Much time
has passed since I offered marital advice, so it’s
about time I release a second edition of the traits
you should look for when selecting a trophy wife. My
first release addressing this topic was in the
spring of 2006 and was so well received a reader of
the local paper purchased a display ad chastising me
as being sexist. She has moved out of Montana, so
here we go. If you are a regular reader of this
column you know I am in the midst of adding on to my
house to accommodate my growing ranks of
grandchildren. Number eleven hit the ground and is
up and sucking, with number twelve due in early
November. The trophy wife and I began saving for
this project about a year ago intending to purchase
the construction using very little of our own sweat
equity. Plans changed. Apparently there are
thousands of other Yellowstone County residents with
similar ideas, because demand has sucked up most of
the construction services. With Christmas just
around the corner, I am the engineer, general
contractor and undocumented laborer in veterinary
coveralls and cow manure and it has made for some
long hours. In projects past, I relied on my
homemade, child-labor force, but they all have
homes, children and projects of their own, so it is
back to just me and the trophy wife. We should have
had more children.
I harvested logs for purlins, ridgepoles, floor
joists and support posts in early July. I spent most
of July and August peeling, notching and assembling
the log framework in the shade of the cottonwood
trees outside my tack shed. Because this is supposed
to be a family project, I solicited the services of
my trophy wife to run the handles of a drawknife.
She diligently attacked the task but could not
efficiently skin logs in a manner justifying the
sweat she was generating. After a couple logs she
was eager to continue, but I suggested we find her a
task more fitting to her size and strength. Just
like a government employee in shutdown mode, this
meant she had nothing to do until I finished the
concrete on the foundation.
Last Friday, I stripped the forms off the cellar
walls and hauled them back to town. While at Macon
Construction Supply I asked if they sold the tar
used to seal foundations. They did. I asked if it
could be applied with a brush and the clerk said,
“Most people just grab a glob and smear it on using
their PVC gloves.” A brilliant thought sparked in my
mind.
“Do you sell those gloves,” I asked. They did. “Do
you have them in a ladies size?” They did.
Sunday morning it had warmed enough for cellar
sealing, so I explained the process to the trophy
wife, handed her the gloves and opened the
five-gallon can of black goo. She climbed down the
step ladder into the cellar pit and went straight to
her work. What actually transpired in the excavated
hole hiding the cellar is known only to her, the
concrete walls and the tar. Druann only laughs and
the other two are not talking. Anyway, the trophy
wife emerged from the earth covered in tar; there
was a golf ball sized glob hanging in her hair and
her coat and pants were a total loss. She looked
like the famous and well photographed oily pelican
walking the beaches of Texas after the British
Petroleum oil spill. For the next seven days,
everything I touched was dripping with tar; the
broom handle, door handle, ladder rungs, circular
saw, and even the steering wheel on the car. Through
all this, she muttered not a word of complaint as if
rolling in the tar was just all part of the job and
this brings me to my point.
When selecting a trophy wife, study her pedigree and
be certain she does not descend from royalty. When I
think back over our 34 years and all the challenges
we have faced from long nights in wet sleeping bags,
to bears eating camp groceries, to man-handling a
bucket of tar, I have never heard her complain. She
is definitely not a princess and I am one lucky guy
to have her.
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