Laughing Mama's Blog

My inner monologue with myself inside my head put in this blog out in the open for everybody to read.

Tramp Stamps Are Fun For Everyone! (AKA: “We’ve Gone Off the Deep End and There Is No Lifeguard.”) June 6, 2011

DISCLAIMER: I in no way mean any disrespect to any readers who may have lower back tattoos in referring to the tattoos as “tramp stamps”. I assume you got them when you were of legal age to do so and respect your choice to express yourself however you choose. “Tramp stamp” is an inflammatory term I’m using purposefully to make a point. Also, it’s fun because it rhymes.

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Recently my family and I and some of our friends went camping to a local State Park and recreational lake for the weekend. The weather was gorgeous and we were all enjoying sitting on the public beach watching our kids frolic in the water and soaking up the (soon to be) summer sun. People watching is fun, and I especially look forward to seeing some of the swimsuit choices of the locals around here. Not that I’m a skinny beach bunny and beyond reproach by any means! I’m well aware and perfectly okay with the fact that I’m putting myself out there too and am probably fodder for the 20 people or so who are sitting behind me. We all do it. So I was not surprised when my friend got my attention and said, “You see the little girl in the white and black bikini? WHAT is that? Is that a…” I wish real life had a soundtrack like the movies. Maybe then, as the pounding drums and rhythmic strings of the suspenseful “Jaws” theme alerted me to the horror I was about to witness, I would have been prepared for what I was about to see. But alas, there was no tell tale “Da nuh… Da nuh… Dun dun, Dun dun, Dun dun, Dun dun, Duh na na!!!!” I scanned the crowd at the water’s edge for something obvious. A ridiculous flotation device? A hideous swimsuit? And then my friend finished her sentence, “… a back tattoo? Is that what that is?!” Suddenly the term she had used, “little girl”, took on a new meaning and I began searching the teens and young ladies in the crowd. You know, someone older. Because when I think lower back tattoo, toddlers certainly aren’t the first thing that spring to my mind. But when I pressed my friend to clarify her description and she pointed out who she meant, that’s exactly what she was talking about- a toddler. There jumping around on the shore was an adorable 4 or 5 year old girl with a cute ruffly two piece on and then I saw it, as she twirled around, the unmistakable mark on her lower back. “No!” was my reaction. “Are you kidding me?”

That piqued my husband’s interest. “What? What are you guys talking about?” I shared the disheartening information all the while unable to look away from this sweet little girl. He took a gander himself and said, “It might be a birthmark…” as if it was too incredible to actually be true. There must be a more logical explanation. Yes, a black and white birthmark in the shape of a butterfly with horizontal scrolls WOULD make more sense. I wished it had been true. Once he realized it was indeed a baby “tramp stamp” he quickly tried to make himself and us feel better by stating it was probably one of those temporary ones that come off in a few days. Well Jesus! I certainly HOPE so!! Putting a temporary lower back tattoo on your pre-school daughter comes in second only to actually inking your little one!! We couldn’t believe it and it made me so sad. Why the hell are adults sexualizing little children? Why? WHY??!!!

Coincidentally, last week I stumbled upon a hilarious blog- stark. raving. mad. mommy. Her commentary on the top 10 skankeriffic sandals for girls had my sides hurting. She also has several other thoughts on trashy Halloween costumes for young children and the evil that is the Bratz Dolls. Sadly, there is lots of material for her to work with.

I’ll admit that after all my reading I was already sensitive to the penchant for some in this country to accelerate our daughters’ maturity and lower their self-esteem to the point where they’re getting plastic surgery and injecting themselves with Botox at age 8. Oh wait, that’s already happening. Or is it? I heard that mom changed her story. Shocker! Disturbingly, when I Googled “tramp stamps for children” I learned that a few years ago Toys ‘R Us was actually selling them in a gumball machine type of distribution system as you exit their store. “Mommy! Can I get a gumball? No! I mean a lower back tattoo? Or how bout this fun looking vial of crack that will make me forget all about the dumbing down of society so we’re all eventually a big melting pot of one brain celled slugs who can’t think for ourselves? Pleeeeeeeeezeee?!!” I wonder if Toys ‘R Us was actually testing the marketplace for a new item in the “Bella Dancerella product line… Bella Stripperella might have been popular. Especially after Miley Cyrus showed how much fun dancing on a pole can be at the 2009 Teen Choice Awards. (Did I mention the lower back tattoo machine was located right next to the Hannah Montana sticker machine at Toys ‘R Us? Coincidence? I think not.)

