A PERIOD OF MOURNING, PLEASE

AP: Tuesday, April 16, 2010: Sierra Vista, AZ: HEADLINE NEWS: A national day of mourning has been announced to honor the demise of Hope Wiltfong's 2003 Mazda B2000 Pick-Up Truck, affectionately nicknamed Blanca.

Officials representing GEICO insurance this morning declared the vehicle "not worth the repair costs" following a low-impact collision with the official Little Old Lady of Pasadena (no, wait, that should be ME, not the other driver, right?). Family members were contacted, and will be with the truck when it is officially taken off life-support early tomorrow morning.

Known county-wide as "that stupid pick-up with all those asinine bumper stickers," Blanca provided years of casual reading for all behind her at traffic lights, the drive-through at Dairy Queen, and the parking lot of Target. Her owner, Hope Wiltfong, insisted that "I will continue to cover her with bumper statements until you can no longer see any white truck" while also categorically denying that it was intended to be any sort of racial statement.

Black armbands will distributed at Mazda dealers nation-wide, with one minute of silent tribute to be paid at 12:34 p.m. Arizona non-Daylight Savings Time. In lieu of flowers, the family asks that donations be made to the American Motor Engines Nation-wide (A.M.E.N.).

HOW MUCH IS THAT DOGGY IN THE TRUCK?

Some people think a big truck says something.

And I have to assume in Arizona, at least, it must be something western, cowboyish, male and not, er, the  inadequate phallus that comes to my mind when the truck is jacked up seven feet, had four doors and a "MCCAIN/PALIN" sticker in the window (besides, wasn't that race decided about a year ago?)

But there is one thing about a truck which  makes everyone smile.

A dog in one.

I don't know if it is the goofy grin on the dog's face, the nose pointed into the airflow, or just the fact that is a dog.

But it does make fellow motorists smile.

20/ 20 HINDSIGHT

I hate going to church.

Almost each and every Sunday, I am racing out of the front door at the last possible minute (or on days such as today, 20 minutes later that that), usually wearing whatever was the closest to the door in the closet, having frantically stuffed my two bags with what I think I am going to need in church.

And I tear up our dirt road - me, the resident who is OBSESSIVE about people driving ANY speed on our roads that raise ANY dust, who normally is creeping along at about 8 mph and continually staring at her rear-view mirror to ensure that I am not leaving any sort of cloud behind me - I go hauling truck at about 30 mph, HUGE swirls of tan clouds being kicked up by my tires.

I hit the highway, pressing the speed limit as close as I feel I can (and for me, that's about 3 miles over - I am also compulsive about not driving too fast - why get a speeding ticket, EVER, when all you have to do is drive the allotted amount - and don't mind having drivers continually passing you with angry hand gestures).

I skid into the church parking lot, being forced to park at the far end of the lot (people don't start leaving church until after the sacrament is passed), walk as fast as heels and an A-line skirt will let me, try to slip into the front church pew without attracting attention (yeah, like that's possible), and catch my breath.

And three hours later, without fail, I walk out of church incredibly thankful that I came to church, I was taught, I learned, and I feel hopeful for this coming week.

MY LOVE IS AN ANCHOR

There are some evenings that are just perfect.

A hot day, followed by the rapid cooling of twilight. The sweat's still trickling down you back, but the breeze coming in through the windows suddenly causes chicken skin (that expression is so much better than 'goose bumps') all over your body.

And you're driving, and the local radio station which normally carries music you can just barely tolerate is blasting out the absolute best songs ever.

Songs that you know every single lyric to - songs which have that perfect harmony part (essential to someone like me who can never stay with the melody alone).

Songs from when you were in college - or when you had that incredible job or when you lived in that fabulous place.

Some times they are the ones that make you cry.

The first song you danced to with him.

And sometimes lyrics don't even tug, they simply wrench your heart.

Do these lyrics mean anything to any of you? Because these were the ones I was hearing:

It's kind of a special feeling
When you're out on the sea alone
Staring at the full moon, like a lover


So I'm sailing for tomorrow, my dreams are a dyin'.
And my love is an anchor tied to you
Tied with a silver chain.
I have my ship and all her flags are a flyin'
She is all that I have left
And music is her name.


He runs, wishing he could fly
Only to trip at the sound of good-bye
Wordlessly watching
He waits by the window
And wonders
At the empty place inside
Heartlessly helping himself to her bad dreams
He worries
Did he hear a good-bye?
Or even hello?


