'goin' 'round the world in a pickup truck'

Secret time. I've got a case of truck lust. I credit my enamored state on the fact that I had my first taste of the lovin' in the cab of my boyfriend's truck while we were in college.

Additionally, every time I run across my pretend husband, Mike Rowe, pimping for Ford trucks, I get a little squirmy in my fully boxed spring. I don't know what fully boxed spring is, but Mike seems to think they're important, and I'm all about whatever Mike thinks. Built Ford tough? Come show me, Mike. Come. Show. Me.

When my husband started his new job last fall and learned he'd have access to a pick up truck he'd be able to drive for personal use, I began to conjure up thoughts of just how personal the use could get. Last week, in an effort to coax him home earlier than scheduled, I promised him that if he could make it, we would do something that rhymes with truck (big ole' wink, wink) when he got here. That something also rhymes with the root of "lucky," and I told him I wanted him to get that way in the truck.

Or 'trucky' if you want to make this into a silly, immature poem. I'm OK with that. And yes, I had to explain my plan to him, which, in some small sense, diminished the planned spontaneity of it all, but we rolled with it as soon as he was all "OH!"

Fast forward to said day, and my mood brightened as I pulled around the corner and spied the bed of the truck peeking out from the garage. I know that actually getting the truck into the garage had been a task of monumental proportion for my husband because seriously, with all the deliveries that come to our home on the daily, our garage is reminiscent of the final warehouse scene in Indiana Jones and the "Raiders of the Lost Ark," with boxes and boxes and boxes as far as the eye can see (or I can trip and/or knock over, but I digress). In my head, I totally thought "bow chicka bow wow!" and started humming "Let's Get It On".

Ok, no I didn't. In keeping with my truck love, I actually started humming "Convoy". I had big dreams for this F150 extended cab, ladies and gentlemen. But that was after I finished humming a little of the "Raiders Of The Lost Ark" theme (which, tell me I'm wrong if you don't think it sounds a bit like the theme to "The Empire Strikes Back" in the beginning. Or don't, because a conversation like that one would be the type of thing that would turn my husband on and distract him from something like the truck/luck poem I'd be trying to conjure up to get his attention again. "Look, honey! Shiny things and boobs! Snap, snap. Over here, honey!").

Anyway, back to the task at hand. Hopping out of the mini, a renewed spring in my step and a big old heart thump going on because, oh my gosh, I am NOT kidding when I say trucks get me revved up, I caught the receptive gleam in my husband's eye, and I started to unbutton my coat so he could take a look at what was going on under my hood. BTW, the garage door was down by this time. I'm a giver, people, but not to my neighbors.

A few moments later, we were in the early stages of our own Paradise By The Dashboard Lights when, in the midst of whispering encouraging words, ("Do you love me? Will you love me forever? Do you need me? Will you never leave me?") I realized my teeth were chattering. Chattering so much, in fact, it had the potential to make one of the desired goals of our pick up truck tête à tête risky at best, and painful at most. When my husband mentioned something about not being able to feel his legs, it hit us. The fire of our combined lust had made us forget that the temperature outside at the time was arctic. Not wanting to give up so quickly, there was rubbing and talk of friction put into play, valiant efforts to forge ahead outlined, but when I saw things starting to turn pink that normally aren't quite so pink, we conceded defeat to Mother Nature, who we also decided need to get herself a little some soon.

So, moral of the story. If you wish to ram your Dodge, don't go thinking you should go dropping a payload - or your pants - in the middle of February in some suburban Midwestern town. In the end, the only engine you'll succeed in getting running is the actual pickup truck engine so you can throw open that garage door, throw on your shirt and wait for the heater to kick in again.

For now, you can come knockin', but I swear to you, I will get that truck rockin'.

One day. Probably around the middle of May.