First day of school, with style. PICKUP TRUCK HICK STYLE!

The trunks were packed all summer, ready to move back to college, the teenager girl was excited, and the mother didn't need to cry the second time around.  All set.  Except for one big problem: The HONEYBADGER was having a difficulty.  And I'm not just talking about the driver's side window which quit working about six months ago.  (Just glad it quit in the closed position or I'd be driving a swamp.)  My truck eats exhaust systems.   I had my ol' man get a look under it and well, it turns out, there's nothing left to fix.  The crossover pipe between the engine and the catalytic is pretty much cheesecloth now.  The last patch job he did on it held up long enough that I forgot about him patching it up two years ago.  He tried the best he could, but it only made it slightly less unbearable. So we were facing an hour's drive with only one window down for air, and a rumble so loud that teeth rattle and skulls go numb.  AND twice the gas guzzling, because a vehicle with no exhaust is gutless and needs to be stomped hard to move.

Then my ol' man offered to move her there in his truck.

Well!  "Hey, you wanna have Papa take your stuff in the F100?"

"HECK YES!"

The college always has teams of students who've moved in early to help with the grunt work.  You should have seen these kids when my dad and daughter showed up.

Eager 19-yr-old dude: I'll carry everything in if you let me take that truck for a spin.

My ol' man: chuckle chuckle chuckle nahhhhh I don't think so.

Oh yeeeeeaaaahhhhhh!

Last year, backing up to the front of the residence building in the Honeybadger was one of those experiences that normal people would be embarrassed by.  The thing looks like scrap metal.  But we're weird.  We love our nasty truck.  We don't even really think of it as old.  It's only 24 years old.  My dad's truck?  That's old.  Well, most of it.  Parts of it are a variety of vintages.  Our truck is awesome in a defiant kind of way.  

Papa's truck is awesome in... well, every way, pretty much.

Besides being awesome, these two trucks have only one other thing in common: they're both packing a small block Chevy under the hood.

The family that moved in later with a perfect Chevy SS truck with low profile tires and chrome rims?  They think it's awesome.  We'll let them....

Meanwhile, Bucky was planning his own arrival at school.  It's his last year of high school, and he got his G2 licence this summer.  He had to drive himself to school today.  It's only right.  

But he opted not to drive his favourite little VW.  He's taking the truck.  

Why?  

BECAUSE IT'S AWESOME.

Faded paint, peeling off the front fender, dents, mismatched rims, rust spots, inadequate exhaust... the thing runs perfectly and stops, so what's the problem here?

Well heck.  It only takes 20 minutes to drive to his school from here.  I'm sure in that time he won't be deafened.  Or get pulled over.  Or run out of gas.  

STYLE.  That's how we do things around here.  

Sweet ride eh?

My ol' man is nuts.  

It's friggen awesome.  

She won't be the first kid to get her licence in a farm truck.

Since getting her beginner's licence almost two years ago, most of Annyong's driving has been in the pickup truck.  The big Mother Trucker.  The Honey Badger. She can drive it quite well.  She's learned to use her trailer mirrors to back it into a parking spot.  She understands why it can't be driven into a spot between two cars. She can get around a right turn without jumping the curb.

It's easy.  You sit up high and can see everything; you know where the front is, you know where the rear end is.  Even if both ends of the truck are several feet away from where you're sitting, you know it's there.  You can see everything around you.  It's got lovely power steering.  I mean, maybe it takes three times as long to park the thing, and a very cool head, but it can be done.

Besides it's automatic.  Pretty simple.

But Grandma's little Pontiac Vibe doesn't make any sense to her.  And we have to decide what she'll be driving for her road test.  She won't take the Jetta because even though she has learned to drive standard shift, she's not totally smooth with it yet.  Grandma generously offered her car.  She just didn't think it would be fair to ask a kid to drive that monster for a test.  Understandably so. I can brag about how well Annyong can manage the truck but let's face it.  It's a handful.