Oh, and speaking of dancing on a pole, I also learned from stark. raving. mad. mommy. that there’s a group of women who are teaching young girls pole dancing disguised as “fitness”. I know there are classes for grown women and that it’s an incredible workout. I get it. I’ve even seen some of the international pole dancing competitions on TV or YouTube or maybe it was just my husband describing a vivid dream, whatever. Those women aren’t strippers, have incredible strength and muscle tone and are mesmerizing to watch. Notice I’ve said “women” twice. The argument for the pole dancing classes for youngin’s is that it’s just a bar like in gymnastics only this one is vertical. That if you don’t dance provocatively on it and take off your clothes there’s nothing wrong with it. True. If you don’t dance provocatively on it and take off your clothes you’re not a stripper. It doesn’t make it right. To me. As Chris Rock once said, being the parent of a daughter means the one job you have in life is keeping her OFF the pole. There’s a connotation there- right or wrong. I’m sure it’s a great workout and there IS nothing wrong with advocating fitness and exercise. But there are other workouts that would be just as beneficial to young girls and not make sane people cringe or sick people search their wallets for dollar bills.

It’s times like these that I embrace the old Carter’s clothing slogan, “If they could just stay little ’till their Carter’s wear out.” Does Carter’s have a junior section? Because I see what’s coming very soon for my own little girl and I’m seriously considering taking up sewing. I’d put her 17 year old ass in a prom dress made by Carter’s so fast she’d get a burn from all that flannel and adorable tiny ribbon roses. When did we stop thinking that way and start wanting our daughters to work the street corner? Is the economy REALLY that bad?

Obviously I’m not saying that lower back tattoos and stripping or prostitution go hand in hand. That’s ridiculous. This is not a judgement on tattoos in general or people who get them at all. I know a lot of beautiful, intelligent women who have them and who are gainfully employed in traditional jobs. I’m not even saying this little girl we saw this weekend will end up walking around permanently in thigh high platform boots. What I’m saying is that I don’t understand why people are increasingly marketing to, buying for and allowing their young children to participate in what once was considered adult only activities. And this goes way beyond the candy cigarette days of old. My daughter is 10 and a friend of hers who is 11 showed up to the pool a few weeks ago with chemically highlighted hair and a black string bikini. What. The. Hell?????!!! I was honestly saddened. Okay, fine. The highlighted hair might have been a fun mommy-daughter day activity or something. I don’t know. But why can’t we have fun with our daughters by taking them to an age appropriate movie and then going for ice cream? At 11 years old your hair is the best it’s ever going to look! It’s healthy and uncontaminated and has natural, gorgeous highlights. Ugh. Don’t even get me started on the string bikini.

And before you say I’m a prude, let me reassure you, I’m not. I enjoy all kinds of adult fun. I do not, however, include my children. I’m not sure when this trend will stop. When will it go too far? To me, we’ve already gone off the deep end. Thank goodness there’s no lifeguard because that 15 year old, oiled up, hormone laced boy with the whistle might just get ideas that these young girls and their parents think are fun to play around with but in reality are completely serious. Grow up, America! Children, go to your rooms until you’re 18 before THIS happens for real. (Seriously, click the link.)

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The Shewee (AKA:”You go (standing up) girl!!”) June 13, 2010

The other day I was innocently surfing Facebook and, while visiting my profile page, noticed an interesting looking ad on the right side. The product in the ad was called “Shewee” and from the picture of it, I surmised that if  I clicked on the ad I would be introduced to a whole new world the likes of which I had never experienced. It was a “Matrix” red pill, blue pill kind of scenario. I could choose to ignore the ad and continue living my life the way I’ve always known it. Or, I could follow the ad down the rabbit hole and come out the other side more knowledgeable but potentially more disturbed. Seeing as it was a Thursday morning and I was bored, I decided to let my fingers do the walking and find out what a Shewee is all about.

