We have spent the afternoon at our friends’ house, because Gabe and Jodi decided to host a NASCAR party this afternoon for the Daytona 500, and, regardless of the fact that I own neither a tube top nor a foam insulated sleeve for my cans of cheap beer, Hubs and I decided to go.
I think the lure of the words, “We have a whole gob of pizza,” sealed the deal for us.
Nothing spells fun party like pizza and Snickerdoodles.
I must admit that I am not a fan of the NASCAR, nor do I claim to understand any of it. My NASCAR knowledge is limited to this: Jeff Gordon + car 24 + DuPont. THAT is the extent of the knowledge I possess in regards to professional racing.
The idea of sliding around the corners of a paved track at an excess of 180 miles an hour doesn’t scream out “Good time” to me. Instead, all I hear is the mothers of those drivers hollering out, “Brake! Hit your brakes! Slow down! Don’t drive so fast! Are you TRYING to kill yourself?” Goodness knows, I wanted to holler those same phrases throughout the entire afternoon, as the cars whipped around the corners. At one point, I even announced to the family room filled with people, “I’d take those corners at 45 miles an hour and be safe about the whole thing, if I were driving.”
Hubs leaned over and said, “You’d be black-flagged. There’s a minimum speed you have to maintain, and it’s significantly higher than 45.”
Hubs is such a buzz killer sometimes.
At one point, we all discussed what we’d actually paint on our cars for sponsors, if we actually were NASCAR drivers. Hubs wants a red car, emblazoned with four letters: C-O-K-E. And Hubs wants to drive fast. Hubs said that he’d be thrilled — just! plum! thrilled! to! death! — to hit the gas pedal and watch the little speedometer top 190 miles an hour. I decided that driving a car adorned with advertisements for Dove chocolate would be a wonderful thing, but the way my luck runs, I’d be handed a car painted up to look like a big bottle of laundry detergent, since I seem to spend the majority of my time in front of the washer and dryer. And also? I wanted to drive in a race where the top speed was just eighty. No one else in the room wanted to enter my race, at that speed, so hey! Winner! Right here! I win, by default.
And then, let’s talk about race delays. Apparently, when potholes form in the track, the racing association takes it seriously, and they must postpone, delay and halt the race for two hours in order to fix said potholes.
I wish these racing association members would act so quickly on our own town’s roads, as I know a few spots with potholes big enough to lose a Suburban in.
After…what?…six hours? Was it really six hours of the announcers talking through the race? At any rate, my favorite line of the day was said with just three laps to go, when one fellow with a microphone shouted out, “Whatever happens now, happens, people!!!”
And rest assured, whatever happened actually did happen, and the race finished, and we all cheered, and we are back at our own house now, and I still can’t name the winner of the Daytona 500, even though I saw him finish the race and get teary-eyed in his post-race interview.
I’m sorry, people.
I’m sure if I’d been wearing my tube top, I would have been a little more in sync with the entire race, but I was really there just to chat with people and eat pizza, and THAT is where all the fun entered into the day!
The boy would say that the fun came into the day because he and Jodi’s son, Blaine, spent six hours battling one another with lightsabers. They swung their lightsabers around and around, until they were dripping with sweat. The boy even had to start stripping layers off, as his church sweater was entirely too hot for a young Jedi to fight in. Afterwards, as we were driving home, Hubs asked the boy, “Does Blaine like Star Wars as much as you do?” The boy replied, “Yeah, he does, but he doesn’t KNOW as much about Star Wars as I do.”
Clearly, we are very proud of the humbleness that the boy displays.
And another thing: My contacts are dry enough to feel like sand glued to my eyeballs. I just glanced over at the TV, and made the comment at the end of an Olympic skier racing downhill through the moguls, “Wow! She finished in just over 24 seconds! The girls last night were getting times of 28 and 29 seconds. That girl is way fast!”
Hubs shook his head and said, “Honey, this is men’s skiing now. That wasn’t a girl at all.”
Well, bless my own heart. Tell that skier to cut his hair, and I’m going to go take my contacts out.
Happy Sunday night, y’all.