I talked to the examiner.  I explained how Annyong is used to the big heavy slow build of acceleration in the truck, not the quick jackrabbit start of the small car, and that while driving the car, the hood is not visible.  It's opposite.  She's been putting in time in the car, borrowing it as much as possible, and yet it just doesn't feel right.

I guess I'd forgotten temporarily where I live.

There are a lot of pickup trucks around here, and many of them have farm plates.

"She should drive what's she learned in, and what she's comfortable in," the examiner said.

"Really?  I mean... you won't laugh?  It's pretty rough looking."

She shrugged.  "I've seen it all."

I leaned on the desk, pointing out the list of flaws that will get a vehicle disqualified for use in a road test. "The left signal doesn't cancel.  I thought that might be a problem."

"Does it work?"

"Yeah, you just have to turn it off after you go around the corner."

"That's fine.  As long as it works," she said, leaning back in her chair.  I started to see the kind of deep calm and nerves of steel this woman has to have to do her job.

"And the driver's side door has a sticky latch."

"Does it open and close from both inside and outside?"

"Yeah... you really gotta reef on it though..."  I really need to get that fixed, I thought. Again.

"As long as it opens and closes it's fine."

"Well okay then.  I'll vacuum all the dog hair and horse hair out of it."

"Oh that'd be nice, since I have to wear a navy uniform." She smiled a little.  I got the feeling she's been in some nasty vehicles.  Coffee spills and cigarette butts and ashes - the very worst of automotive abuses! - and it's okay because this isn't a beauty contest.  It just has to meet the safety requirements.  Which it does.  Barely, but it's safe.  It runs beautifully.  All eight cylinders!  I'll do without a stereo (sad) and without air conditioning (that's what windows are for) but the what little money I have gets spent on things like brakes and new belts and filters, and tires.  Boring things like that.

We made another appointment for a test.  Back in Grandma's car, Annyong asked me if the emergency brake works in the truck.  "I don't even know where it is," she admitted.  Well that's because I have a bad habit of not really using it much.

"Yeah, it works."  Thought about if for a second.  "I'm pretty sure it does."

A few minutes down the road it occurred to Annyong, "So... we'll probably have to put the rear view mirror back on the inside of the windshield."

Oh yeah, that!  I don't think the examiner would find the humour in our family joke.  "Yes there is a rear view mirror.  It's right there under the seat."

It's cool.  A little blob of super glue and we're off to go get a driver's licence.

The parallel parking is going to be EPIC.

My truck has officially been renamed. She is now... The Honey Badger!

This truck will always be the Mother Trucker.  But a few weeks ago we were on our way to the dump and discussing how it's both liberating and embarrassing to drive something this gnarly. That's when I said, "It's like the Honey Badger of pickup trucks.  It don't care."

Now if you aren't familiar with the nasty and incredibly hardy little critter, you have to see this video. 

WARNING:

This video contains swarms of stinging insects, snakes, a badger getting bitten by a snake, a snake being eaten by a badger, several swear words and some goofy lisping.  Some viewers may not find it funny.  Others may find increased repetitious utterances of the phrase, "Honey Badger Don't Care."

Yep, crazy nasty badass.

Just don't care.

Come at me.  

Getting stung?  Don't care.  

It's been done.  We just slept if off... got a new door... right back at it...

I was visiting my friend Bechtel the Beef Farmer one day last week.  Of course we had to talk trucks.  It's what we do.  "I gotta do something.  It's costing me hundreds of dollars in gas every month, things are starting to fall apart, and it just doesn't look very professional.  You know?  It doesn't scream, Professional Horseperson" does it?"

He looked it over and drawled, "Yeah but what it does scream at me is, Cowboy."

So there it is.  

The truck that just won't die, the nasty badass that takes a beating and comes back for more.

Y'know how I like to park beside something big and play "Who's Longer" and my truck usually wins?

GAME OVER.

I think driving a school bus could be fun.  Especially putting on the brakes and telling all the brats to siddown and shuddup I'm not yer babysitter.

