I *heart* Books Blog Hop

 

blog-hop-tag-3001Welcome to the I <3 Books Blog Hop! This is my first time participating in a blog hop, so we’ll muddle through it together, have some fun along the way, meet some new authors, and maybe win some prizes. (Please let there be a pony). For those of you unfamiliar with my blog, I write about the trials and absurdities of getting older, one of which is love. Pop a few Valentine chocolates, pull up a rocking chair, and enjoy this excerpt from my upcoming humor book, I Never Drove a Bulldozer / There’s a Hole in my Bucket List. Continue reading

I’ll see you in August

Time once again for my annual lament at the passing of a great American pastime. I’m sad to see the football season winding down to an end for another year. As the Broncos were eliminated last night, I regretted that there would be no more Tebow Time until the preseason games next August. This is going to put a major crimp in my sex life.

Every Sunday, my husband and I celebrate naked football day. We like to have the game going while we scrump like bunnies, because at our age, it helps to hear the crowd cheering us on. It’s nice to know that the defensive players are also exhausted by the third drive and sucking wind. Of course, we never make it to a third drive.

Two years ago after the Super Bowl, we were desperate to have some kind of background noise from the TV, so we randomly chose a channel. Up came Norm Abrams on The New Yankee Workshop. Norm got his television start as a carpenter on This Old House, an old favorite of mine.

On this occasion, Norm was building a chest, and explaining how to put together the drawers. I heard snatches as we struggled for inspiration. “Notice the dovetailing …” I blushed.

He was relentless. “Now we’re going to take the router … tongue in groove …” Okay, that’s it. I was officially weirded-out. We lost our place, and were too embarrassed to even snuggle. I did the walk of shame into the bathroom to get dressed.

In February, we start naked NASCAR. I get a little thrill when I hear, “Gentlemen, start your engines.” On top of the cheering, we get to hear the thunder of unlimited horse-power. My only stipulation is: no drafting.

When irony bites you in the butt

My husband is one of the worst gift receivers that I know. He’ll open a present, look at it appraisingly, then tell you why it’s not good enough. He got his NASCAR tickets yesterday, but they were just E tickets printed off the computer. “Gee, they’re not slick and glossy and commemorative.” What? Did he want to frame them? Continue reading

Romance under the floodlights

My husband is a huge NASCAR fan. Every weekend from February to when hell freezes over I’m treated to the roar of overpriced Chevys in my living room. His birthday is coming up this week, so my kids decided to get him tickets to a race. Problem is, he wants me to go with him. And they say romance is dead.

NASCAR racing holds all the fascination for me of waiting in the gynecologist’s examination room, wearing nothing but a paper dress and goosebumps. I’ll be sitting in the same position until all my butt fat oozes into the grooves in the aluminum bleachers. (At the racetrack, not the gynecologist’s.)

They say that NASCAR is a national pastime. Take that, Ireland. You may have your soccer hooligans, but we’ve got Billy Bob and Lureen getting drunk, picking fights, and urinating in the infield. There just aren’t that many sports in Europe that you watch from the top of your motor home.

The thrill of watching cars make approximately 1,052 left turns, can only be matched by the Canadian pastime of curling. The object in curling is to slide “stones” across the ice and try to knock your competition’s stones out of the goal area. Curling has sweepers who try to melt the ice enough in front of the stone, so it will keep moving at the speed of slug in the right direction. Here you have the gentle slapping noise of the brooms, and three other people in the stands. After all, these athletes have mothers.

But I digress.

I can just be thankful that this is a night race. The only other race I’ve been to, I got heat stroke and passed out on the man one row down. This was a major NASCAR offense, since I made him spill his beer. But to show my love, I will be sitting next to my sweetie, rooting against Jimmy Johnson and Kyle Busch for his sake. If my boy, Carl Edwards wins, there will be a back-flip and a totally inappropriate show of affection from his mother in the winner’s circle. It’s the redneck way.

If my husband thinks that a race would be a romantic evening out with me, he better at least be willing to fight his way through line to get me a funnel cake. That’s when you know it’s love.