On Saturdays and Their Yumminess and on Being a Trucker

Saturdays Rock.

This I already knew, but this particular Saturday was better that a lot of other Saturdays.

Last weekend was pretty fun-filled and busy. Friday I went boogying with my little bro, the next day was my 30th b-day party (what a night...) and then the whole week just took forever to end and was filled with late nights, almost no sleeping, and stress. Rollercoaster of a week. Annual general meeting on Monday. Real b-day on Tuesday. Darts on Wednesday. Work thing Thursday. Drinks on Friday. And today....I got to sleep in. Looking back on the last few sentences, I now realize how I could really have it worse. I could be a heart surgeon, working 80-hour weeks and never seeing my family. I could also be a bus driver and have to do the Quebec-Montreal run every night of the week. Or a trucker. Being a girl trucker would be cool.

I would get to say Roger, Ten-Four on my radio. I think I'd bug the other truck drivers just to be able to say this. Roger would say

'Ok boys, we're meeting at the truck stop off the 40 and staying there overnight
to sleep in our cabs.'

Then I would get to say

'Roger, Roger. Ten-Four. SlikChik out.'

SlikChik would be my trucker name. Would they let me have a trucker name? They all have trucker names, right? It's lettered on the front of the cabs in italics, usually. Ti-Joe. Le Flo. Bernard 'Tiguidou' Lalancette. So I get to be SlikChik. I can do what I want, I am a girl truck driver. And they would protect me and make sure I did not get shit from other truck drivers from other provinces. We'd be hauling those giant tree trunks from one end of the country to the other and we'd stop in, like, Manitoba, and the Manitoban truckers would be all like,

'Ooooh check it out, Bill, it's SlikChik. Shush, she's coming this way'

And I'd walk up to the bar at the trucker's hangout in the middle of Nowhere, Manitoba, and order a glass of red wine. And I'd sit at the table with my crew and all the Manitobans would stare at me because I would be a legend. And my boys would get up and walk over to their tables and tell them off, high-fiving each other on the way back to our table. And I'd be the silent type. Would barely talk. The less words, the better. They would be meaningful words. And I'd have a long cowboy-type coat, all oiled and shit, and I'd have motorcycle boots. Black ones. And leather pants. And after my glass of wine, I'd retire to my truck affter saying 'Later, boys' to my crew, leave the trucker joint and walk through the parking lot, all the way to the other end (parking lots are huge in those truckstop places) climb on up into the back of my cabin and pull all the curtains for privacy.

Then I'd turn my laptop on, check out my favorite blog, turn off my laptop, pull out my knitting, have herbal tea and kiss my kitty cat.

Damn, Saturdays are cool.