Well, let me tell you, it is exactly what you think it might be. A Shewee is a portable urination device which allows women to pee standing up. Ummmm…. what the hell? My first thought was that this must be some type of novelty item, like those squeezable stress balls made to look like boobs. No respectable woman would ever actually use one of these molded plastic “tubes” would they? And if they ever did, where would one use such a thing? And why? And what happens after you’ve used it? For years men have perfected the “shake twice” method of flinging the last remnants of pee away from them. But the Shewee device could not be so easily “cleaned” I imagine. And then you’d do what with it? Put the urine soaked piece of plastic back in your purse? That doesn’t sound very “convenient” to me.

Of course the website espouses all the benefits of owning a Shewee. Among those is this statement: “Travel the world with the comfort of home in your pocket.” That was going a bit far for me. I mean, if that were true then where is my Aloe and Vitamin E toilet paper for sensitive bottoms? And where is the reed diffuser with my absolute favorite scent that smells like Sampaguita, the national flower of the Philippines? And the soft lighting that makes me look 10 years younger? Can the Shewee provide those comforts from my home? I didn’t think so. And the idea of putting the used Shewee in my pocket made me gag worse than the idea of putting it in my purse. If I wanted pee stained pants I’d just skip the Shewee and let the river run. Talk about convenience!

I decided to Google Shewee to see what others were saying about it. What came up were mostly link after link to stores that specialize in outdoor equipment. Hmmmm… okay, I guess I could see where enjoying the outdoors and making wee wee in the woods go hand in hand. I decided to look Shewee up on Facebook since that was where this whole thing started. This was what I was looking for… pictures. Yes! Pictures of women lined up at a “trough” peeing standing up with one hand triumphantly in the air. I was surprised that instead of being disgusted, I actually kind of got a lump in my throat thinking that women’s equality might have taken another big leap forward. Although, I was still not convinced it’s a step that needed to be taken. I read further.

I found out this “trough” was called a “Shewee-inal”- a female urinal. I would have called it a “Her-inal” but maybe that was already trademarked. It looked like this “Shewee-inal” was set up under a big tent at some sort of festival. Again, I surprised myself by understanding the practicality of such a thing. However, I was disappointed that the picture of the outside of the tent showed a long line of women waiting their turn to pee, just like the regular bathrooms. Wouldn’t that be the point of using one of these devices? No more toilet paper nest building or strategic squatting. No more wiping and retucking and zipping and buttoning. Peeing standing up is supposed to be faster, right?  There are hardly ever lines outside of the men’s room. Of course, they don’t have to take a tube out of their pocket, place it correctly, pose for pictures, clean themselves and the device up, and put themselves back together.

Then there’s the picture of a woman who supposedly wrote “Shewee” in the snow with her pee. Priceless! Although, the writing was a bit too neat to be believable. Plus, the letters weren’t connected and to do that you have to have a lot of control. Clearly a woman who hasn’t given birth yet had performed this stunt. Also pictured is a woman squatting in a beautiful African plain. As her pants are around her ankles and she clutches her roll of toilet paper, she is oblivious to the lion stalking her from behind her back. Shewee could make their new slogan, “Shewee, preventing animal attacks around the globe”. That’s an idea I can get behind.

From their Facebook page I also learned that they sponsored Bonita Norris, the youngest British woman ever to climb Mt. Everest. Suddenly I was feeling less like making fun of Shewee and more like embracing it as a symbol of feminine power. (Although I did picture Bonita Norris wearing one of those jumpsuits that race car drivers wear with the sponsor’s patches sewn all over. I imagined the “Shewee” logo placed strategically and appropriately on her crotch.) Even their actual slogan, “Stand up and take control!” makes me feel empowered!  The fact that the company was started by a woman, Samantha Fountain, drove home the point that women can do ANYTHING. Ms. Fountain believed in her idea to liberate women from disgusting toilet seats so deeply that she stopped at nothing to see her dream come true. Now thousands of women worldwide can thank her for their clean bums and relaxed thighs. Her company has boomed and what began as a home based business in England has now grown to include distributors in 19 countries. That’s inspiring.

