Half a Million Miles..

Riding in the truck this lovely evening, the conversation popped up that Gidget the Truck needs a new CD player.

"I think we should put in a dock for the ipod," said Erik. "Then we'd have hundreds of songs to listen to."

"I was thinking of a CD/cassette deck," quoth I. "That way, I can listen to my mix tapes (READ: airchecks)."

Erik said he didn't know if they even SOLD those things anymore. Humph, how dare I dream of such; silly, archaic woman that I am. I must have been cryogenically frozen for the last twelve years or so and somebody just unplugged me one summer here so I would thaw.

"Hey, my first car, my Olds '77 Cutlass Supreme, had an EIGHT-TRACK PLAYER. And a JANIE FRICKE EIGHT-TRACK was STUCK in it. And it WARBLED. And that's ALL we could listen to, me and the cheerleading squad. Erik thought I'd gone mad. Surely I was fabricating such faerytales. Janie Fricke. HA! LIES, PURE LIES!

I set out to prove my tale. I called Crystal, because we have a Cheerleader Pom Pon Trust that cannot be broken by space and time. Voicemail. Dang it.

Called Mom. Voicemail. She had that car as long as she had ME.

Tried Dad. Had to yell to him the entire story over the volume of the work party, and he laughed and told me he loved me, would talk to me tomorrow.

Aaaand, Elissa corroborated my story. I figured I would give Tash a day off, you know, for the Thanksgiving Holiday, from her job of holding me together.

But still, when I'm in a quiet place, I can still hear that warbling 8-track... "He's a heartache... lookin' for a place to happen..."