Caroline and I took Alli to the mountains this weekend. We left the little monsters behind with Miss Brenda in order to focus on our 9 year-old. We often feel sorry for her because our household is such a trainwreck 24 hours a day. We thought two nights out of town for a little Alli time would do her some good. We went to a place called Gatlinburg and rented a cabin. For those of you not familiar, Gatlinburg is little more than rampant commercialism at its cheesiest. The kind of place where it’s hard not to feel out of place amongst the throngs who brave absurd lines for funnel cakes and salt-water taffy.
Some might call it a bit red-necky. But not I. For while we were braving the crowds in downtown Gatlinburg, I was busy hitting “refresh” on my BlackBerry so I could keep abreast of the Daytona 500. And having a cyber jones for NASCAR while your daughter buys one of those spray-painted tees leaves you no room to be throwing around terms like “redneck.”
A fact that was not lost on my wife.
“What do you keep doing?” she asked me at one point.
“Checking on NASCAR.”
“Oh, good grief,” she replied. “Won’t you ever stop? We’re trying to enjoy ourselves.”
“Don’t knock it,” I said. “I’m actually multi-tasking. As I check on NASCAR, I’m paying attention to any names we might want to use. ”
“What,” she asked, “like Dale or Ricky?”
“What’s wrong with Dale or Ricky?”
“Nothing,” she said, “but I’m not going to name our child Dale or Ricky.”
“What about Trevor?” I asked, referring to the surprise rookie, Trevor Bayne, who had been racing extremely well all afternoon.
“I kinda like that name,” Caroline answered. “Why?”
“Because this 20 year old kid named Trevor has been running up front all day. He’s from our hometown, you know.”
“He’s from Knoxville?” Caroline asked.
“Huh,” she said.
Much to my surprise (and delight), Trevor Bayne went on to win the Daytona 500, a fact I confirmed once we returned home. Caroline and I watched a recap on ESPN together on the coach just a little while ago.
“So that pretty much settles it,” I said. “We’ll name the kid Trevor Bayne Osborne if it’s a boy.”
“Give me a break,” Caroline said as she put the finishing touches of clear-coat on her toes. (Yes, she can still see her toes.)
“What do you mean?”
“How redneck would that be?” Caroline asked. “To name our kid after the winner of the Daytona 500?”
“Redneck or fate?” I deadpanned.
“Redneck,” she answered. “Which shouldn’t surprise me. Given you’re such a redneck that you couldn’t even survive this afternoon without checking on your precious race a hundred times.” she said as she turned her attention back to her toes.
“I suppose I am a redneck,” I conceded. “I mean, look at my wife. She’s watching NASCAR all barefoot and pregnant.”
Trevor has officially been ruled out.