I mean, c'mon.  Big ass International diesel?  Giant wheels?  Fun.

Sadly, they're all automatic now.  Remember the old Saginaw transmission in the 70s and 80s?  I watched my bus driver double-clutching that thing through the gears, with it whining and chugging all the way up.  Awesome.  He used to literally throw the shifter into gear.  

Good times.

However I am 40 years old and still having nightmares about running down the lane to catch my bus, with the north wind ripping at my flapping-open coat and all the snow drifts ending up inside my boots,  so I don't think I'll be making a career of being Bus Driver Dude.  

"I stand by my record.  14 crashes and not a single fatality!"   --Otto.

Sketchy internet and a blown rad = late Juno blog!!!

Between the parents and I there are three road worthy vehicles: Mom's car, my truck and my ol' man's van, which is a winter beater.

Dad's van has a little alternator problem.  He isn't fixing it because he wants to get his pickup ready and just drive it instead.  So he's off the road.

Mom's car as of yesterday has a little steering problem.  So she's off the road.

And this morning my pickup truck spewed antifreeze all over the lane just as I pulled into the yard.  So I'm off the road.

ALL THREE AT ONCE!!!

I spent six hours today between borrowing a car and renting a car, which I am not legally allowed to drive cuz I'm not Sally and only Sally and the ol' man are allowed to drive it, because I had that little accident last June and dammit I can't be added to her insurance policy meaning that the ol' man has to be the taxi service instead of getting his own truck ready, and even though it was a beautiful day and the horses could have used a good brushing and maybe even a ride, I was helping with this car thing because we need A VEHICLE. Just one.  At least. Then when I try to do my Juno blog post, the internet becomes intermittent net, and that is why you are not yet reading about the fun weekend and looking at my pictures.

Be patient.  I'm working on it!

TRUCKSICLE. Now with 100% More Heat!

Maybe I can survive winter now...

Huge Massive Happy Announcement! THE TRUCK IS BACK!!!!

SHE'S BAAAACK!  SHE'S BAAAAAAAAACK!


I HAVE MY TRUCK AGAIN!


All fixed up and legal and back on the road, ready for another 5 years or 20 or however many I coax out of her!

Will we let something like a minor car accident stop us?  No we will not.  It can slow us down, but it can't stop us.  

We just go buy a slightly used door, and let the local body shop take care of the rest.  And we're back in business.

I know, it's not perfect.  That's next year's job.  For now, I'm just happy to have my wheels back, happy to have Grandma have her car all to herself again, and happy for the ability to continue hauling things that are only convenient with a pickup truck.

Best of all, this little piece of bodywork cost less than a quarter of the downpayment on a new(ish) truck.

I love this truck.  It's as bitchy to park as ever and still has a nasty shake at about 90 kph (that really needs to get looked at eh?) but I can fit my whole family in the cab, including the Pug, which is why bench seats are the best, and I can still fit a load of hay in the box, and I am one happy little Mother Trucker!





(Also since I'm happy and it's Friday, here's Johnny.)

Me, My Truck, and the Very Difficult Decision

Today, I called the insurance broker and told her to take the coverage off my truck.

Because

I won't be driving it anymore


Because


of THIS.

THIS

is a real drag, a total bummer, a huge disappointment, a stupid mistake, and a sadness all rolled up into one expensive problem.

THIS  is a little car accident I had at the end of June.

We weren't hurt but the other car was finished.  Being a total tank, my truck got out still going down the road as straight as it ever did, but less functional with that side smashed in, and a whole lot uglier.

I didn't blog about it because... well, come on.  You can see why, right?  Who the heck wants to admit on the internet that after 5 years of driving this brute that a stupid lane change ruined everything?  I sure didn't feel like putting that up on the internet.  I was going to fix it.  Well not me personally.  I am not good at fixing things.  I'm good at bodywork but I don't do it anymore. We figured we'd get a gently used door and panel, since parts for these trucks are easy to find, and after some hammering and welding and likely some swearing, we'd be able to get into and out of the truck from the passenger side again.