So too is one of the applications of the Shewee- assisting women confined to bed. I was on bed rest for seven weeks when I was pregnant with my youngest and although most of the time I could get up to use the restroom, there were times right after I had hemorrhaged that they wouldn’t let me move. I made my stomach hurt from “holding it in” just so that I wouldn’t have to use the bed pan. It’s humiliating. Placing a petal shaped cup against me and peeing through a tube into a container or the absorbent pouch Shewee sells would have been a much nicer option. As a matter of fact, I can think of lots of times when having a Shewee would have come in handy. Most recently, when I had to use Squeaky and Jeff’s Port-A-Potty at the NASCAR race in Charlotte.

Other times the Shewee could be a Godsend: camping, hiking, or jogging. You don’t really think about it, but when you’re running in a race with thousands of people, the sparse Port-A-Potties are popular and there’s usually a wait. Nothing makes you loose your motivation for running 13.1 miles more than standing in line to pee. Also, giving urine samples at the doctor’s office would no longer be a messy affair. It takes a lot of coordination to squat, hold a cup at just the right spot and control your stream of pee so that it not only goes in the cup but fills it just enough but not too much. Try coming away from that without getting piss on your hands, arms, underwear, toilet seat, floor, or all of the above. Then try doing it while you’re nine months pregnant. If ever I had penis envy, it was after something like that. Well, be envious no more!

As a matter of fact, I should get one for my daughter’s friend. She and her brother have a designated “pee tree” in their backyard. I imagine it’s a lot harder for her to hit the tree than it is for her brother. I know, I’ve tried. No, not with their pee tree! It was after my friend’s wedding reception. I had had too much to drink and we were on our way to the car. I realized I needed to go right then and it couldn’t wait. I found a suitable bush next to the car and proceeded to squat right there in one of my best dresses. Classy! I don’t know if hiking my skirt up and sticking a tube in my crotch would have been much classier but at least I wouldn’t have mooned her aunt and uncle and that alone would be worth the price of a Shewee. Of course, I’m not going to hold my breath waiting for them to add “drunk late night emergencies” to their list of practical uses on the website.

And speaking of practical, the person that I expected to be most disgusted by the idea of women peeing through a tube- my most practical and level headed neighbor- was unphased. “I’ve known a lot of people on mission trips who use it.” she said. Really? Wow. Well, color me embarrassed. Here I was only thinking of myself and how it could benefit my hiney by not coming into contact with all manner of germs from a public toilet or save me precious minutes at a festival or Disney World. There ARE people who travel to remote parts of the globe helping others who of course don’t have running water (or water at all for that matter) and who only have pee trees. Of course a Shewee would be a suitcase essential in that case.

So here I am with my Shewee pro/con list and to my utter amazement I have more “pro” items than “con” and find myself thinking I should order one. They do come in five different colors, have a handy carrying case (no pee pee in the purse I was happy to discover), an extension tube and gel filled absorbent pouches for when you have no tree or suitable container to speak of (in the car on long trips when your husband refuses to stop, for example). The only thing standing in my way is this word I’ve read in people’s comments: practice. I guess like any new “toy” one must learn how to use it. But I can say with almost 100% certainty that I have never set out to deliberately pee on myself. I had visions of myself standing in front of my toilet at home dribbling and spraying and leaking urine on myself, my clothes and the floor as I perfect the placement of the cup and the aim of the tube. Then I read you should practice in the shower. Ah. That would make more sense. This is all new to me. And it’s not just the physical logistics of using the Shewee, there are also social mores, boundaries, to overcome. For eons women have sat down to pee. It makes me wonder, you can lead a girl to a trough, but can you make her take a leak in it? I for one am surprised to hear myself say that I wouldn’t mind having my very own cute, pink Shewee to find out.

PS- In case you missed it way up there in the third paragraph and want one of your own, this is Shewee’s official website: http://www.shewee.com.

Copyright 2010 by Me

 

My experience at a NASCAR race (AKA: “Grown men named Squeaky and Hooters girls”) June 2, 2010

For Memorial Day this year my husband and I went with another couple, our friends Jeff and Ali, to the NASCAR race in Charlotte, NC. It was my first race and my first time camping in the infield. I knew it was going to be an experience like no other, but I had NO idea. The thing that surprised me about the entire weekend was that it really wasn’t about the race itself. Of course that was central to all of us being there and the periodic qualifying and practices kept our focus on the race track and the fast cars circling it. However, the atmosphere in the infield was that of one big party from sun up to sun down and all through the dark hours in between. There was an air of camaraderie among all the campers that I had never experienced. Everybody was there to have fun and they were going to make sure you did too. More than anything else, what made my experience this past weekend was the cast of characters we met.

