Hey y’all, let’s have a meeting about trucking laws, but not tell the truckers. They’ll just fool around and tell us some stuff about actually being professional drivers, and bore us with a long, involved soliloquy about what they do on a daily basis. Who wants to hear that? Bleh. We’d rather continue to listen to the Potato Farm, since they clearly have all the answers. You know, fleet trucks are already equipped with all the bells and whistles we want – have been for years now — and they’re still bashing the hell out of things. But our patrons, I mean friends, at the Potato Farm, say it will all work out in the wash and the new data they purchase, I mean collect, in 5 years will prove how dumb and boring the truckers really are.
Thanks, FMCSA. I’ve never felt so “listened to,” nor did I think a federal agency would ever stoop to using something from my bag of tricks. That’s right. I’ll admit it. I’ve neglected to give full disclosure to George on a couple of things in the 25 years we’ve been together. Problem is, I always get caught, just like the FMCSA did, even though neither of us will admit what we did was slimy.I’m pretty sure I’m not the only wife in history to do this, but it still doesn’t make it right. At least that’s what George thinks when he asks about it.
“Why didn’t you tell me about [insert whatever thing he has discovered I didn’t alert him to, like that’s my damn job, or something]?”
I immediately affect my most shocked eyebrow look.
“I totally told you about that. You weren’t listening to me.”
“You did not tell me about this. I would remember this and I do listen to you. Believe me, I listen to you and it’s terrifying most of the time.”
I maintain the highest eyebrow capacity possible without the aide of Botox, and continue to argue, because I’m hopeless, and apparently, terrifying. Harumph.
“I’m sure I told you.” (I neglect to elaborate on whether or not I’m sure I told him in person, or in my head. Sometimes I forget these things for real, and it looks like I’m trying to be wily. I digress.)
“Baby, I have been either sitting, standing or laying within three feet of you for the past two weeks. The only time we haven’t been together is when I was taking a poop, and I know you didn’t tell me this.”
I try to change the eyebrow-scape a little at this juncture. I go from “full-on concerned” to “appropriately apologetic.”
“And can I be the first to say how much I appreciate you leaving the scene to take a poop? Really. You’re my hero.”
“You’re welcome. And you didn’t tell me.”
Here’s where our little incidents differ drastically from how the FMCSA used my trick.
“I’m sorry I didn’t tell you. I’ll try to do better.”
And then I kiss him and we find something else to fight about.
The FMCSA didn’t even give ya’ a kiss, and I don’t believe they ever will.