I drove it like this all summer.

Feeling even more paranoid than usual.

Telling myself we'd fix it.  Just not yet.  Soon.

Here's the thing: I LOVE THIS TRUCK.  I know it's not really anything special but I totally dig it.  I love its bigness.  I love the way it sits with the ass end higher than the front.  I love the proportion of the long box and extended cab.  I love the split bench seat, love the backseat, love the big black steering wheel.  I love the 350 cubic inch displacement, all 8 cylinders worth.  I love that it's over 20 years old.  I love that it's mine.

Here's the other thing: it's got a lot of annoying little things wrong with it.  Door handles, turn signals, things lighting up on the dash that shouldn't.  Some rust has poked through. Now the only working door won't close right.

sigh.



And... THIS.

Add it all up and the result is:  it's not worth fixing.

So I'm sad.

And slightly weirded out by how much importance I place on it... as part of my identity.

You know.  I'm the small woman with the big truck.  I'm the girl with the gnarly old beast that would make many drivers quake.  I can parallel park this sumbitch.  I can look down, literally and figuratively, on all those normal people who drive, y'know, cars.


I'm also ridiculously sentimental.  I have a hard time letting go of things.  I tend to name machines and other inanimate objects.  With me, it's not just a truck, it's a friend!


Well, so long friend.  There will be no rock-n-roll flat black paint job in the future, with bright shiny red rims to contrast, which is just as well since my ol' man scoffs at my big awkward truck and also I don't do bodywork anymore.  There will be no fixed up dash.  No new tailgate handle.

As of today, she's off the road.


even though I'll keep it around

cuz the township says we're allowed to keep a project or two

And since all the scrappers are gone now

I can just hide it under a tree

in case I need parts

like those nifty taillights

or the frame hitch

for my next truck....

The scrapper has left the property...

After four months of sweat and tanks of gas to get to the scrap yard... propane for the cutting torch... chains on the tractor... every scrapper in the yard is gone.  The yard isn't empty exactly, because the horse trailer project still waits for us and the old Pontiac waits for a new owner.  In the last week, the last two old Ford trucks went to the Great Scrapyard in the Sky.  

I won't say I hated to see them go.  My ol' Man's exact words were "Not a minute too soon."  He's been feeling the pressure to get the yard emptied.  Truth is, there is something ridiculously sad about sending a wreck off to scrap.

This had been a useful truck up until a few years ago.  When its owner got out of the snowplowing biz, he brought the two black Fords out here with the intention of doing some kind of project.  But good intentions are hard to keep up with once jobs and kids and mortgages happen to a guy.  He chose to spend his time and money on his wife and kids instead of difficult old trucks.  He made the right decision.  It's hard to let go though, and I know that.  The transmission from this one and the engine from the other truck are still here; he'll be picking them up soon.  Once a gear head, always a gear head.  

I grew up with stuff like this in the backyard.  Only back then it was stuff from the 50s and 60s.  

I knew that it was, and is, actually possible to take an old wreck and turn it into something that can be driven.  It's just that it takes huge amounts of work and money and time.  I'm not willing to sacrifice any of those things anymore.  

But I'm still fascinated by an old truck with a rotten floor.

In 1981, you could still get a truck with a plain bench seat, rubber floor mats instead of carpet, and a steel headliner.  It was practical and all about WORK.  No cupholders, nothing... fancy.

Although it still boasted some mighty spiffy fake woodgrain!!

(Notice the CB holder beside the radio.  As my kids would say, "old School.")

Yeah I'm sure in its day it was a bitchin truck, with that row of clearance lights on the roof and whip antennas, it was a mean ol' 4x4.

So anyways, it and its slightly newer brother, languishing behind the hill for years, are outta here.  

It's the end of an era.

(And the beginning of a nice, empty piece of land at the back of the property.)

