For months, Earnhardt was guest who wouldn't leave

Sometimes it seems as if he's staying in the guest bedroom, with a freshly pressed red firesuit hanging in the closet and a No. 8 cap on the nightstand. We go out to dinner, and he's there. We go to the movies, and he's there. We go on vacation, and he's there, ready to interrupt the whole thing with yet another big announcement.

It's life with Junior.

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As NASCAR's most popular driver, Dale Earnhardt Jr. demands a certain level of attention. Virtually anything he does is of interest to a very large segment of the sport's following. But none of that prepared you for this season, and the almost constant cycle of news that left reporters in a perpetual state of readiness. From May 10, when he announced his plans to leave Dale Earnhardt Inc., until Wednesday, when his new car number and sponsor were finally revealed, Junior was the household guest who wouldn't leave. You checked on him every morning, tucked him in every night, and ran around the country to hear what he had to say.

It began, innocently enough, at The Home Depot. We were looking for new bathroom fixtures -- the good brushed nickel kind, not that tired chrome stuff -- when the BlackBerry buzzed. It might as well have been Junior knocking on the door, suitcase in hand, announcing that he was going to stay a while. There was a press conference scheduled in Mooresville, N.C., ultimately to announce the driver's split from DEI, but not where he was going. It was as if Junior had plunked himself down on the sofa, put his feet up, and asked you to set an extra place setting for the near future. Oh, and to fetch him a Bud.

The BlackBerry became the bearer of bad news. It would buzz, she would see the look of consternation on my face as I checked it, and ask, "What did Junior do now?" When we would go to dinner on a rare weekend night off, she would steal it, hide it in a drawer or threaten to throw it out the window. Because otherwise, I'd have to check it every five minutes or so. Just to make sure Junior hadn't done anything.

She'd look at me, eyes afire, hands on hips. "I'm going out with you," she'd say, "and not with Junior." Bless her.

But still, sometimes Junior would hide in the backseat and go along for the ride, announcing himself at the worst possible moment. Like at a nice place on Hilton Head, where we were enjoying a few peaceful, Junior-free days of vacation until I spotted the familiar visage of driver No. 8 on the television above the bar. According to the closed captioning, he was asking people to lay off Teresa, his stepmother and DEI's owner, a fact that needed to be in the column I had written and filed before we left. Suddenly, notes were being jotted down on a cocktail napkin. I begged a few minutes with the BlackBerry to e-mail in a couple of additional paragraphs (read more). She relented. She had begrudgingly become used to having Junior around.

We joked about our family -- the two of us, dog Oreo, cat Zeke and Junior. But it wasn't always funny. News of an impending announcement from Junior led to a flurry of telephone calls to public relations representatives, the checking of flight schedules, the re-examination of vacation days. "Honey, I know we're supposed to be on vacation in New Hampshire, but Junior has a press conference scheduled in Chicago," you'd say, and receive only a steely silence in response. Thankfully, it was just to unveil a new candy bar. False alarm. The relationship is saved for yet another day.

Still, he has a way of creeping up on you. You know you've become too used to having Junior around when you refer to the pets as "Tony Jr." and "Pops," when you add yet another red shirt to your wardrobe, when the refrigerator contains a little too much of a certain malted beverage. Junior moved in just as we began extensive renovations to the house. I begged to add a basement bar -- Club D, maybe? -- and build a Western-style village in the backyard. Thankfully, she rejected both requests.

As houseguests go, Junior wasn't necessarily a bad one; he never played his Elvis Presley albums after midnight, he never spilled Budweiser on the furniture, and he always picked up after himself. Still, we felt a burden lifted when those No. 88 cars were unveiled on Wednesday, and we knew it was time for him to move out. There are no more loose ends to tie up, no more reasons for him to hang around. As much as we liked the guy, he had become something of a third wheel. We felt plenty of relief when at last he packed up all his storylines and news announcements and carried them out the door, toward his new home at Hendrick Motorsports.

Now, there's just one more question. What am I going to do with all of this Amp?

The opinions expressed are solely those of the writer.