Shortly after we arrived and got set up, we noticed what we would later dub “The ’50 cent’ mobile”- a tricked out Cadillac Escalade EXT truck – pull up next to the huge and very expensive RVs across the street from us. Out came Joel who owns his own Race Tour company. He was delivering case after case of sodas, water and beer for the customers arriving to stay in the RV for the weekend. He asked us if we wanted a tour of one of them. I had already changed into my “race wear” which consisted of halter swimsuit top, black skirt, cowboy hat and flip-flops so I felt a little funny climbing inside this plush vehicle, but I couldn’t pass up the chance to take a peek. It was gorgeous! When he told us it used to belong to Lenny Kravitz I had a minor lapse in judgement – I threw myself on the bed in the master suite, rolled around and licked the headboard. Just kidding, I didn’t do that. But I wanted to. We learned a lot about Joel’s company. It would have cost us $4,000 to get tickets to the race, stay in the RV and have Joel and his employees cook for us and bring us unlimited drinks. I hated to tell Joel that my husband does that for me for free. Well, he has his price but it ain’t $4,000. In between the two RVs Joel had set up, were tents and tables and a “DJ station” for the parties they were throwing over the weekend. Our luck was just getting better.

After getting the grand tour of Lenny’s bus, we were sitting around our campsite when around the corner came Rocky. He was camping in the spot behind us and was from Bishopville, SC. I don’t know where that is but they must teach bullshit as a major at Bishopville U because he was well versed in it. Pretty much the only reason he came over was to apologize in advance for the loudness of his generator. “No problem!” we said. This was before he cranked it up. Which he did immediately after leaving our campsite. That was the last time we spoke in a normal tone of voice. I never thought I would have to use the earplugs we brought for the race cars in our own camp site. I’ve never been one to condone vandalism, but I had serious fantasies of pouring sugar in the gas tank (Jeff’s idea) or taking a hammer to one of the spark plugs (Squeaky’s idea- you’ll meet him later).

Unfortunately it started raining that night so we spent the majority of it in our camper and then packed it in early. At some point it must have stopped raining because I was woken up by the party going on outside Joel’s RV. In particular, there was one extremely loud woman who kept asking at the top of her lungs if the men around wanted to see a certain part of her body. I never heard anybody take her up on her offer. When I saw her the next morning I understood why. I guess Joel hadn’t bought enough beer after all.

The next day we met some boys on the other side of us that were from West Virginia. We met Darryl, Bob, and Bill but I never got the name of the man with the red hair. He was a sweetheart. He had lost his wife to breast cancer a few years ago and had sold everything he had to pay for her treatments. Coming to the race was the one thing he looked forward to every year. When I told him I had done a ride-along in one of the cars the previous November, his face fell in disbelief for just a split second before his wide grin returned. “Man, if I could EVER do that, I would be the happiest man.” I could tell that was completely true. At that moment, I wished I had an extra $110 to make his dream a reality. Later that day he brought over a plate of wings they had just cooked (and were very yummy) and we shared with them some of the straw we had brought with us to soak up the water and mud from the rain the night before. On Sunday, I also sprayed his chest and back with sunscreen because he was getting fried and as a fellow pale skin and freckle sufferer I could sympathize.

Speaking of wings, the ones on our grill brought Tim around. He is a NASCAR photographer for Tony Stewart and got a good shot of my friend, Ali, sucking on a chicken bone. He also got one of my husband with sauce all over his face like a two-year-old. I’m praying that will show up as a future label on a bottle of Tony Stewart’s barbecue sauce. Speaking of the sauce, he gave us a bottle which was very nice of him, even if it was three years old.

