The road to Canada is fraught with danger and excitement.
For those of you not “in the know,” I have a job as an expedited delivery truck driver, which once in a while I must perform in able to purchase the vast quantities of Aqua Net, glitter and batteries necessary for me to appear in public. A most apt description would be for you to envision Large Marge, from Pee Wee’s Big Adventure, behind the wheel.
Usually, when my dispatcher calls, it’s to send me on a delivery to Winnemucca, Nevada or some other mundane, middle of nowhere destination. On this particular occasion, I was to pick up a load in Salt Lake the next morning and deliver it to the far North Eastern side of Ontario, Canada about 100 miles south of Hudson Bay. With all the extreme weather that the Great Lakes region had been experiencing this year, I thought I needed to plan for the worst.
As I ventured out on this transcontinental voyage, I was caught in a blizzard, and I was only able to go about 25 miles per hour across most of Wyoming. When visibility was reduced to less than 100 feet due to the blowing snow, I removed, in desperation, my blinking breasticles from my person and attached them to the front grill of the truck — they were able to pierce the stormy darkness and light the way, allowing me to keep on trucking.
By the time I got to the north shore of Lake Superior, I had outrun the snow storm, but the temperature had plummeted well below zero. I was not worried about my body temperature, as my beehive hair acts as advanced insulation. In addition, I had placed some of those chemical hand warmers inside my breasticles which kept me toasty warm.
I determined I should leave the truck running all night, for fear of not being able to start it in the morning. This ended up being a good plan as the next morning, when I emerged from the motel to find my truck toasty warm, three others in the parking lot could not start. I ended up leaving it running for five nights in a row.
When I got to the Canadian boarder, I was detained. There was a problem with my customs papers. My anxiety level raised off the scale when they waved me to park my truck and enter the building. I was beginning to sweat profusely. I worried that, because I was sweating, they might think I was looking guilty of smuggling contraband. All I could do was picture in my mind those scenes of torture and abuse and cavity searches from Midnight Express. Then I remembered the warmers inside my breasticles, I removed them and immediately regained a normal body temperature.
My heart skipped a beat and fluttered with lust when I first caught sight of officer MacDonald, the Royal Canadian Mountie assigned to inspect my truck. His beauty was beyond description. And he was in uniform! I have a very special weakness for a man in uniform. Happily, I was detained for several hours, waiting for the proper paperwork to be completed, so I was able to gaze longingly at Mountie MacDonald and make plans for he and I to settle down and build an igloo together. I was sure that we could happily “rub noses together” for hours.
Finally I cleared customs and drove for hundreds of miles through the vast and frozen north shore of Lake Superior, to the edge of civilization. At the last outpost of humanity, I stopped at the only gas station to fill up, but had to wait in line behind seven snowmobiles. Not snowmobiles being hauled on a trailer, snowmobiles driving right up to the pumps. To make my misery complete, the clerk had never even heard of diet Mountain Dew.
The final leg of my journey was to drive 125 miles out into the wilderness on an ice road to make my delivery. The sun was going down, and darkness deepened. There was no moon, and the gloomy clouds blocked the stars. I headed into the forest. I saw with much trepidation, the lights of the settlement disappear in the rearview mirror. The headlights cut a narrow beam through the darkness, and I could see the red eyes of several creatures reflecting from the tree line. All I could think of was the movie The Shining. My index finger began to twitch against the steering wheel. “Redrum, redrum.”
To hell with that nonsense. I reached into my purse, withdrew a pair of fur-lined, opera-length driving gloves and a gigantic rhinestone ring, covered up the twitchy digit and happily continued on the road, singing to ABBA. When I finally arrived at the mine site to make the delivery, I jumped out of the truck and screamed to the startled security guard, “Heeeerrrrre’s Johnny!”
As always, these events leave us with several burning eternal questions:
- In reference to Large Marge, should I start going by the trucker’s handle “Big Wig?”
- While waiting at the boarder, should I have begun singing “When I’m Calling You-oo-oo-oo” ala Jeanette MacDonald and Nelson Eddy to attract Mountie MacDonald’s attention?
- Would the radiance of my breasticles melt my igloo?
- Would my glitter makeup rub the skin off Mountie MacDonald’s nose?
- Am I now an official “Ice Road Trucker?”
- If I had been able to speak French, could I have become the new Mrs. Mountie MacDonald?
- At what temperature do Pap Smears freeze?
These and other important questions to be answered in future chapters of: The Perils of Petunia Pap Smear.