First of all, I want to say that I have NOTHING against trucks... Really.
Last weekend my husband and I went in search of filters for our heater. Tis the season and all of that. Now, I have no interest in poking around in a home improvement center, particularly when I knew we were going to be shopping the rest of the day, so I waited in our SUV. Since it was one of the rare times I actually left home without a book, I had nothing better to do than to watch the fellas and their trucks.
Within a very small area near our SUV I counted 37 trucks, 8 SUVs and 2 cars. Hmmm. I think I'm beginning to see a pattern here. During the time I watched--about twenty minutes--trucks came and went. Not a single one was driven by a woman. Not one.
Truck guys came in all sizes and shapes. Only two of them actually looked like they might need a truck for work. The rest were pretty unlikely types for construction type jobs. One guy walked by and well... he was interesting. He was a young bald black man, dressed in very baggy denim shorts, a rumpled t-shirt, and work boots with out laces.
The next guy was a Sam Elliot clone complete with cowboy boots. The one after him was a paunchy fifty-something dressed in high-water sweat pants and a bright red sweatshirt that didn't quite meet the sweat pants.
Two guys had toddlers with them. One guy arrived with five kids and hiked into the store with the bunch. One man arrived with a little girl, oh maybe about eight years old. It was coolish that day, but she was dressed in a sundress and sandals. No coat. No sweater.
Trucks seemed to be a statement related to their "guy-ness". The truck guys sneered at the guys who had SUVs. The SUV guys sneered at the guys who had vans. And if a guy had
a car? Well, let me tell you. I watched this fellow walk out of the store very purposefully with his arms loaded down with a big package of insulation. He headed straight for a truck in the same lane where we were parked. Stopped. Looked around. And then bopped over to a tiny little car in the next lane. Tossed his insulation in the back seat and peeled out of that parking lot like demons were pursuing him.
I can see why truck nutz are needed. After all, without them, how would you tell who has the biggest ones?
Anny
Yesterday Amarinda left me in the Arctic, freezing my buns off...
“Uh oh,” Zoltan murmured, looking around warily.
“Uh oh doesn’t sound good.”
“It’s not. We’re in deep trouble. That’s a yowie and it wants blood.”
A yowie. Well, if you want to know the lowdown on yowies, check Kelly's blog at http://www.kkirch.blogspot.com/ as she did considerable research on them just for our readers. In the meantime, back in the Arctic, we return to our regularly scheduled programming...
“A yowie? Is that like the abominable snowman? That thing? Why would it want blood?” Emmeline wondered.
“Because it’s hungry!” Zoltan wondered about Emmeline sometimes. She was so literal minded it drove him crazy.
“Well,” she suggested practically, “feed it.”
“With what?” he sneered. “In case you hadn’t noticed, the corner grocery is a ways down the road.”
With an irritated sigh, she yanked the golden carrots from her pack with one hand and held out her other hand palm up. “Fork over the peeler, Zoltan.”
“Not on your life.”
She shrugged indifferently. “Your funeral.”
“Hah. You just want to get your hands on the peeler!” He shook his finger in her face, so worked up he didn’t even notice it was turning blue with frost.
“Zoltan, you’re a dolt! If we feed the carrots to the yowie, maybe it will leave us alone long enough to escape!”
Another ululating howl echoed from the tundra around them.
“All right! But I’m keeping my eye on you, Emmeline. I don’t trust you any further than I can throw you and since you’re a foot taller than me, that isn’t very far!” Zoltan very reluctantly handed over the peeler and watched intently as Emmeline peeled the golden skin from the carrots.
A low growl nearby lifted Zoltan’s wispy hair on end. Emmeline’s quills clacked nervously. Tossing the carrots as far away as she could, she stuffed the peeler in her holster, grabbed Zoltan by the arm and ran in the opposite direction...
Last weekend my husband and I went in search of filters for our heater. Tis the season and all of that. Now, I have no interest in poking around in a home improvement center, particularly when I knew we were going to be shopping the rest of the day, so I waited in our SUV. Since it was one of the rare times I actually left home without a book, I had nothing better to do than to watch the fellas and their trucks.
