D'you Go to Dega?

I did, in fact, go to Dega. Talladega, Alabama. Home of the Talladega Superspeedway. And the place where the masses converge to cheer, guzzle beer and pick fights as their favorite NASCAR contenders drive (or perhaps "fly" would be more accurate) around and around in circles for hours in hopes of being the first across the finish line at the end of the 188th lap. "Interesting" doesn't even begin to describe the experience.

I should start by saying that I am not, nor have I ever been, a race fan. I have family members who are. And it's probably safe to say that a vast majority of the Southern population gets totally immersed in the racing culture from year to year. Hey, to each his own. But for me, I have never understood the appeal of watching cars drive around in circles. It just seems incredibly counterproductive to drive and drive and never get anywhere. But I digress.

I saw a lot at Talladega. A lot of beer, a lot of tattoos, a lot of mullets, a lot of scantily clad women (who were wearing more clothing than usual, I was told, due to the overcast skies), a lot of sunburns, a lot of dirty feet, a lot of racing apparel (especially Dale Earnhardt Jr. gear. Seriously, is EVERYONE a Junior fan?) and a LOT of people missing a significant number of teeth. The man across from me on the tram from the parking lot to the stadium had only three teeth. I wouldn't make that up. It also should be noted that the tram was pulled by a tractor and the parking lot was, in fact, a field.

Since I have no loyalty to any driver or organization, I picked a favorite based on the one-line descriptions given to each driver in the special racing section of The Birmingham News. "Most likely to wreck somebody." Sounds like the guy for me. Juan Pablo Montoya. I also enjoyed hearing his name announced amongst the throng of uber-American racers like Dale Jr., Jimmie Johnson, Jeff Burton and winner Kyle Busch. For some inexplicable reason, Juan Pablo (or JP, as I like to call him) made me incredibly happy.
So did his second-place finish.

I can't get over how much fun I had. I was expecting to be amused, but I wasn't expecting to actually get involved in the race. Once I got used to the deafening roar every time the pack whizzed by the bleachers, I found myself eagerly anticipating the next lap. And feeling inredibly sorry for the driver of what I affectionately dubbed the Honey Bun car - a.k.a. the Little Debbie Ford - who got so far behind that the badasses up front actually caught up with him. Oops.

I'm sorry to say that we had to hit the road with 40 laps left to go in the race. Otherwise this girl wouldn't have gotten back into Starkville til the wee hours of the morning. So we missed the 13-car wreck and the final lap. Had I known that crash was coming, I would gladly have sacrificed a good night's sleep to witness it. After all, it ain't a good race unless there's a wreck. Isn't that how it works?

Go West, Young Woman

You read it right. West. Californ-I-A. The Golden State. The left coast. So-Cal. That's where this Southern girl is headed. The decision was a fairly easy one, considering the excitement I felt the second my feet hit the ground the first time I visited last August. I got so excited at seeing the palm trees lining the streets outside LAX that I actually squealed a little. And I hate girls who squeal.

I also went into a mad texting frenzy when I caught my first glimpse of the infamous Hollywood sign. I had to alert people immediately that seeing those big white letters almost made me pee in my pants. Yes, I really am that big of a dork. You have no idea.

For me, there really was no way to avoid falling in love with So-Cal. Not that I was trying. Everything I'd heard about it was true. It was intoxicating and mesmerizing and sexy and frightening and weird and gorgeous and I just could not get enough. (Wait a tic. I think I just finally explained my massive crush on AFI frontman Davey Havok. Interesting.)

Telling the family their baby girl is moving 2,000 miles away wasn't exactly a cake walk, but they're coming to grips with it and have turned out to be incredibly supportive. Except, of course, for my Memaw who just can't seem to stop crying. And my Granny Pete who informed me that she's praying I won't find a job. Then there's an aunt in South America who called at 9 a.m. one morning to tell me that if this isn't God's will for my life, it will end in disaster. And my first cousin thinks the family is losing me forever (hey, his words, not mine). But I'd say supportive as a whole...

My friends, on the other hand, are practically pushing me out the door. They understand that my heart's been elsewhere for some time now. They know my spirit is too big for Mississippi...at least for now. I don't know what I'll find in California, save a couple of really good friends who are cleaning house in anticipation of my arrival. God love 'em. I do love a clean house. And their giant umbrella.

There is much to be done in the next five weeks, including a moving sale, my sister's wedding and my first trip to Talladega. I feel a sudden need to do as many Southern things as I can possibly fit in before my departure. I have to learn to cook turnip greens, perfect my homemade biscuits, secure my great-grandmother's chocolate gravy recipe and drink cheap beer at a NASCAR race. It ain't gettin' much more Southern than that.

Then, come May 27, the real adventure will begin as I pack all that will fit in my car and point my Honda hood toward Hollywood.