(Post copyright 2011, Dawn Weber)
At 17, I purchased a vehicle so that I'd have a way to achieve my dream...
Attend all parties.
It's good to have goals.
McDonald's job earnings paid for my ride, a 1984 Ford Ranger. But the McDonald's job also interfered with my mission of attending all parties.
So sometimes, I just didn't go to my McDonald's job.
Priorities. I had them.
Yes, my first car was a truck, and it was fantastic. Never caught fire even once. (Unlike that piece-of-shit second car of mine, the Flaming Fairmont of Death. That sum-bitch tried to kill me. Several times.)
As you can see, I've been pondering Deep, Meaningful Bullshit About Life Long Time Ago When We Was Fab again, and I'm feeling kind of down because I've just found out I'm about to lose an old friend.
U.S. Ford Ranger production will end this year, on Dec. 22.
Reality: such a buzzkill.
Since its 1982-83 inception, 7 million Rangers have been sold in the U.S. One of them, the dark blue 1984 one with the strawberry-scented Rolling Stones air freshener, was mine.
I chose a pickup because they are an integral ingredient for a proper get together in my hometown - a Springfield Party. They're perfect transportation to your muddy party venue.
Yeah. Where you see a field or an abandoned strip mine, we see a dance floor.
Not only do trucks take you to the get together, they provide handy tailgate seating, and haul wood for the fire. And where I come from, it is not a party without a fire. And possible brawls. And potential police involvement.
It's all good, though - parties that don't kill you only make you stronger. And I fancied myself pretty badass heading to the fields in my sweet old man truck pickup. All the guys were SO not, not even close to checkin' my style.
Because really. What's sexier than a pint-sized, economically challenged girl in a 2-wheel-drive grandpa truck?
They see me rollin'.
Good, good times.
But then I promptly wrecked it. Three times. In less than two years. Not after parties, no sir - on the way to work and school. In broad-damn-daylight.
Driving skillz - I lacked them.
The insurance premium grew to an astronomical rate, and I was forced to get rid of the Ranger and inherit my Mom's beater, the aforementioned effin' Flaming Fairmont of Death. A mere sedan.
The truck ended up back at my hometown Ford Dealer, and I'm sure it then passed through several more hands and attended several more parties before rusting to death in the junkyard.
Although they weren't - and aren't - nearly as awesome as my
The Husband is wrong.
Even though I'm older and possibly peri-menopausal shut up, I won't ever be without a pickup. You never know when you'll need to haul Walmart bags. Or a keg. Or throw a Springfield party.
Because where you see a tailgate, I see a dance floor.
Long may you run, blue Ranger. I miss you.
