I’m not a girly girl. Or at least I never used to be. I was once the very definition of a tom boy. Climbing trees and playing football in the mud was more my style.

Then suddenly I grew up, had babies and found more appropriate ways to spend my time than rolling around in the mud.

It didn’t help that my best friends happen to be the very definition of girly girls. Heck, my best friend can’t leave the house with out her socks matching her shirt, her necklace matching her earrings and her pedicure setting off her lipstick.

I don’t even clip my damn toenails. Heh. And the only necklaces I have are the medals I won in my track and field glory days.

My idea of being a frilly girl is wearing a shirt that nicely promotes my feminine rack. I find it helps distract people from noticing the lack of makeup and the freakishly hairy legs I have.

To this day, I still prefer playing in the dirt to having to doll up and pretend I’m a woman.

Yet slowly over the years, I’ve buried my dirty girl side a little deeper and started to embrace my inner woman. I can gussy up with the best of them and not feel so socially awkward anymore.

But I find I’m taking out the garbage less and less and passing that on to Frac and my husband. Same goes with digging flower beds or hauling wood.

It’s not so much that I’m scared I’m going to break a nail (heck, I cut them all to the quick anyways) but more that I am fundamentally lazy. Why do something that involves back breaking labour when I can get a boy to do it?

It’s just common sense, people.

Still, I worry about the example I am setting for my kids. I want my kids to know I can do anything from cleaning out a freezer of rotten meat to fixing the plugged toilet and everything that falls in between.

Which is why I was annoyed with myself. After weeks of staring at my new shiny rusty truck sitting in my driveway I realized I hadn’t gone near it since my husband tossed the keys in my lap and drove off.

That truck scared me. I was afraid of getting stuck or having oh, the axels fall out, while I was driving it.

Which as my friends pointed out, is ridiculous because just last Wednesday I got stuck in a muddy ditch with my car and managed to get unstuck all on my own. (So I may need a new transmission. Big deal.)

I was avoiding the truck. I needed to conquer my fears and stop thinking like a priss and just drive the damn thing.

So I did. Sure I kinda bunny hopped it for a few clicks until I got the feel of it, but before long Bertha and I were fast friends. My husband was right. She did run like a dream.

I got so excited about my new scary truck driving abilities that I decided to head over to my best friend’s place and show off my driving prowess. As she saw me bounce that rig up her bumpy drive way she told the hubs to look after the kids and than ran out to greet me.

Turns out Bertha likes to go 4×4′ing. Turns out my best friend just happens to own a large amount of land conducive to letting Bertha’s bitchiness loose.

Picture two stay at home moms war whooping and laughing as we bounced about and sprayed dirt through the fields.

Turns out, I should really be a monster truck driver. It would seem I’ve got an affinity for it. Heh.

Or at least that is what I thought until I decided to pin it through a rather wet looking bog. And sank my Bertha up to her axels.

Shit.

 
 

 

Only my truck was in deeper than this. Gotta love Alberta in the spring. 

After getting out to push while my best friend pinned it, I decided we were good and stuck. Plus, I was eating mud. Literally. So we trudged back to the yard to go pick up her truck. A big ole Dodge with a handy winch.

One way or another this truck was coming home with me. Even if I had to dismantle it piece by piece.

As we walked into the yard her husband saw that we were without wheels and that I looked like I had just taken a mud bath.

“Where’s the truck?” he snickered.

“Out back. It needed a rest. We thought we would bring out a buddy to keep it company,” tmy best friend evaded while climbing into her truck.

“You got her stuck, didn’t you?” Like he has never got a truck stuck before. Harumph.

“No,” my best friend replied very haughty like, while I did my best to wipe my glasses clean.

“I’m telling Boo,” he laughed. “Do you need a hand?” Because you know, we’re just girls.

“Thanks Cowboy, but I’ve got this covered. You just be a good boy and take care of your kidlets. I think I hear one of them screaming right now,” I may have replied snottily as I jumped into the cab.

If Boo caught wind of this my ass was grass. I would never live it down. I needed to get this truck unstuck so I could resume to more ladylike pasttimes such as knitting and ironing.

So we bounced out to where my lovely truck was sitting in the mud, looking dirty and forlorn and we hitched up the winch and let it rip.

Finally, after about 45 minutes of gentle lady like cursing and the smell of burnt rubber in the air, Bertha was freed from her muddy prison with a great sucking sound.

My best friend and I got out of our respective vehicles, which were now so muddy you couldn’t see what colour they were painted, and high fived each other.

 
 

 

It took over twenty dollars at the car wash to get my truck half clean. Heh. 

“Who needs a man?” we giggled.

“Race you back to the house,” I called as I jumped into my ratty truck.

So I’m not scared of my truck anymore.

And while the men folk are slightly miffed that we played in the mud without them, they are willing to overlook the fact that for an afternoon, my girlfriend and I were decidedly unladylike.

As it turns out, there is nothing sexier than two women wrestling in the mud.

Boys.

Me, I’ve got to remember to be less ladylike more often. Because damn was that fun.

Except for the part where I cracked my head against the roof of the truck as I flew over a small hill.

Next time as I get my tomboy boots on, I’ll remember to buckle up.

For all of you who wonder how how we hicks spend our time. This was filmed not far from where I live. 

***I dedicate this post to my darling Boo who turns 33 today. May you have a great birthday love. I promise to give you a good er, ride when you get home. I’m just not saying what type of ride. Wink, wink.***