That Blasted Chevrolet

So, am I the side-chick, or is she? “She” is a black Chevy Silverado, complete with a black “bull-bar” attached to the front bumper (shout out to Australians for that word. It’s a “brush bar” in America), tinted windows (gotta have ’em in the South and probably Everywhere! Coming Soon!), and loud speakers that I mostly use for NPR (I like rap, hip-hop, rapeo, regeaton, whatever has a lot of cool twists and turns of phrases – exactly what most artists of color produce and which is why there are those that try to rip ’em off. I just love to listen, but I ain’t got rhythm, so I stick to the written word. But wait, what? Turn off the damn radio for a second).

I have never asked my husband that question (Mi amor, who’s the side-chick? Me or the vehicle?) because really, it’s just a personal joke of mine (I think I’m literally the only one that gets it. Like, why would you joke that your husband’s having an affair with his truck?) Eh, why not?

That Chevy and he were ride-or-die long before I came into the picture. Now, I drive that truck, and I can tell that she don’t like me much. Jealousy. But who is the envious one, really?

My husband and I live, and communicate, over long distance. Marriage is difficult, and that difficulty is compounded by many miles. I should be accustomed, though. I’ve always had a long-distance relationship with my father (he drives the long haul). As for friends, you can probably make an educated guess.

What’s the deal with men and their cars? Or, in my case, with cars and their women? Why am I personifying a Chevy? I don’t know what this post means, and I suspect it’s the result of some miscommunications (you can speak the same language, but still misunderstand every, single word) that transpired over a very short weekend. The kids are sick, and I’m in a frenzy of writing what I’ve always wanted to say (the sickness and the writing have made for a lot of crying the last few days; on the part of everyone in my house).

Ah, well, I’m not asking for any sympathy. Sympathy doesn’t do me any good when the kitchen’s still a mess, the coffee pot’s on it’s last leg, and the baby’s teeth have a while before they finish coming in. Sympathy doesn’t help a writing woman, who’s terrified of becoming one of inspiration’s many side-chicks. Inspiration is like a toxic relationship: each of you stalk the other, and then threaten to leave forever. But alas, back to my argument with the truck.

Sometimes, I start to feel lonely. But then I think, “Nah, we’ve got the tomato plants to check, and the TV to turn on.” I refuse to hop in the Chevy to go see anyone, ‘cuz I hate to drive that truck. And that’s only because I’m pretty sure I know who the side-chick really is.