Just fitting in!

I have been tooling around town in *Mah Chruuuuck* this week, trying to get used to it. It is comfy and fun, especially when I can embarass H in our uber-uptight neighborhood by driving up to the house while waving and shouting to him in my sleeveless shirt with my bra straps halfway down my arms.

And I now refer to H as John Boy...

When I became a full-fledged horse-owner, I *mentioned* to H that it was probably just a matter of time before I got a truck to, you know, complete the scenario. Of course, H was well aware I had wanted a truck for quite some time. He knew I wanted a truck when we bought our first car together, a Dodge Colt. He knew I preferred the cute Ford Ranger when we traded the Colt for a Mercury Topaz (a 4-door because we needed a “family-type car” even tho we did not have kids, gah!). For a couple of years, H figured he pacified me by agreeing to a succession of GMC Jimmys…I guess the Jimmys made up for the Topaz by not contributing to what seemed to me was our careening rapidly towards a Buick 4-door sedan before age 40. While we were driving the second Jimmy, the ‘Crossover SUV’ was developed. I firmly believe the Crossover was formed specifically with H in mind, as he could have his *Family Car*, I could have my *Truck*, and there would finally be world peace. Thus, we purchased The Crossover, a Mitsubishi Outlander.

I still wanted a truck.

A couple of weeks ago, a friend of ours bought a new car. Much to my delight, he was getting rid of his rather worn and torn 1997 GMC Sonoma for the attractive price of $500! A tweak here (new tie rods, new brakes, and a new set of tires), and a tweak there (a new door latch and a reinforcement of the seat), and SCORE!!, I have morphed into Mary Ellen Walton for less than $2,000.

I call it “Mah Chruuuck”, and even though I ride English, I told H I'd like to to outfit the back window with one of those humongous “Cowgirl UP” decals and perhaps even one of these bad boys, so I can drive H completely nuts.

Now for some International, Faith-Based riding

The barn where I ride has a fairly nice indoor arena. Someone was kind enough at one point to hook up a small stereo system so you can listen to the radio while you ride. It is quite nice to be able to tune out distracting noises, especially during this month of legal fireworks and loud motorcycles. Normally, the barn radio is set to the local Country station…definitely not my favorite, but noise to drown out noise nonetheless; however, might I say the past couple of rides have provided us some interesting musical offerings.

Now, I will preface this by saying that my taste in music is fairly wide…I guess I would be considered a fan of Classic Rock; however, I can tolerate the occasional sappy pop tune or oldie. Of course, being married to H means I have gone Country my fair share of the time as well. I will further preface this by saying that George’s music tastes probably run closer to Hard Rock or Heavy Metal. He is a Head Banger, Big Hair kind of horse for sure. A healthy dose of Led Zeppelin or Def Leppard with a bit of Bon Jovi or Poison thrown in and he is a happy boy.

Last week, I flipped on the radio when I arrived at the barn. I did not pay attention to the dial; however, I figured it was set, as usual, to Country. We were all set to kick up our heels for a barn-raisin good time; but as George and I began to walk around, I realized we were riding to the Spanish station that is very close on the dial to the Country setting. I was already in the saddle and warming up so I told George to Cowboy Up and deal with the fact that we were about to have an exhilarating workout to La Bamba, La Vida Loca, and several Menards advertisements in Spanish. He was not humored in the least.

Yesterday, much to George’s dismay and my evil and sarcastically sick humor, I discovered mid-ride that the local Country station plays Christian Country on Sundays. Although, I do not attend Church regularly, I was raised Catholic, went to a Catholic College, married an Irish Catholic...I have had my fair share of religious experiences, including but not limited to a college prof who spoke in tongues and a roommate who was a Litergical Dancer. (We regularly drove her to drink by referring to it as Lethargical Dancing.) I am not a heathen by any means, but trotting serpentines to ‘Our God is an Awesome God’ just cracked me up no end. It was such a hoot! George, on the other hand, did not find this at all funny. He kept shaking his head as if he were mimicking his Heavy Metal heroes and completely shunning the musical ministry that glowed thru the dust of the arena.

I am thinking this week we’ll try Polka Music.