You need to find a brand new start
But you're almost afraid to be true to yourself
Oh, but it's all right
Once you get past the pain


I've come far
From the life I've strayed in
I've got scars
From those dives I've played in
Now I'm home
And I'm weary in my bones
Every dreary one night stand



Someday your child may cry
And if you sing this lullaby
Then in your heart
There will always be a part of me

There's just an empty space
And you coming back to me
Is against all the odds
And that's what I got to take


Get up in the morning, look in the mirror
A moment there's a toothbrush hanging in the stand
My face ain't looking any younger




Oh.


And you need to be eating an ice cream, especially one that is rapidly melting, during all this.

Trust me on this last one.

STEREOTYPICAL

Last night I was (SURPRISE!) in the drive-thru line at Dairy Queen because I was feeling..
1) unappreciated,
2) sorry for myself, and
3) angry at my spouse.

Solution? ICE CREAM!

I was second-in-line, right behind a Big Wheels For Adults Super Jacked-Up-So-High-You-Can-Drive-Another-Car-Under It Big Truck.

Now, I must share something extremely personal.

I am a compulsive rear-view voyeur. When stopped at a light or in line, I casually watch the people behind me.

And much more often than I should, when I am driving at down the highway at 65 mph.

It began as a good driving technique - my dad taught me that being aware of who was behind me was as important as knowing what was in front of you -- and since he went 65 years accident-free...

Then it became just fun to watch what people are doing behind you.

To a SICK fixation to observe those who have no idea that they are being scrutinized by me.

I know, I know; someone, please tell me there is a twelve-step program out there for this, and send me the website address.

Anyway, yesterday behind me was (okay, I am being brutally honest here) was a white dude, wife-beater shirt, military crew-cut but a little bit too much weight to be active-duty... in a not-as-manly as the truck in front of me, but real close.

He and his wife were doing that irritating (and not just to rear-view watchers such as myself, but each and every one of s who has ever worked a drive-up window) drive up to the menu, stop, then stare straight ahead and not even GLANCE at the menu until the speaker squawks with "Whaddayawant?!"

And THEN, and only then, begin to look over the menu for four minutes before even beginning to come to a decision.

Come on, people, this is DAIRY QUEEN - it's ice cream or nothing - don't you know what you CAME here for ALREADY?!

So I am mentally beginning to catalog all the grating failings of this dude - unappetizing physical appearance, blank stare, obviously over active
testosterone glands judging by the amount of underarm hair in plain view....

HOLD ON JUST A MINUTE. The only real thing wrong with this guy is that I am in a bad mood. I am being critical and judgemental and MEAN.

And also a total hypocrite, since I am always furious when people are judging ME by my external (and obviously far from perfect) appearance.

So I stopped myself, and began listing the possible positive characteristics that this guy very well could have:

- He obviously loved his wife/girlfriend/significant other sitting next to him; he was getting her ice cream (always a smart move for any type of guy - if doubt, don't get her roses, get her ice cream)

- He was probably a great dad, and coached his son's Little League team, taught his daughter's karate class, and knitted gun cosies like Emerson Cod for his associated weapons.

- He possibly was dealing with the slowing down of construction, and was working a second job as a .... a wife-beater?

Okay, well, give me some credit, at least I tried.

SEARCH AND RESCUE TEAM

I can't tell directions. Well, no, actually I seem to have a magnetic needle somewhere in my body. It doesn't point exactly north, but it generally gets me where I want to go.

But when I hear a voice (I mean, a voice that is not inside my head), I have to do a 360 to figure out where the heck it's coming from. It makes me look pretty goofy... okay, those of you who know me, it makes me just a little more goofy than normal.

So when my cell phone rings (BIZARRE-MY CELL PHONE JUST RANG), I check in the places I normally keep it - my jeans front pocket. I just don't keep it any place else - so I usually know where it is.

Today? Guess what? IT WASN'T THERE. And since I was driving at the time, I pulled over to the side of the highway.

By chance, I had also just driven past a group of workers who were creating a rather large rock entryway into a has-been-in-developement-and-yet-nothing-being-built-for-the-past-three-years area. And after watching a frantic white woman throwing random large items from her truck in a fruitless hunt for the ringing phone, several men offered to help (after muttering "una senora loco" or something like that), used their cell phones to make mine ring, located it, and pulled it out for me.

I also discovered that under my truck seats was an sickening, gelatious viscid MASS, composed of melted bubble gum, squashed Carls Jr. french fries (from when my son was driving my truck every day to work there), spilled Diet Coke and items that I don't ever want to acknowledge, and mingled with $8.39 (mainly in nickels and pennies), thirteen bungee cords, and two towels I must have snitched from Cochise Health and Racquet Club years ago.