Jen's Column / Trucker Talk

I have absolutely no idea what I'm writing about for next week... but I can give you last week's column! Here it is...

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I'm going to go out on a limb and say that the world would be a heckuva lot more fun if we all had CB radios in our cars. Because, really. What's more entertaining than trucker lingo? Nothing, that's what.

Before school yesterday, my boys came across their walkie talkies — plastic, red-and-yellow models they've had since their preschool days. They spent the walk to the school bus two house-lengths from each other — chatting the whole way.

"I'm coming up behind you!" my nine-year-old announced, the walkie held parallel to the tilt of his head. "Keep it moving, keep it moving…. "

My six-year-old's conversation was a little less conventional. "Butt!" he hollered into the mouthpiece, cracking himself up. "Butt!"

"That is not how you use a walkie-talkie," I reprimanded. Obviously I had neglected to teach my children the nuances of conversing over a radio. I confiscated my six-year-old's walkie and took over.

"This is Big Mama," I announced, using my best trucker voice. "Do you read?"
(That would be my handle, by the way. Big mama. I've been using it in imaginary trucker conversations for decades — long before I became any kind of mama, big or not.)

"Hi Mom," said my nine-year-old. "Breaker, breaker."

"That's a big ten-four, Little Critter," I answered. "We got a bear in the air and a smokey in a plain blue wrapper, so you're gonna want to back it down. Big mama, over and out."

My son's voice came back through the plastic handset — though we didn't really need it anymore since we'd reached the bus stop and he was standing right behind me. "Mom?" he said. "I'm going to turn this off now."

In retrospect, I might've been making too much of a scene in front of his friends.
I've been there before. A few years ago, we were driving behind my parents' truck on the way to the Cities. My dad had brought walkie talkies along in case we lost each other. I was in heaven.

"Breaker, breaker, good buddy," I announced to the red Ford ahead of us as we rolled onto Highway 52. "This is Big Mama. We got our pedal to the metal and we're letting it roll."

My husband groaned.

"What?" I asked.

"That's just embarrassing," he answered, grimacing.

In my defense, you should know that Jay actually embarrasses easily. He also gets uncomfortable when I rap to my kids ("I'm a big bad mama and I'm here to say, we're going to do things my way…") or when I put my foot in my mouth in public. This happens a lot.

So I ignored him and continued. "Got your ears on, Poppo?" I spoke into the walkie. "We're gonna have to stop for some go-go juice before too long. Get some mud while we're at it. We'll catch that chicken coop on the flip-side. You copy?"

(I actually don't know what "chicken coop" is supposed to mean — but I heard Ponch say it on CHiPs once, so it must be cool.)

Jay may claim not to use trucker talk, but I've caught him singing that Jerry Reed song from Smokey and the Bandit on more than one occasion: "We've got a long way to go and a short time to get there…."

And that counts. But it's not as fun as pulling out the lingo. I guarantee it. This is Big Mama, over and out.