MUSINGS FROM THE MIND OF AMANDA

So, I’m a Texan. I don’t just mean I’m FROM Texas, I mean, I am a TEXAN. What’s the difference? Simple. Texans are not just people from Texas. You can be a transplant and become a Texan, just like you live there a million years and never quite quality.

To see if you’re a Texan, try this simple test:

1. Does thinking of living anywhere else make feel like throwing up?
2. Do you consider boots formal wear?
3. Do you posses enough random things in your vehicle to start a war…or end one?
4. Have you ever said the word “ice” and had someone mistake it for “ass?

Here’s how to score: Four “yes” answers mean you’re a Texan.

Just kidding. Here are some true stories, though.

My husband uses his truck’s text to talk feature. He told me to remind him about the hamburger meat in his ice chest. The text I got told me to remind him about the hamburger in his ass. I responded that I’d think he could remember that on his own.

Today, I was in Kansas City, Kansas. A gentleman from the local ice facility came by. I told someone the “ice man” was here, and could not figure out why he was giving me such strange looks. Turns out, he was afraid to go to the door knowing the Ass Man was out there.

Here’s another true story: My husband is a paramedic. We were taking a weekend trip and saw a terrible car wreck. He was first on scene, and immediately began trying to assist. Within ten minutes, someone showed up with a crowbar to open car doors. Somebody dropped by with some ice because it was so hot. And when he said he wished he had a backboard, no lie, someone ran to their truck and brought him a boogie board.

Another true story: We carry jump boxes, which are just battery charges that will start your car. We jumped THREE different people off in one day.

I drive a Yukon. It’s an enormous vehicle. Shimmering crimson. Twenty two inch wheels. Four wheel drive. Armed. At any given time, I can jump start your car, air up your tires, bandage assorted cuts, tie down anything you need, provide plastic wrap and duct tape, and do it all with black leather seats, air conditioning and a smile. If I go on a trip and decide I need to haul some furniture back, no problem. Flip the seats down and load ‘er up. Got a new trailer? No worries, there’s a hitch in the back. Just pop the bumper cover and hook it up. In some parts of Texas, you stand on this and you’re the highest point of elevation for miles. And it’s shiny.

What I’m saying is I love this truck. But I can’t take it on work trips. It’s cheaper to rent a car and pay for the gas than it is to pay mileage on mine. Which is a bummer, because this time the rental place gave me a Chrysler Pacifica. A minivan. It only had 711 miles on it. I put almost that much on it yesterday. I feel like I’m sitting on the ground. And when someone was driving ten miles an hour below the speed limit in front of me? Ha. In the Yukon, you can “encourage” people to speed up or move over. In the minivan, all you can do is check their homework and give them a ride to soccer practice.

You also don’t get the same respect. People (literally) look down on you. I’m referring specifically to the teen age creep in the 4Runner who gassed it to pass me at a red light so he could .31 seconds before me. I hope he gets acne. People don’t do that with the Yukon. They’re afraid of being sucked into it’s gravity field and having to go to my house for extraction.

I have to deal with the minivan for four and a half more days and roughly 800 miles. Is it a bad vehicle? Of course not. Is it as good as mine? Not by a long shot. I need my Texas truck back!