In the course of our relationship, I have come to understand the mister has many obsessions. Mountain biking. Blowing things up (at least his job offers a good outlet in this respect). Me (thank goodness). Another one is big dumb redneck trucks.
Well, vehicles in general. Dude owns lots and lots of vehicles, many of them housed on his parents’ farm behind the barn in true redneck fashion. The ones currently at our house: big blue truck, black motorcycle, crappy blue gas-saving compact car. The ones at his parents’ house: blue truck with Betty Boop painted on hood, black truck with green rims, old Bronco, some other truck, 1966 Mustang, 1989 Mustang, old soon-to-be-restored Harley belonging either to the mister or his papa (ownership is unclear).
I will admit to liking cars. No, loving cars. Sleek, low little sports cars, beautiful, curvy cars with big engines, the glossy good looks of European racers and the unabashed power of vintage muscle cars. I know how an internal combustion engine works and, courtesy of my brother, my dad, and my husband, I’m learning all about car maintenance (beyond oil changes, which I already knew how to do) and I like it. I love knowing how my car works, knowing what the difference is between a big block and a small block engine and knowing what in the hell a 5.0 Mustang is and why 5.0 is a good thing. I know the satisfying feel of dropping a car into third and feeling the surge of power when you hit the gas.
But I don’t like trucks. I mean, I see the perks. It’s easy to haul a load of mulch in a truck, puddles aren’t that big of a deal, and you can drive over pretty much anything that gets in your way. Trucks, to me, are for hauling, moving, and sucking gas. They are not pretty, sleek, or fun to drive. Ever tried parking a one ton pickup? Good luck.
A few years ago, instead of the current crappy blue car that gets better gas mileage than the giant, gas sucking blue diesel truck, the mister drove a Bronco II. The thing was an indeterminate color. It had once been brown (ick) but the paint had faded, chipped, and given way to rust, so the whole thing was a mismatch of earth tones. It smelled like pee. I couldn’t find third gear. The driver’s door opened only with brute force. The little Bronco was affectionately nicknamed Shitbox. Due to a flat tire, I once had to drive the Shitbox instead of my nice cushy Chevy and it was awful. I’ll repost the entry from my old blog about that day.
After a winter of Shitbox driving, I convinced (read: nagged until he gave in just to stop the noise) the mister to donate the Shitbox to the lung cancer society and take a tax write off.
A few months later, Shitbox II moved in. Another Bronco, this one was a full-sized monster with two behemoth tires and two teeny-tiny tires. It was mostly red with a couple rust patches and the interior, while musty, did not stink like pee, so it was an improvement. The mister kept this one around for a couple weeks, replaced the two teeny-tiny tires with two more jumbo tires, tinkered with the engine, and sold the bugger at twice what he paid for it. Worthwhile, certainly, but not enough for me to rejoice in having to give up my parking spot in the driveway for that thing.
Shitbox II. Note the tiny tire in the back. Also note its location in my parking spot.
And most recently, Shitbox III showed up. Actually, it’s hanging with my in-laws but only because I told the mister he’s only allowed two vehicles at our house and those two spots are currently occupied. My guess is that in a couple days, his little blue commuter car will up and disappear and Shitbox III will be blocking me into the driveway.
Shitbox III. Those weird spots on there are mud.
Shitbox III is big. It has huge tires. Even with my freakishly long legs, it takes a little bit of a jump to get into it. When you rev the engine the entire truck rocks from side to side with the force of that much internal combustion. When I expressed my overwhelming joy (ha) at the mister’s acquisition of yet another Shitbox, he took me down to his parents’ house and took me “mudding.”
“Mudding” is a pastime wherein you take a large truck off of a perfectly good road and into a mucky, muddy patch of field and whip shitties. Entertaining, sure, but this is Minnesota. I can get all my shitty whipping in in December and I don’t need to buy a special vehicle to do it.
Anyway, he took me mudding in an effort to convince me that the purchase of Shitbox III was a worthwhile investment.
I went straight from work, so I was wearing my lawyer clothes: silk/wool blend suit and these awesome open-toed stiletto-heeled shoes. Perfect mudding attire.
We went mudding and when we were about a mile from his parents’ house, way down at the bottom of a sufficiently muddy ravine, the mister somehow mudded his ass into a swamp. Where the Shitbox got stuck. Up to the axles. Truck wasn’t going anywhere.
Guess who got to walk the mile back to his parents’ house up the ravine, through tick-infested alfalfa fields, and across the road, which involved hopping a fence, in a suit and heels. Guess! No cell phone reception in the sticks, boys and girls, so walking was it for us.
Seriously, one would think you have to work hard to get a four-wheel drive truck with huge tires stuck in the mud, but nope, you just have to have a woman in the truck that would rather get her eyes poked out than walk a mile and getting stuck is guaranteed.
The good news is that once we got to the in laws’ house, my father in law got out the tractor and drove down with the mister and yanked the truck out while I sat inside the house sipping tea and watching the evening news with my mother in law.
Also, how completely redneck is this whole post? Seriously.
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