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My husband, John, was a good ole boy. A cowboy. He called himself the Iron Duke.

John had to leave his horses and his barn in upstate New York to peddle steel in the five boroughs. It was the '70s and gangs still ruled the city. New York in those days could reduce a horse wrangler to a blubbering baby. John would pound the steering wheel and cry when he lost his way on the one-way streets in Brooklyn. And cowboys don't cry.

My years as Mrs. John were filled with bizarre adventures, including the hot summer night when John fought off a giant bat in our bedroom with a flower-covered designer pillow, stark naked. (John, not the bat). Or the night after a wine-fueled barbeque with friends when he tried to ride his horse into the house. But not many moments compared to the night I took him to the opera.

John had promised to accompany me to La Traviata starring Anna Moffo for my birthday. I bought a classy red dress for the occasion, being more than excited to see my first Met opera.

"Can I take earplugs? he asked. "They serve drinks, don't they?"

"Just be civilized, John," I said. "Just this once."

John and I had orchestra seats, eighth row, center, and I was thrilled. I looked around at the Manhattanites in their glittering finery, at the majesty of that hallowed hall, and sighed. I squeezed John's arm and said, "Isn't this grand?"

"Just hunky-dory," he said, fanning himself with his program.

The performance was everything I hoped for but at the glorious finale of La Traviata, Ms. Moffo began to struggle with her high notes. I felt John sit up in his seat and stare at me. In the silence between the opera's last note and the applause, John announced to the orchestra section of the Metropolitan Opera, "Hey, I think Moffo hit a clinker."

His remark hung in the air like a loud fart in a vast cathedral.

My face turned the color of my red dress when a snooty-looking gentleman peered at my husband as if he had just dropped in from Bellevue. I put my face in my program and waited for the crowd behind us to file out. Luckily, they seemed to forget about us in their rush to exit the theater and grab a cab.

As we walked to the car, John said, "Well, she did, didn't she?"

"Yes, she did, John," I said. Amazingly, I refrained from smacking him.

- Kaye Curren

Kaye Curren writes humor, essays, opinions and reviews for various publications and on her website atwww.writethatthang.com. She's currently working on a novel calledSeven Days in Spain: Surviving a Wedding in a Family-Infested Foreign Land.