Some men look at porn.
My husband looks at Truck Trader, which, for those of you not familiar with this august publication, is like a second bible for rednecks. A sister magazine to the illustrious Auto Trader (immortalized in the movie Joe Dirt starring David Spade), Truck Trader is a compendium of big trucks for sale in any given region, and my husband has been getting off on its collection of sultry photographs more than usual lately.
See, he’s in the market for a new hauling machine, one that is bigger, badder and more voluptuous than the one he currently rides in—a hefty 450 diesel power stroke Ford equipped with so many bells and whistles, and more flashing lights than a Vegas show sign. He’s looking for a new work truck that has four to the floor chassis, a 550 diesel quadriphonic engine with laser quatro power stroke diesel hammer fire.
Or something like that.
Every time he starts telling me what he’s in the market for, I have to use my upmost concentration to cling to my brain cells or risk losing my neurons to the back of my skull. I forget all train of thought, my eyes glaze over, and I mumble, “Mm-mm. Oh?? Sounds nice, dear.” I have no idea what airleaf suspension or a day cab is, nor do I really care. But I think the main reason I tune out once he starts talking trucks, or when I see the latest Truck Trader on his bedside table, is because the topic brings into unalterable focus the realization that my husband might be a redneck. Did I marry a redneck? For most former Cosmopolitan/Glamour editors, this is a question that is never pondered. Yet I find myself asking it on a somewhat recurring basis.
Am I surprised? No, not really. After all, we met at a rodeo. In Montana. I was writing a story about it. He was one of the competitors—a bullrider. The guy has been horned in the face twice by a bull, and thought it was cool both times. When he got kicked in the hand by a horse and broke a finger, he set the injury with a popsicle stick and an extra absorbent Maxipad. He’s as tough as he is happy-go-lucky. So while I am merrily hitched to one of the most dashing, risk-taking, manliest-of-men, hilarious, brilliant, and utterly unique human beings imaginable, there is a flip side to all that awesome-ness. And the flip side is Truck Trader.
All original content © 2012 by Jessie Knadler
{ 1 comment… read it below or add one }
OMG! I’m LMAO! Just about to pee my pants – this is a great blog. I hope you aren’t divorced yet, you don’t sound too thrilled with the loving discovery of your SO; that melding of souls – that blending of 2 paths twined into one road taken. I am laughing, because when my husband turned 40 he cancelled his life insurance, w/o telling me first, bought a brand new red GMC with it, and promptly dropped dead with a massive heart attack the next month! I hope you keep writing this, it’s better than the Pioneer Woman. I absolutely know every thing of which you write first hand, and then some! You don’t have to live in the country to find rednecks – they are everywhere these days. And, honey, they all are manliest of men – but there is no flipside, in the end the manliness is just the deep chocolate fudge cover over the nougat redneck center.
(I have to add this note: a few months before my husband died he came rushing in the house in his Carharts- it was February in WNY – he wanted me outside NOW, drop everything! I thought he dropped the car on the cat (the car was on ramps). I ran out and he threw a flattened cardboard box on the snow and said “come down here”. Now, being suspicious in a semi frozen state I asked “Why?” Him: “Why? Why! To teach you how to change the oil in your car, what if something happened to me, who would do it for you?” Me, over my shoulder none too nicely going back to the house: “Jiffylube!”And, he actually took offense to my “stubborness” in not crawling under a car in a snowdrift in my house clothes to learn how to do it myself.