He'll have to come up with a new Favourite Thing To Do

One of the great things about dogs - and there are so, so many - is the enthusiasm.  Dogs don't just like stuff.  They LOVE IT.  Walk?  YES! Scratch?  YES!  Snooze? YES!  Car ride? YES!  Dinner?  YES!  Barf?  Poop?  Roll in stinky stuff?  YES, YES YES!

The Pug gets really excited whenever he hears the word TRUCK.  Especially when it sounds like, "Dobby...?  You wanna go in the... TRUCK?!?"

I like to bring him with me to the bus stop when I can.  Since the weather's been nice now, I roll down the windows and let him sniff that wonderful country air, with all the different flavours of smells.

I put this rag rug on the seat in an attempt to keep the pug hair from getting stuck in the upholstery.  It helps minimally. At least he's smart enough to wait for me to put the Pug Rug in before he jumps up into the cab.

He's very happy here.  Very happy.  Riding in the Jetta isn't quite as much fun, because he has to ride in the back seat.  He'd prefer to be right up front, in the girlfriend seat (the middle) where he can stick his nose in the air vent and then rest his chin on my leg.  (He loves me.)

A couple of weeks ago, the farm across the road from the bus stop put their young heifers in the pasture. 

So the Pug was just hangin' and enjoying the nice breeze...

...when suddenly his ears perked up.  

Check him out in the mirror.  Those strange black and white critters needed to be barked at!!

He barked alright.  He barked until the cows shuffled into the bovine version of a dead run.  He sure showed them, he did.  That'll learn 'em to respect the power of the Pug.

As you can see, it's a good thing I bring him with me sometimes.  I mean, Jethro can't always be around to protect me from... well, them.  With their spots and udders and all.

His days of waiting in the truck for the school bus might be short lived.  Not only does school end in a few days, but this whole bus stop routine might not be happening at all next year.  If I'm lucky I'll get the kids on a bus route that stops right in front of our place.  I mean, that would make my life so much easier.  

I'll have to bring him with me to other places.  I know he's welcome at the TSC.  But then there's always his favourite place to go in the TRUCK.  

THE DUMP!  

WANNA GO TRUCK DUMP STINKY TRUCK WITH ME?

YES!

THIS IS WHAT 26 TIRES IN A PICKUP TRUCK LOOK LIKE

Any questions?

I have uncovered the breeding grounds of the SCRAP TIRES!

They are extremely sneaky creatures, but my eradication mission is surging forward with great success.


Here we observe five magnificent adult tires in a resting position.  More accurately, four decent specimens and one gnarly individual which the others appear to be protecting.

On closer inspection, they are all well past their prime.  There will be no mercy shown them when I cull this herd!!  (The lone tire on the ground is actually a domesticated tire which is used as a bumper guard on the tractor.  Best if you don't ask, or second guess my counting skills.)

Once the tires have been removed from their rims, they will be loaded into my truck and shipped off to the place where junk tires go.  TO DIE.

Where do they all come from?  This is the question I'm regularly asked.  Even the guys at the disposal, the guys who know my dog on a first name basis, have asked me where all these tires come from.  Well there is really only one explanation, one which until last week was merely a theory and has now been proven.

They find their way into the long grass and MULTIPLY!  It's the only explanation that makes sense.  To keep the tire numbers down, the males and females would have to be carefully separated.

Clearly, for the past five or twenty years or so, the males and females have not been carefully separated at the Old Homestead.

The problem, however, is that the genders are incredibly difficult to tell apart.

Mike the Vet brought over a load of hay for us on the weekend.  (It's gotta be good hay if I buy it from the vet, right?)  As it turns out, Mike the Vet has had a small problem with pickup trucks breeding behind his barn.  But that's another story, another zoomophological expedition, another blog post.

Anyways.  We asked Mike the Vet how best to tell the males from the females, in order to keep the population down.  It doesn't really matter, since I fully intend to ERADICATE THE ENTIRE HERD but I was curious.

"Oh it's simple," he said.  "The females have a big hole in the middle."








I suspect Mike the Vet could be yankin' my chain here.


