Fast Car

I was downright perky today after a solid weekend of sleep, sweet sleep. Sorry for that sad little post yesterday, which was about as whiny as whiny gets, honestly. If I were you, I’d be all, shut up, drama queen! Go stick your boob in a slide and jam it shut – hard – and catch the nipple in the clamp while you’re at it! Well, maybe not that last bit, I hope. That would hurt.

I neglected to mention an exciting bit from the weekend that was both weirdly portended and bizarrely upsetting. Remember the cat I was so willing to sell down the river? He’s taken to chewing cords lately, unbeknownst to A. and I – a fact I discovered yesterday when I heard a strange sizzling noise and watched his furry little body leap 10 feet back, his hair – HIS HAIR – standing on end, all mussed from what I could only imagine was one hell of a shock, not unlike the one I received when I was four and decided to stick my mom’s car keys into the kitchen outlet. I was, if you were wondering, pretending to open a car door, that much I remember quite distinctly.

In other exciting news, A. is out of town, which leaves me to an entire week of single quasi-parenting of two pets, one of whom is an apparent fire risk, and eating like a Lean Cuisine commercial. For dinner tonight, for example, I had half a pierogi, some broccoli flotsam and a sad little piece of chicken unearthed from the crisper that I think may be from our lunch at the Outback on Saturday, but no one is sure. But, as Outback says, life will still be here tomorrow, unless my intestines come screaming out of my body from bad chicken. Time will tell, and my colon is prepared either way, for I have lots of experience.

Finally, I think it’s time to admit that I not only invested a fair amount of time and energy into NBA All-Star weekend (Gerald Green! The Slam Dunk Contest! Anyone? Just me then?), but I also watched the Daytona 500. Let me say that again: I watched the Daytona 500, and not only did I watch the Daytona 500, but I was prepared for the event by a friend who knows something about NASCAR and I liked it . There were crashes! Drama! Big-haired wives! There were hot drivers in sweaty uniforms…men who probably know how to barbecue a rack of ribs in their sleep and can tell the difference between Natty Light and Milwaukee’s Best with a sniff test. It was all going so well – I even learned about Kasey Kahne and Kevin Harvick and pondered whether Junior will abandon his stepmother in favor of his father’s old car at Childress! Yes! Am NASCAR expert!

If anyone wants to come get me, I’ll take plane tickets to anywhere, because this… this is very scary, and I’m telling this so that someone will stop me. Please.

But I mean, I think that’s impressive, and shows a remarkable amount of effort to assimilate, if assimilation is something to aspire to, and I’m not sure it is. I did grow up five miles from an Indy raceway, in the home town of Mario Andretti, though, so it’s in my blood, is what I’m saying. Or not saying, because God, what does that even mean? Am I going to start wearing wifebeaters and talking smack about Tony Stewart? Maybe! And maybe you can’t stop me! Maybe I don’t want to be stopped! My dad’s driver is Mark Martin, and I see where he’s coming from, if only because I did a project with Roush Racing many years ago, and honestly, there’s something weirdly sexy about a man who has the balls and/or confidence to drive a Viagra car.

See? Am unstoppable. And also weirdly kinky in unfortunately creepy geriophile kind of way. But honestly, ah, these drivers get girls in the same way that baseball and NBA players do. Fascinating, particularly given that under any other circumstances, the best some of them could do is find a woman who has all of her own teeth.

And while all this is very exciting, I completely blew it around lap 82, when I eagerly looked up and queried the room, “So! How many laps is this thing, does anyone know?”

*stunned silence*

I mean, how was I supposed to know why it’s called the Daytona 500? It could be 500 anything! Five hundred people! Five hundred cigarettes! FIVE HUNDRED BOTTLES OF MILWAUKEE’S BEST!

Whatever. I’m switching to Formula One. Or Indy. Or something. Are they different?

*Tracy Chapman

13 comments February 19th, 2007