FRESH YARN presents: Mother Trucker... by Wendi Aarons

FRESH YARN presents:

Mother Trucker
By Wendi Aarons

It's not like I planned on risking my life that day. We were at the Houston Grand Prix, on a weekend trip with our friends the Ogdens. Everything was going great. True, we were in a scorching hot parking lot watching deafeningly loud cars zoom by at perilous speeds, but I was actually feeling a little Zen. After all, the only danger I thought I might face was possibly running out of hand sanitizer in the unisex Porta-John. And even that wasn't too worrisome since I'd long ago taught myself how to open restroom doors with my wrists.

We were there because my husband loves race cars. Specifically, the American Le Mans series cars, which means Porsches, Lamborghinis and other European machines sold at dealerships that don't have giant, inflated gorillas on their roofs. For that reason alone, the Houston Grand Prix is a bit more refined than most NASCAR races. Nobody blasts Lynard Skynard, or wears bikini tops made from empty Skoal tins. Hardly anyone's shirtless. And the race car drivers have names like Jacques and Guy, not Stumpy and Rascal. But basically, it's the same drill: you sweat, gnaw on a turkey leg, sweat some more, then go home four hours later with a stomachache, a sunburn and a 10% permanent hearing loss in both ears. Good times.

My husband and I, the Ogdens, and both sets of our two sons under the age of six, spent a few enjoyable hours watching the race, visiting the various vendor booths and making unsuccessful attempts to stay away from the $7 a bottle Miller Beer stands and the trashy hoes giving away Pennzoil stickers. (I guess I shouldn't call those women "hoes." I never actually saw money change hands.) Happy the day was almost over, I was already fantasizing about what I was going to do to our hotel room's naughty minibar, when we turned the corner and entered the "Kid's Area." And that's when things started to get dicey.

I've been friends with Sarah Ogden for a long time. She is a very lovely, very refined woman. A composed woman. A gentle woman. A woman who, I now know, completely loses her shit around big ass monster trucks. Mere seconds after spotting the neon orange "Major Thrust" truck of death in all its 10-foot high glory, Sarah slammed her beer bottle to the ground, hysterically screamed "OHMYGODAMONSTERTRUCK!" and maniacally charged across the parking lot in her high-heeled wedge sandals, dragging all four boys behind her. By the time I closed my dropped jaw and squeaked out "What the..?," she had already paid for their tickets, scaled the two-story ladder into "Major Thrust," and had herself and all four boys strapped into the rickety bucket seats in the truck's bed. I looked around and hoped an Army recruiter hadn't seen her in action.

I knew something had to be done, but because both husbands had wandered off to the Catfish on a Stick booth, it was unfortunately up to me to do it. I immediately stormed over to the truck, determined to rescue my kids from what I was sure would soon turn into the headline: "Tragedy Struck in Houston Today." There was just no way I was going to let them do something this dangerous. I don't even let them eat non-organic dairy products. I mean, isn't real life scary enough without adding in things like skydiving and bungee jumping? Besides, if I wanted to experience a death-defying thrill, all I'd have to do is go to the day-after-Christmas sale at Ross Dress For Less. That's risky.

Standing in the considerable shadow of "Major Thrust", I started to yell up to my boys that they needed to come down right this instant. And then, I stopped. I saw their happy little faces peering at me from skyscraper level and realized that maybe I was being too overprotective. Maybe I was actually being a bad mother by pushing my irrational fears onto them in an effort to keep them safe. They were just having fun with their friends, after all. So had the time come to stretch the apron strings a little further? Like 10 feet further? I stood there in turmoil, my mind grappling with this major life issue, until the owner of the truck said the poignant words my own parents had taught me to always heed: "Get in. You can ride for free." I took a deep breath and started climbing.

Once inside the truck, I shakily sat down and tried not to think about the duct tape/seatbelt securing me to my seat. The boys looked at me and smiled. Sarah looked at me and grinned like a madwoman. I realized then that she'd probably been secretly going to monster truck jams for years. The wench. Then the driver of the monster truck, who looked exactly like the driver of a monster truck, stuck his head through the back window and asked "Are y'all ready?" I took that to be Redneck for "Gets yoselfs right with God," and looked for my husband to tell him I loved him. And that he should start taking pictures immediately for the upcoming lawsuit. I hoped he would see me in the truck and be proud of me for overcoming my fears. Proud of me for letting our kids stretch their wings. But if he was, I didn't find out. He was busy getting Pennzoil stickers.

With a primal roar, "Major Thrust" then sprung to life and suddenly, we were flying across the parking lot like we were The Bandit, and the Alabama Smokies was on our ass. I'm not sure how fast we were going, exactly, but there were probably some G-forces involved. At first it was exhilarating, the way a roller coaster is the moment before you puke up your churro. The boys looked delighted. Sarah looked orgasmic. Then the driver abruptly slammed on the brakes, apparently trying to stop on a dime he'd seen lying on the pavement, and the truck came to a complete, shuddering stop. As we rocked back and forth from the jolt, our heads spinning, he stuck a fake steering wheel through the back window and yelled "Oops! Think I might need this?" I started to yell back that this wasn't the goddamn Blue Collar Comedy tour and could he please just get this Confederate torture ride over with, but by then we'd already started performing a series of nauseating, high-speed "doughnuts". (Which, in case you aren't from a town with a Dairy Queen, are 360-degree spins accompanied by yells of "Whoooo-wheeee!") At this point, the boys' screams became more of the silent, pale variety. Sarah seemed to be re-evaluating her life choices. And I was frozen in position with one arm over each of my boys, insanely hoping my untoned biceps could stop centrifugal force. Oh, it was wonderful.

And then, with a growl and a squeal, we spun out of our last doughnut, streaked 50 feet over to where we'd started and came to a final, jarring stop. I cautiously opened my eyes and did a quick body count. Incredibly, we had all survived. Even more incredible, barring any as-yet-undiagnosed internal injuries, we all seemed to be fine. We got out of our seats and staggered down the stairs to the pavement. Then the realization of what we'd just done hit me and I started to giggle hysterically. We were alive! I was alive! I mean, I was alive, man! I'd stared death in the face and the ugly bastard blinked! I went against every motherly instinct in my body and my kids were still OK! OMG! This was awesome!

"Wasn't that AMAZING?" I screamed. "Didn't you just LOVE IT? SUNDAY, SUNDAY, SUNDAY!!! MONSTER TRUCK RALLY!! BE THERE!! WHOOOO!!!"

The boys simply stared at me blankly, then ran over to the unsupervised bounce house. Sarah stared at me with fear in her eyes, then ran over to the $7 a bottle Miller Beer stand. Well, fine, I thought. So they don't appreciate what we've just done. No problem. The important thing is that I now realize it's sometimes good to venture out of your comfort zone. To shake up your life a little. That sometimes the best thing for your soul comes in the form of a non-street-legal monster truck with 60" wheels. Happy with my newfound wisdom, I slowly walked into the oil fume-filled sunset knowing that from that moment on, I'd live life a little differently. Does that mean I'll ever go on another monster truck ride? Oh, good God, no. I'm not a moron. But what it does mean is that the next time I use a Porta-John, I'm going to touch the door handles. With my bare hands.