Tire reproduction appears to be a mystery.  I am working on a new theory that paired tires are not even necessary to create new ones.  Maybe it takes multiples of two, as pictured, which suggests that tires are not very choosy and do not mate for life.  I generally lean towards my first theory: tires do that asexual or whatever it is thing, like worms.

I'm pretty sure I'm right about this.  One tire left under a tree can sprout into three tires in less than a year.


My ol' man made a discovery in the bottom of the yard the other day.  He was weedwhacking, because I do NOT do any weedwhacking, what with it being loud, and with my hatred for the exhaust from stupid little engines. As he was trimming the long grass, he came across a nest of small tires!

Ha!  We've got them now!  Totally unfazed by their small size and diminutive cuteness, we moved them to a location more easily accessible by pickup truck.  

They will be taken off to the disposal yard before they mature and have a chance to spawn more!!

Don't look at me like that - it's not cruel.  They are not an endangered species.  At least not around here.

But they will be soon, as I continue on with my quest to make the Old Homestead into an Tire-Free zone.  After this, any strays will have to move on to a Wild Tire Sanctuary if they know what's good for them.

Alright, Car. Give it up... SPILL YER GUTS!

Yup.  Everything's completely normal around here.  

Is a Spotlessly Clean Truck a Sign of Good Management, Or Way Too Much Spare Time?

Personally, I'd like to lean towards the second option.  I'd like to say that my truck is a mess, inside and out, because I'm so busy doing stuff with it that I don't have time to clean it.

Of course, that could be a load of crap (ha, just one of the many things I use my truck for) because I suspect those clean, tidy organized people out there are actually capable of doing all that truck stuff and still find time to clean the truck.  I admire that.  I aspire to that standard, I really do, I just don't quite get there.

Having said that, I do like to keep a broom in the box.  I sweep the box out every time I do a dump run.  I hate when the bed's all covered in junk-crumbs.  So I guess I'm not a total truck slob.

I gave it a good vacuum a couple weeks ago when the weather was nice.  Sucking up the fine pieces of mud and gravel was nothing -- the real work, an almost impossible task, is getting all the Pug hairs.  Pugs shed constantly, all year round, and I really shouldn't let him ride in the truck with me... but I have to!  He's my DOG.  And what do you do with a DOG when you have a TRUCK?  Don't say put him in the back.  He's right up there beside me in the Girlfriend seat where he belongs, dirty paws and extra hairs and all.

The last couple mornings when I drive the kids over to the bus stop, I've looked up in my half awake stupor and noticed little muddy paw prints right in my line of vision.  Then I notice the rest of them on the hood. There's still a cat path running across the cab, except for the fan-shaped spot the wipers cleared.

Maybe I just don't care.

Maybe I like having a good supply of blankets and work gloves and shopping bags in the backseat.

Maybe I only have two arms and can't carry everything into the house.

Or maybe I have other stuff to think about.

Like how cute the Pug looks when he's plunked on the seat beside me with his happy tongue hanging out.

It's awards show season and I cannot discuss scrap metal right now, ok?

You know that deal we have with awards shows?

I watch them, and then I post pictures with colour commentary, then you read it so you don't have to watch it yourself, right?  

I need to ask your opinion on something here.  I'm way behind.  I haven't even finished my Golden Globes commentary yet, I've totally missed the Grammys, and we're coming up on the Oscars.  I was really digging that Globes post, but it's really getting old.

DO YOU STILL WANT TO READ IT???

I'm not allowed to write about the price of scrap metal, just in case my readership reacts and causes a huge shift in the price of scrap metal.  Imagine if all the hicks and rednecks and hoarders read my blog and all rushed out to cart that old rusting wreck behind the shed off to the scrapyard.  It would be huge.

So instead, I'm asking you if you'd still like to read about all my incredibly immature "golden globes" jokes.

Because I wouldn't write about the price of scrap metal when it could cause cataclysmic change.

Help me out here, folks, could ya?


Hey, thanks for the help here-- the Golden Globes post is up and ready!  

