I am a reluctant NASCAR fan.
In fact, if it weren't for my significant other, Mike, my Sundays would open up significantly until football season.
But now I sit on my couch, hoping to catch a glimpse of my love in a fire-suit because that's the only time I see him on weekends.
NASCAR and I are in a custody dispute about who gets him the majority of the time.
I'm losing.
See, for all of you NASCAR fans, the fact that they race 38 weekends out of the year is a good thing. Gives you something to shape your week. But for those of us at home...we're waiting for the checkered flag because that means someone is getting ready to come home and tackle his honey-do list.
I know...not as romantic as you thought it would be, is it?
Dating someone on a Sprint Cup team has forced me into a fast left-hand learning curve with a steep bank. Up until I met him, I thought all the driver did was get in the car, push a button, and turn left. The only thing I wasn't sure about was whether they were allowed to use cruise control or not.
Can you see where I might have been a little lost when we first met?
Now I'm so educated, I should have a PhD in NASCAR gossip. I know that no one wants to get assigned in the pits next to Dale Earnhardt, Jr. because he isn't the best at parallel parking while going 70 miles an hour. I know the drivers who are nice to their fans and Mariah-Carey-Diva-Like when they get into their motorcoaches. And I know immediately what's happened at work that day by the smell of burnt gear oil that rubs off on me when I give him a welcome home hug.
Judging by what's going on at the Las Vegas Motor Speedway today...he may smell like a lot of things when he gets home tonight. But champagne from Victory Lane won't be one of them.
ARGH.
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