Within a very small area near our SUV I counted 37 trucks, 8 SUVs and 2 cars. Hmmm. I think I'm beginning to see a pattern here. During the time I watched--about twenty minutes--trucks came and went. Not a single one was driven by a woman. Not one.
Truck guys came in all sizes and shapes. Only two of them actually looked like they might need a truck for work. The rest were pretty unlikely types for construction type jobs. One guy walked by and well... he was interesting. He was a young bald black man, dressed in very baggy denim shorts, a rumpled t-shirt, and work boots with out laces.
The next guy was a Sam Elliot clone complete with cowboy boots. The one after him was a paunchy fifty-something dressed in high-water sweat pants and a bright red sweatshirt that didn't quite meet the sweat pants.
Two guys had toddlers with them. One guy arrived with five kids and hiked into the store with the bunch. One man arrived with a little girl, oh maybe about eight years old. It was coolish that day, but she was dressed in a sundress and sandals. No coat. No sweater.
Trucks seemed to be a statement related to their "guy-ness". The truck guys sneered at the guys who had SUVs. The SUV guys sneered at the guys who had vans. And if a guy had
a car? Well, let me tell you. I watched this fellow walk out of the store very purposefully with his arms loaded down with a big package of insulation. He headed straight for a truck in the same lane where we were parked. Stopped. Looked around. And then bopped over to a tiny little car in the next lane. Tossed his insulation in the back seat and peeled out of that parking lot like demons were pursuing him. I can see why truck nutz are needed. After all, without them, how would you tell who has the biggest ones?
Anny
Yesterday Amarinda left me in the Arctic, freezing my buns off...
“Uh oh,” Zoltan murmured, looking around warily.
“Uh oh doesn’t sound good.”
“It’s not. We’re in deep trouble. That’s a yowie and it wants blood.”
A yowie. Well, if you want to know the lowdown on yowies, check Kelly's blog at http://www.kkirch.blogspot.com/ as she did considerable research on them just for our readers. In the meantime, back in the Arctic, we return to our regularly scheduled programming...
“A yowie? Is that like the abominable snowman? That thing? Why would it want blood?” Emmeline wondered.
“Because it’s hungry!” Zoltan wondered about Emmeline sometimes. She was so literal minded it drove him crazy.
“Well,” she suggested practically, “feed it.”
“With what?” he sneered. “In case you hadn’t noticed, the corner grocery is a ways down the road.”
With an irritated sigh, she yanked the golden carrots from her pack with one hand and held out her other hand palm up. “Fork over the peeler, Zoltan.”
“Not on your life.”
She shrugged indifferently. “Your funeral.”
“Hah. You just want to get your hands on the peeler!” He shook his finger in her face, so worked up he didn’t even notice it was turning blue with frost.
“Zoltan, you’re a dolt! If we feed the carrots to the yowie, maybe it will leave us alone long enough to escape!”
Another ululating howl echoed from the tundra around them.
“All right! But I’m keeping my eye on you, Emmeline. I don’t trust you any further than I can throw you and since you’re a foot taller than me, that isn’t very far!” Zoltan very reluctantly handed over the peeler and watched intently as Emmeline peeled the golden skin from the carrots.
A low growl nearby lifted Zoltan’s wispy hair on end. Emmeline’s quills clacked nervously. Tossing the carrots as far away as she could, she stuffed the peeler in her holster, grabbed Zoltan by the arm and ran in the opposite direction...
Saturday is a slow blog day today. Too bad. I love the truck bit. I have one of those observations about the indirect relationship between the volume of the bass and the age of the driver.
ReplyDeleteSaturday is generally a dead day for blogs. Sometimes Sunday is a bit busier.
ReplyDeleteI may find a pic of the truck nutz and see if anyone notices.
Hahaha...loved the bit about the poor guy who had the car...men and their egos!
ReplyDeleteI used to love driving my dad's truck...a friend of mine (male) said it turned him on to see a woman driving one:)
Loved the truck blog, Anny. grin.
ReplyDeleteSandra