My poor old truck gets no respect...

First of all, I don't consider a twenty year old truck to be OLD.  It's a truck; it's supposed to last.  Like a Rock and all that, right?  I grew up with a family farm truck that was already twenty years old.  It's still kicking, too.  All summer every day of every year, the old Ford hits the road.  It probably gets more miles in a year than mine does.

So my GMC is not old enough to be an antique, not new enough to be nice, not customized, not special.  Except to me.  It is MINE and my name is on the paperwork.  Therefore it's the best truck in the... well, not world.  Best truck in my driveway?

Jethro juts out his lower jaw and announces that it's the last gas powered vehicle in our family.  The Jetta has him converted.  Diesel or nuthin.  For his next vehicle (which will be a long time from now, the way our income is going) he's thinking of a nice diesel VW Toureg.  All wheel drive.  Or.  A Ford F-250.  Because that way he'd have a man-truck, not this girly Chevy truck.

Geez.

We were driving along with a utility trailer in tow, after a trip through the slob-thru.  Jethro launched into his usual post-slob-thru tirade.  "How can a truck be designed to carry six people and have zero cupholders?"

I rolled my eyes like I usually do and reply, "Because twenty years ago trucks were designed to work, not have coffee shop meetings."

Then he waves his hand around the interior and makes some crack about all the carpeting and upholstery and velvety sun visors.  This makes me sigh in defeat because I know, I know.  Carpet in a truck is STUPID, I mean what were they thinking?  It's really hard to get the clods of mud out... and the woven upholstery is so hard to vacuum the pug hair out of, not to mention horse hair and whatever else got picked up on any day.

On this particular day my ol Man was riding shotgun and of course, his truck has vinyl floor mats all the way across, a vinyl bench seat, and a metal dash.  No pansy fabric anywhere.  Nothing to catch all the dirt, he could just wipe it all down clean, which he wouldn't do if car shows didn't exist.  Me, I gotta spend half an hour and about eight bucks in coins to get my interior clean.

So my GMC loses again.

When our hot chocolates and coffee were gone, I asked Dad to shove then in the Hick Garbage Can for me.  You know what the Hick Garbage Can is right?  The door panel map holder things, in the door panel, you know, where you keep all your stuff and junk but not your maps.

Well.  Doesn't he make note that his Garbage Can holders are much bigger than mine.

Jethro laughed because the Ford's doors are hollow, basically, although the steel is probably twice the thickness, and theoretically Dad could fill the entire door with Root Beer cans.  And still get the window down.

Of course, windows, that's another thing.  I like power windows.  Argument: just another thing to break down and spend money on.

And speaking of spending money!  He has basically the same engine in his truck, but gets waaaay better fuel mileage.  Well if my truck was half its size... I give up on that argument.  I mean, why bother?

Besides, his truck can kick the ass right offa mine.  Most Grandmas can kick my truck's ass.

So what's it good for?  The interior is a pain, it's too big to park, it's horrible on gas.

I'll tell you what.

Other than IT'S MINE, it can carry six people, or, me and my kids and three friends.

I can fit a 4x8 sheet of plywood no problem, with the tailgate closed.  And yes, I've done this many times in the last five years.

I can fit twice the amount of junk than Dad's little old Ford.

Unlike Jethro's F-250, my truck exists.

Oh, also: I am not very big, but my truck is, and yes, size does matter.

My guys really should be kinder to the big ol monster.  She pulled two trailer loads of stuff down the highway on the weekend, with both the cab and box loaded up.  Emptied the gas tank but it was still cheaper than renting a cube van.  I told Jethro that brand new engine two years ago was totally worth it.  He is not convinced.  He tells me when I say things like that, that the truck owes us and we'll have to drive it for the next ten years to get our money's worth.

I say, "YOu're darn right we'll be driving it ten years from now!"

Then my ol Man scoffs.  "No you won't be," he growls, "it's made out of plastic!  It won't last."

Maybe he forgets how stubborn his daughter is.

