Dear Liz:

I am writing you today to inform you of my feelings.  You have not been treating me very well, and I think maybe you have forgotten that I am not a pickup.  You see, when I’m in the parking lot at school or Wal Mart, the other SUVs make fun of me.  They don’t have ugly hitches sticking out of the back of them.  They laugh at the manure and gravel dust that seems to coat me within hours of a carwash.  Why can’t I just be a yuppy mom-moblie, isn’t that enough for you?

I get tired of hauling food across dusty fields, and pulling cattle feed wagons.  Just the other day you subjected me to hauling a pig and a goat.  And if I have to chase one more cow, I may just blow a tire!  Instead of Kleenexes and lipstick, I have hitch pins in my glove compartment.  Instead of hauling home clothes from Maurices, I haul rubber boots from Theisens.

I keep hearing you tell Justin that you’re not going to get rid of me until my wheels fall off.  Well, honey, that may be sooner rather than later.  I can’t take this life.  I was meant to be washed weekly and waxed monthly.  I want to smell like perfume, not manure.

Don’t get me wrong, I appreciate that you change my oil on a semi-frequent basis, and that you always fill me up with ethanol blended gas.  And the local mechanic, Mark, he’s always fixed me right up when something goes wrong.  I could have ended up in worse hands.  And the occasional jaunt through a corn field is a little exhilarating.

Maybe we can strike a bargain here?  I mean, if we’re stuck with each other for the rest of my life, maybe we can compromise?  You know, that new carwash at Kwik Star is pretty nice, and you can buy those carwash cards at a discount.  And perhaps it wouldn’t kill you to vacuum me out once a month?


Your 2006 Ford Expedition
Nieman is a Farm Bureau member and blogger from Delhi in Delaware County. You can read her blog at