Saturday afternoon was the Nationwide race. Our site was in turn #3 which apparently is kind of boring. Plus, we didn’t have one of those cool “piece-it-together-from-plywood-PVC-pipe-and-duct-tape” platforms for the top of our camper. But Jeff knew someone who did. We packed our coolers and drove down to turn #2 where we met another Jeff and his buddy “Squeaky”. Nicer people you will never meet. They were very generous with their space and accommodating with their amenities. Believe me, their port-a-potty came in very handy. Their platform, which was a marvel of 2X4s and plywood, was fairly solid looking but I’m afraid of heights and it scared me to death. It was about 10 feet off the ground and built on top of  a trailer with wheels. To get up there you had to climb a ladder… and I don’t climb ladders. Add to that the fact that the platform had no railings, that it shook every time someone moved, and that my husband would dance dangerously close to the edge just to freak me out and I was as nervous as a midget wearing brown leather in a football game. Jeff told me not to worry, that the more beer I drank, the less I would care. I reminded him that the more beer I drank the higher the probability that I would fall off the thing. Nobody did, though.  Squeaky was a big guy with a big laugh and I loved watching him throw his head back and cackle. He  also amused me when we went back the next day to watch the Coca-Cola 600 on their platform. It’s a very long race and I guess Squeaky was getting hungry. Up came a folding table, a cutting board, a knife and a bag of potatoes and onions. There he sat while race cars flew by cutting up vegetables for his dinner. I asked Squeaky where his apron was and I was happy when I was rewarded with a hearty belly laugh.

Of course, I can’t talk about my weekend without mentioning Ali. She is a crazy woman. She says anything to anybody but she’s hilarious and pretty so she can get away with it. It’s highly entertaining and one of the things I love most about her. I also discovered that she will take a ride with anybody, anywhere. For instance, Friday night a motorcycle drove by and she yelled out, “Hey, can I have a ride?” and when the bike rider slammed on his brakes and motioned for her, she ran over and hopped on. Unfortunately it wasn’t until I stood in the road watching her disappear that I thought, “Crap. This is how most CSI episodes start out.”. Of course she was returned safely a couple of minutes later. She did the same thing as a golf cart full of older men drove by. Much to the delight of the old geezers, she hopped on and away she went. Only this time when they returned her, another golf cart full of Air Force pilots was just leaving our area. “THAT’S the cart you need to hop on, woman!” I chastised her. She promptly turned around and asked the pretty pilots if she could be their “cart bitch” for the evening. They laughed and blew her kisses as they drove away. I was sad we let them get away.

After the Nationwide race on Saturday night we went back to our campsite and ate dinner. As the sun went down Joel’s party cranked up and before too long we were in the street mingling with our neighbors and others who were driving or walking by. One group Ali and I accosted were a lovely trio of Marines. As someone gave the boys bottles of water, Ali and I begged them for a picture and hugged their necks. Apparently the fact that they were young and wearing uniforms gave Ali and I the idea that we could treat them like they were our own pretty pets we could freely (but still respectfully) scratch behind the ears. We were like two girls in a candy store. No, not a candy store – an adult store. Where all the blow up dolls are gorgeous, chiseled, military boys. They didn’t seem to mind and gladly hung out while we got our fill. The one who got the water for them was a buddy of Joel’s – a guy named Mike who is a Chicago police officer in the anti-terrorism unit. He was a bigger shit talker than Ali and the two of them got along famously and kept us in stitches. He also enjoyed our smoked brisket and chicken very much. I guess Joel didn’t buy enough food either.

Anyway, the darker it got, the rowdier the party got. Darryl from West Virginia was the drunkest person I’ve even seen that was still able to walk and form syllables. None of them made sense but he was trying. He also kept injuring himself and every time I saw him he had a new bloody cut on his leg. Somebody really should have taken him to the infield care center. I would have, but at one point I looked to the left and before my eyes was a beautiful sight. The Air Force boys in their nicely fitting green jumpsuits were back and looking for a good time. The adult store just got a new shipment, ladies! Ali smacked me and told me to get my camera which I did, quickly. They were very, very good-looking but up close I really understood that they were babies. I felt a bit like Blanche Devereaux or Samantha from Sex and the City but then one fly boy named Adam flashed a dimple and I didn’t care so much. They gave us Jell-O shots which we gladly accepted but then Ali had to get sloppy and dribble hers down her chin. Adam offered to get it for her (with his tongue of course – OMG!) but I warned him she had been “marinating” in the sun all day. I really just wanted him to lick MY face instead. After the Jell-O we thanked them and told them to go find themselves a young hottie. Dimples said he was just fine where he was and that we looked like we were in our prime – he could see it in our eyes. (Yeah boy, nothing gets past him. I guess our panting and pawing and general fawning didn’t scream “COUGAR!!” loud enough. He saw it in our EYES.) I gave him another hug and told him he was adorable in that “Honey, you can’t handle me” kind of way and sent him over to Joel’s table where they were doing shots and beer bongs. When they sought us out later to hug us good-bye, we found out that some of them were doing the pre-race fly over the next day. Be still, my beating lady parts.