I kept telling them how great my truck is, mostly in protest.  It is, I admit, looking kinda rough these days.  Too many studio moves, studio construction projects, backyard deck/ shed projects, too many trips to the dump, horse shows, too many winters.  The shiny silver paint Dad sprayed on it five years ago has dulled.  Next time I'm doing flat black.  Well, I'll do the primer, he'll do the paint.  I don't do paint on things with wheels.

I wonder if I can talk him into painting pink and purple flames on it.  How awesome would that be???  He refused to paint my first truck purple; he let me drive it with primered wheel wells instead!  I wonder if Jethro would be seen in it...  I mean, it's not like either one of those guys approves anyways.

Heh heh heh...

It's October: that means 3 things. It's Friday: you know what that means.

You're here, I'm here, outside the cold rain is dripping like misery, but it's Friday, so Johnny's here too. I kinda missed him. Thanks for reminding us to dress warm, Johnny.

Summer is over, kids. I'm as melancholy as you, I'm sure.

October means:

1) digging out the warm hats and flannel shirts. That brings me just a small comforting measure of happiness. I busted out the earflaps hat the other day.

I love flannel. For me, a good plaid flannel shirt is one of the best things about cold weather. It represents warmth and reality and signifies a trustworthy, honest person. Sounds corny, but that's what it says to me.

I'm taking any comfort I can these days. Now that it's over, I can confess that it wasn't the best, most fun summer of my life. We were totally broke, not in the "Can't afford to go to the movies" kind of way (which is why I did NOT get out to see Johnny Depp's latest), but in a "Can't buy cheese and meat in the same week" kind of way. Since I'm training myself to always look for the bright side - even if it hides from me - we did not starve. (I thank God and loved ones for that.) We are not homeless, despite not knowing where we'll be living a year from now. This past summer was all about uncertainty, but we got through it.

There were a few good things about this crappy summer.

I had visitors out to the farm. I got to use my tiny saddle on the little Lady so my friend Cute Stuff could ride her. See, I'm glad I decided to hang onto those cowboy boots my kids outgrew!

We actually did ride, but she would have been okay with standing around and being admired.

It's good to have friends over. Even dogs need friends.

We got one trip to the beach. One. We picked the only nice day in August.

September, however, was beautiful. I'm thankful for weather that allowed me to enjoy the great outdoors with my horses, and kept my kids out of the house after school.

Now it's rainy and miserable and feels like our two weeks of summer never even really happened.

October also means:

2)the Ol' Man will be packing his truck away for the winter. I finally drove it again after a few years of chickening out. If the seat moved all the way up, it would work better for me, but heck, I don't have to shift it into 5th, right? Too skeert to open that thing up and go full speed.

Like the door lock? I think my dad might be a redneck.

He's still got his winter van, but it only seats one other. I need to roll my truck down the big highway. I need wheels (under a cargo box) out at the farm. I need to do something about that highway phobia if I'm ever going to get my truck there.

October brings me a jarring change this year. I'm wandering around my house putting things in boxes. It makes the house look less like our house. My dog is following me around all day looking very confused and concerned.

I'm staring at bookshelves feeling very indecisive. Books don't belong in boxes. They need to be on shelves where they can breathe! This is very hard. I haven't even started on the bedrooms yet. I'm still fretting over books.

Know what else?

October means:

3) It's my Blogiversary.

It's been FOUR YEARS since I started this bizarre little interactive journal. Many of my readers have gone on to other things, and I've gotten new readers, and I'm still writing although finding the time gets harder.

Help me out here. What should we do to mark this occasion? What would you like me to write about? I'm overdue for another H the Heidi magazine but that's really hard to pull off on dial up. Maybe you should tell me about a particularly memorable blog post and I'll re-run it with updates and commentary. I do want to know what readers want to see. I'd be here typing anyways, but it sure is nice to know somebody's reading.

Gotta go. Boxes do not fill themselves.


ps  I pressed a few virtual buttons so that now anybody can comment.  (I think you all know who you are!)