I have seen a couple posts out there in the bloggers world that have to do with NASCAR. I decided this might be a good time to share my NASCAR experience.
I had been given all sorts of advice by kindly friends on how to adjust to living in the deep south.
One friend in particular, LJ, whom I love (in spite of the story I am about to write) was giving me all kinds of advice.
I met her back in the day, when she was pregnant with her first baby. I was the leader of our Mom's Group. In the 6 years I led that group she was the one that kept us all laughing.
She's a kidder, that gal.
Now, she had been to NC, to attend a NASCAR event, and she was very clear that I would need some survival skills (so to speak); some "how to's" of being a proper North Carolinian.
First, she told me that I needed to have a driver.
This information immediately formed a picture in my mind that had me sitting, Driving Miss Daisy style, in the back of a car.
I had no earthly idea that she was talking about NASCAR drivers, like Kyle Busch, Jeff Burton, and Dale Earnhardt Jr. (oh Google, you are my friend).
Her second piece of advice was to try and conceal the fact that both The Mister and I drive foreign-made cars.
Third, she assured me that every sweet Carolinian Gal she had ever run into at the NASCAR was wearing a tube top. She knew I didn't have one, so she thought I ought to know.
I've saved this next bit of advice for last, because this was the part that got me into trouble...
In her desire to fill my innocent mind with all things NASCAR, we had a conversation that went like this:
LJ: Kellie, you'll have to have a favorite car too. I like the Tampax car. Cuz, ya know, it just isn't fair that the guys are always being represented by that Vee-agra car (that's Texas speak for Viagra). It's about time they put a car out there that says: Women like NASCAR too.
Me: Oh...sure...You're right.
Only I didn't realize she was kidding.
So fast forward to Easter Sunday a few months later, when I am having lunch on a sprawling lawn in NC with my new church family. The Mister is in conversation with another couple seated elsewhere. I sit down with a family I don't really know, and they're talkin' NASCAR. I'm quietly trying to eat some salad when the husband looks up at me and asks (in between bites of BBQ) what my favorite car is?
OK now. I realize that what I should have said was: "I don't keep up with NASCAR."
But of course that isn't what happened.
Instead of ignoring that little humungous desire to make new friends; that insatiable desire to impress my new church-going peeps; rather than stomp down my strong compulsion to just be liked, I calmly said, "I like the Tampax car." Then I took a bite of biscuit.
After those five little words escaped my lips, every single bit of movement stopped at that southern table. They all stopped chewin'. They all stopped talkin'.
I knew something was amiss, and I could have used a real big swig of Carolina Sweet Tea, but the pitcher was dry.
The husband says, "Uh, there is no Tampax car."
I say, "Oh no. I'm sure there is. My friend LJ told me that's her favorite car."
At this point I can hear stifled giggles.
He says, "Hmm-mm, nope. There is not a Tampax car. I think your friend was pulling your leg."
A moment of clarity quickly flashes in my head and I think to myself Yeah, I guess she just might have been.
I am not sure how I recovered that one. I am sure I laughed about it, because I am pretty good about laughing at my own expense. Cuz really, in that kind of awkward situation, what can you do?
So that is my entire experience with NASCAR.
I should get tube top and sew this across the front:
Don't be a Boob.
Keep your mouth shut.
La Vida Dulce!