When we left the fly boys, Ali and I went back toward our (very understanding) husbands and hung out by the music. I’m not sure how it happened, but another young 21-year-old thing started talking to me. He was in Rocky’s crew from Bishopville, SC. He told me he was trying to escape an 18-year-old who was into him. Apparently he liked older ladies. After pointing her out she bored holes into the back of my head the whole night. I was waiting for a cat fight that thankfully never came. We leaned against Arnie’s pick up truck and talked and talked and after we supplied him with a couple of rum and cokes, he gave me pretty much the biggest compliment you can give someone in the infield. He said, “This may be wrong to say out loud…” (How many GREAT conversations start like that? I love when sentences begin with that statement.) He continued, “…but I can NOT take my eyes off your boobs.” Apparently he skipped class the day they went over the chapter entitled “How Not To Be Too Obvious” when he was studying bullshit with Rocky at Bishopville U. Even so, I giggled like a school girl and said “THANK YOU!!”. I mean, he had given me lots of very sweet, non-boob related compliments earlier and I had totally busted him several times already focusing somewhere south of my chin. And, It’s not like we were having heavy conversation and my boobs were distracting him from hearing my plan for world peace. Besides, he felt better after he got it off his chest and no longer tried to “hide” looking at mine. After that, he pretty much just talked directly to my fascinating boobs. I don’t blame him, really.

But then there were the people in the peripheral who you never actually met but were entertained by. Take for example the people in the “Hooters” bus. It was one of those run down old school buses that someone has souped up to take to the race. They pulled up and immediately pulled out the “Hooters” banner. Then came the tiki bar with the “Hooters” umbrella and lots of orange and white balloons. But where you would expect to see lots of short short wearing ladies, there was only one blonde with a bunch of older guys. We found out later that she works at a Hooters and these guys were her “regulars” who treat her to the race. Yeeeaaahhhh…. Well later on she had some friends visit and the show began. One of them wore a black dress that was intentionally too revealing to show off her red frilly boy shorts underneath. Pair this with black combat boots, a bad dye job and an obvious cocaine high and that’s better than any movie you could pay for. Pull up a chair and pop the popcorn! Then out came the Slip N’ Slide around the corner. I think it was a little premature because people hadn’t had enough to drink yet. Except for this one girl. She also wore boy shorts and each of the 15 times she slid down the plastic that was slick with dish soap and water, those suckers got jammed up further and further into her ass crack until they were virtually gone.

There’s also the tale of the Miller Lite girl who Joel had hired. Apparently he had met her earlier in the day by the haulers. She was one of the cuties companies hire to do PR. You know, wear something skimpy and stand around handing out can coozies or some such. Well, Joel hired her to come do “PR” for HIM after her shift with Miller Lite. Much to the chagrin of one of Joel’s employees who was hoping to “hire her” too, she brought her husband. Unfortunately the husband got drunk which left her quite irritated and wide open to any advances. It was like watching a game of roulette. Where’s the ball going to drop? And who’s will it be? Okay, that was crude, but it was like a damned soap opera. Until my husband stepped in and decided to be Dr. Phil. He sat the couple down and had them tell him all about their courtship and fresh two year marriage. According to Phil, at the end of the therapy session they walked off hand in hand totally in love. According to Jeff, Joel’s employee was following close behind still holding out hope that things would fall apart and glaring at Phil who had cock blocked him so hard even his grandchildren aren’t going to have sex.

And that’s pretty much how it goes in the infield. You find yourself looking at things you’ve never seen in your entire life, saying things you’ve never said before and meeting people from ALL walks of life you don’t normally hang out with. There’s the West Virginians without two cents to rub together next to the $80,000 Escalade and $500,000 RV. The young girls in bikini tops next to retirees. It all makes for a wonderful experience that is incredibly fun and immensely interesting. And I’d do it again in a heart beat. Between the scantily clad Hooters girl and her friends, Rocky’s generator making me feel like I was trying to sleep in the middle of the midway at the State Fair, and the rubber coming off the race track it’s a sensory overload for your eyes, ears and nose. But next time I’m going to have to ask Squeaky about his nickname. And bring a smaller halter top.

