Sunday wraps up Surreal Weekend -- I think

It's Sunday evening. So I think that I've left Surreal Weekend, right? For once, I actually woke up this morning before Sammy gets me up, and I have time to make myself a pot of coffee, and read the Sunday paper while I can still read a whole paragraph without interruption and learn that Surreal Weekend continues. Among the news stories that catch my eye:

So we had our NASCAR pals over for the Daytona 500, and just for fun, our pal, sprint car enthusiast, AJ Foyt Fan, and general racing curmudgeon Rob McCuen went and picked up Dan "Myles" Mullen to join us so I wouldn't be the only girl in the room who doesn't follow NASCAR all that closely. (I much prefer the elegant eurosexual hotness that comprises the crop of F1 drivers, but that's what Juan Pablo Montoya is for, eh?) And I don't care if all these guys are biologically and sexually male. Yes, there was enough testosterone in the room to put hair on my lactating chest, but watching this race with all these guys was like being in the henhouse: Pick-A-Little, Talk-A-Little, Pick-A-Little, Talk-A-Little, Cheep Cheep Cheep Talk A Lot Pick A Little More -- Goodnight Ladies! Sheesh, none of you guys ever again have permission to give us girls grief about how bitchy and catty we can get. OK, I will admit, listening to Brian and Rob call this race was better for my abdomen than 50 bent-knee situps, or at least my core muscles felt so afterwards, I laughed so much.

Mullen reported to me that indeed, Saturday's surreality continued at the karaoke bar at 27th and Ryan, as he (if he did say so himself) brought down the house "Crying" with Roy Orbison. Still, I'm glad I went virtually bowling with the skinheads. I needed a halftime break. Thank you, Mr. Wrong and the Bugs. You have no clue how much you helped me survive this.

Finally, after the race we all feasted on oven-baked ribs and this new recipe I've got for Bourbon Baked Beans, the kids built forts and played computer games all day, and the guests left after I made them all look at the pictures I shot last night. I finally hit the wall, falling asleep on the couch, awaking to see and hear Wayne Newton sing "Viva Las Vegas" at the NBA All-Star Pregame show. ("No, hon, this wasn't a dream even if Wayne does look like he's wearing a halloween mask instead from all the face work," Brian assured me.) OK, that does it. I'm going upstairs to bed, I'm going to fall asleep and Gene Mueller is going to wake me up at 5:30 Monday Morning to go to work and tell me the weather and traffic reports and everything is going to be all normal again.

I so desperately need to go out and do something righteously sincere and unironic this week I can taste it.


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