 4 pieces of Mrs. Baird’s whole-wheat bread with Parkay and a special mixture of cinnamon and sugar. After placing the concoction in a toaster, he fetches the newspaper returning to perfectly cooked toast. He stacks each slice uniformly and then folds it to stuff huge portions into his mouth by using his index finger and thumb.

A tightly controlled person who protects his routine like a bull protecting its herd, planning and ironing his weekly wardrobe after polishing Cole Haan shoes each Sunday afternoon while watching sports; he washes his truck once a month “whether it needs it or not.” Saturdays are for mowing the yard or working on the farm. Tasks are important to him—sometimes more important than people—that’s the way he’s wired.

This handsome cowboy, with warm brown eyes, considers his gap-toothed grin an asset as he can spit and hit a target at “8 or 9 feet away,” thin lips spouting chauvinistic comments contrast an evening of folding clothes and vacuuming. Torn jeans, bloodied from dehorning cows, are left in the garage, so I won’t yell at him for, “stinking up the place.”

No one would guess by looking at this muddy cowboy sporting a baseball cap, purchased at a luxury hotel gift shop specializing in spa soap and lotions, that earlier he was starched and polished as a southern politician looking for votes. His calloused hands and broad tan shoulders replace the normally soft and pale skin of one spending long hours of business meetings. The same rich voice that guides employees also calls “yhee-haa, yhee-haa” commanding young sterling’s to the gate for branding.

He always has tons of money on him, which he generously shares even though he searches unsuccessfully for the perfect wallet treating “his girls” and often whisks our daughter, Stephanie, away for a secretly purchased Auntie Anne’s pretzel in his new black Ford 4x4, so huge that he needs a ladder to “hop in.”

He’s the kind of guy that makes his family get a dog that he later ignores then publicly and loudly throws a fit about the addition of a cat that he later adores. Always walking on his toes, a habit he picked up in the seventh grade to be as tall as everyone else, with a mind as sharp as a financial wizard and a mouth as caustic as a Texas hussy.

My husband loves to talk and calls me 3 three times a day to recap events relaying information about his buddies, people he saw, Stephanie, or his dad. He considers anything that I do an invitation to chatter; if I am cooking, he walks in as if to help but leans against the sink, looks toward the ceiling and natters. When I’m working at my computer, he stops as if I’ve called him, walks to the wicker rocker, moves it next to me, sits and talks while I’m typing.

He has a comment for every situation, but mostly sticks to women and religion. He refers to me as “his first wife,” announces some women to be, “a sandwich shy of a picnic,” and jibes that Baptist prayers are, “Lord, we just prayers,” because Baptist who lead prayers begin and end each prayer with, “Lord, we just….” and always wants to know, “Did you talk about me today?” Often, he will say, with authority, “I understand,” which makes no sense to me when I’m discussing feminine cramping, yet he firmly believes those two words endow camaraderie in any circumstance.

Whenever Stephanie’s friend, Kaylee, visits, he walks into the living room, his normally velvety voice becomes loud and shrill as he exclaims, ‘WHO ARE YOU?!!!! I DON’T KNOW YOU, AND I DON’T LIKE GIRLS!!!” She giggles, curly blond hair bouncing like Goldilocks because earlier, Kaylee had said, “I bet your dad says ‘Who are you?’ when we get to your house.”

He likes to play golf; I do not, but he contently allows me to tag along graciously offering a golf cart, even if I don’t use it, saying that it keeps golfers from heckling him for not being gallant enough to “get his wife a cart.” Waiving the key high into the air with flourish, proclaiming, “Jump in!” The gallant behavior abruptly stops as I put one foot in the cart; he takes off. I say, “Do you think I could get all the way in the cart before you start?”

“Sorry.” We head to the first hole where he expects me to stand behind him—to watch where the ball bounces—as he positions, legs spread apart making a “v,” arms taunt, face intently looking at the white ball, unless I am standing beside, rather than behind, him then he glances up with a loud pause, raises his eyebrows and I say, “What?”

“Do you want to get behind me?”

“Okay.” After the swing, he gets into the cart, and I begin sliding in…he takes off. I say, “Do you think you could wait?”

“Sorry.”