((Logical answer: go home and relax by the fire))
But instead, I go outside and find this:
My husband spots with me with my camera.
You are not blogging about this.
Because it's redneck.
He's referring to the fact that he just pulled an old broken-down Scout from a cow pasture, down a fairly main road, and then up to the shop. He plans to fix it up and get it running again.
Apparently non-rednecks call tow trucks.
Or, don't even allow trucks to sit in pastures for 10+ years.
Our farm manager chimes in:
What's wrong with being redneck?
I think he might be a bit offended.
So my husband says,
Nothing. It's just that I can see her blog now. She will start it out with something sarcastic like ... "My brilliant husband ... blah blah blah."
Silly man. He should know better than to tell me not to do something.
So, without further ado....
My brilliant husband ... pulled the biggest redneck move today.
But the towing part isn't what I consider redneck. It's his future plans for the truck that are.
When he gets it fixed up, I am assuming it will look like a less-ridiculous version of this:
His plans: he said we can take the top off and take it to go get ice cream.
It's not my preference for an ice cream-getting convertible, but okay, I can play along.
But then he informs me that the main purpose for the old Scout is to become the new fuel truck on the farm. He is going to put a tank in the back so he can drive it around the fields and fill up tractors.
So what I think he is telling me is we'll be going to Dairy Queen in a convertible fuel truck. That's pretty damn redneck if you ask me, especially coming from a guy who would probably rather cut off his right arm than have someone classify him as redneck.
Surprisingly after a little charge of the battery, all of the lights started working. And the best part is that "Jet Airliner" by the Steve Miller Band started blaring from the radio.
This might actually happen. I just might soon be the passenger in a convertible ice cream-getting fuel truck.
I think he is quite proud.
So I vow to end this post without making any more snarky comments.
You may now call me Mrs. REDNECK!
I think this means I need to go out and buy that annoying Gretchen Wilson CD so I can blare it from the speakers when we drive into town. Errrr.. make that 8-track.