Copyright 2010 by Me

 

The Top 25 things I learned at my first NASCAR race… (AKA: “Well, would you look at that!”)

In case you want the quick and dirty version of what I saw during my Memorial Day weekend, I will now count down for you the top 25 things I learned while camping in the infield of Charlotte Motor Speedway at a NASCAR race:

25. When school buses become too run down to ferry children safely, they can still be useful. All you have to do is gut it, build a few bunk beds, add a couple of kegs and a confederate flag and you’ve got yourself a damn fine RV.

24. After having a few beers you will think standing on an elevated platform made of plywood that is built on top of a trailer with wheels is freaking awesome! Oh, and the fact that it is located 2 feet from a chain link fence which is all that separates you and the 43 cars going 175 MPH makes it even better. Also at some point during the race you will stand proudly on this platform, arms outstretched and yell out “HELL YEAH!!!” as the roar from the engines hits your chest and rattles the can in your hand.

23. If you make a big enough scene flailing your arms on top of the platform during a caution, some of the drivers will stick their hands out of their mesh window and wave to you.

22. The fashion rage in the infield: cowboy hat, bikini top, cut off jean shorts so short they would make Daisy Duke blush and cowboy boots. Not everybody can pull it off. I think you have to be a special kind of skank. I only say that because I was jealous.

21. I no longer wonder where they got the girls from the cast of Brett Michael’s “Rock of Love”.

20. A sign outside a campsite declaring “We fart” will make me laugh and will then lead to a pantomime of how we fart between me and one of the campers.

19. After enough Cap’n and Cokes my husband turns into Dr. Phil and tries to counsel newlyweds who are in the middle of the biggest fight of their marriage. And they’ll listen to him.

18. Old men like cowboy hats on ladies. And if they’re drunk enough they’ll lean out of their truck window and tell you about it.

17. Hearing an old man slur “That hat is bad ass” is funny.

16. Setting up a Slip N’ Slide using dish detergent and a hose brings out the people. And other types of hos.

15. Everybody in the infield is your friend. If you stand around for a few minutes without food or a beer in your hand that will quickly be remedied by a total stranger. And you pay it forward.

14. Race fans can cook some damn good food. And A LOT of it.

13. While the bath houses are very clean, taking a shower there in 90 degree weather is pointless. You start sweating as soon as you get out and walking back to your campsite in flip-flops only launches the dirt and grime from the road up the back of your legs. Basically, the only part of you that’s still clean when you get back to your camper is your arms.

12. When a company of Army men and women march in formation in front of you, everybody around stands up and claps for them.

11. After the race, people grab the lid to their coolers, jump the fence and slide down the race track. This is called Redneck Sledding and it’s funny as hell.

10. Air force pilots are HOT.

9. Air force pilots who give you hugs and Jell-O shots are even HOTTER.

8. Air force pilots who give you hugs and Jell-O shots and do the pre-race fly over in F-15s are SUPER HOT.

7. I will drink beer out of a beer helmet. And it’s actually not that bad.

6. We’re all just one bad decision and a bottle of black hair dye away from ending up on the back of a Harley wearing a bikini and combat boots while dangling a cigarette from your mouth.

5. Going through a tunnel that looks too small for your truck is not a good idea. It’s probably made for golf carts.

4. When your friend test drives a Toyota around the parking lot and deftly avoids crashing into someone who runs a stop sign by swerving and then yells “WATCH IT, ASSHOLE!!!” the Toyota salesman doesn’t miss a beat but I laugh so hard I almost wet the back seat.

3. The biggest compliment anybody can give you in the infield is this: “This may be wrong to say out loud, but I can NOT take my eyes off your boobs.”.

2. When a cute 21-year-old boy tells you this you will giggle and say “Thank you!!!” and then silently tell the flat chested “Hooters” girl in the old jalopy school bus 3 spots down from you to suck it!

1. It’s fun to have a weekend without the kids where you can let loose and be silly, but it’s always good to be home again.

Copyright 2010 by Me