I drove my husband's truck to my orthodontist appointment this morning.
It's a nice truck. It's an F-150 Supercrew and it has heated leather seats and automatic everything. It even has a DVD player.
But a truck is still a truck. And this one is green and sits up nice and high. Let's just say that it sure fits in around these here parts. Whenever I drive it, people tend to look me over. I guess it still isn't that common for little girls like me to drive great big trucks.
This morning I scared myself.
We have one decent radio station here on the bayou. But they have the most annoying morning show. So I was using the scan button to try and find something different. (I should have brought my iPod cradle!) I stopped on a song that sounded familiar. I think it's called Little Bitty. I refuse to look up the song or the artist because, damn it, I'm just not going there.
But oh dear lord! I was listening to country music in my pick-up truck.
I just couldn't let that happen, so I scanned some more. And I found a soft rock station that was playing John Cougar Cheetah Leopard Summercamp Melloncamp. Now I was driving a pick-up and listening to Small Town. No!
It's time to freaking move.
But driving a big truck does have some advantages.
I pulled up to a red light on the way home and there was a Little Bitty Small Town car in front of me with a Marriage = *stick figure man* + *stick figure woman* + *illegitimate stick figure child* bumper sticker.
And I considered it. Big truck + Accelerating right over shitty little car with hateful driver = One satisfied Tuna Girl.
But we paid a bucketful of money for the damn truck and my husband really likes it. Plus with my luck, I'd get arrested and the prosecution would use my blog against me.
Oh well. It was nice to fantasize for a while.
Did I mention that it was time to move? Six years down on the bayou is six years too many.