The Day I Caved to Commercialism

I am always at a loss when someone asks those questions pertaining to which celebrity or famous person I'd want to meet/eat lunch with, ect. Today, though, I finally had a definitive answer. Hand me some carrots, son...I want to eat lunch with the Budweiser Clydesdales. 

Yes...I know it's a colossal gimmick. 

I don't care.

Yes...I know that I am being used as a marketing ploy for an adult beverage company who have recently made some spokesperson mis-steps...word-to-the-wise...the Clydesdales are ALWAYS in step.

Again...don't care.

I alerted Brad that our famous friends would be visiting the local grocery store a week preceding the event. He admirably concealed his excitement.

I dutifully conducted a daily Clydesdale Count-Down for him which I am SURE he appreciated.

And then...TODAY!!!

"What time is this thing again?" Brad asked.

"2 to 4," I promptly responded.

"Shouldn't we be leaving then?" he said, glancing at the clock as he tied his shoes.

I was still curled up in my chair. "Easy there, Cowboy," I told him,, glancing up from the television, "We don't want to get there too early."

We arrived promptly at 2 pm and strolled across the packed parking lot to take our place behind about 100 other excited people. 

"Wow! What a line!" I exclaimed.

"Yeah," commented Brad.

We all stood on tip-toe, straining to catch a glimpse of shiny mane, feathered feet, or sparkling eyes. Brad stood on tip-toe, counting the people ahead of us. Brad Mosiman is not a big fan of lines. The Mosiman women discovered this minor flaw when he refused to wait two hours for a cannoli from Buddy "The Cake Boss's" bake shop in Jersey. According to Brad Mosiman, no amusement park ride is worth more than a thirty minute wait. Things came to bitter head when he once refused to wait in line to get into the drive-in...we were sitting comfortably in the truck, for Pete's sake...if we'd left two hours early like we'd told him but, no-oo...he HAD to finish mowing the lawn first. Known as The 2006 Pirates of the Caribbean catastrophe, we learned to abandon Mr. Waits-For-Nothing when the possibility of a line was imminent.

But, for some reason, I naively believed that I would be the only one eager to pet a pilsner pony. 

Brad frowned as he glanced at the gray clouds over-head.

As we inched closer, I delighted in the people around me. The older man with pants up to his armpits who wielded his disposable camera like a six-shooter. The disgruntled family who had mistakenly believed that they would be given the opportunity to ride the Budweiser wagon around the parking lot. There were a shocking number of flip-phones. I found it hard to believe that I was part of this demographic. I decided to focus on the families...who brought their children to support a beer product. 

"Where are the protesters?" I asked.

"No one is going to protest a horse," Brad told me, sighing as we were now 45th in line.

"Oh my gosh, I've got a great idea!" I clapped, "We could name the horse, Dylan Mul-neigh-ey!"

My husband sighed again. "I think they're trying to step away from that a bit."

"No," I protested, "The answer is humor. They tried to go woke but forgot the joke."

It was finally our turn. 

"You can pet him here," the handler said, pointing to the flank. "What's his name?" I asked as I was eclipsed in this horse's shadow. 

"Red."

I repressed a smile as I considered the political connotations of that term. "I know you're originally from Scotland," I murmured to my new friend, "but you should probably emigrate to Switzerland. Product representatives should at least try to appear neutral."

Red seemed to agree. With an aggravated flap of his tiny tail, he tossed off his patriotically-printed butt bow. This small revolt was swiftly addressed as the man holding the reins promptly re-instated the undignified derriere decoration. 

"Isn't that the way?" I said with a sympathetic pat, "but it'll take more than a little flap to stirrup any real change." I studied this two-ton, docile creature whose tongue is controlled by a bit, who is directed by pressure, whose vision is limited by blinders, harnessed to pull the economic weight of the corporate machine..."You really are the perfect representative for American consumers," I realized. 

Oh my gosh...it's time for me to get off my high horse. I'm sorry...I didn't mean to be such a neigh-sayer.  This was supposed to be the story about my utter delight in getting to have a brief interaction with one of the Budweiser Clydesdales (which I loved). I apologize that I, instead, offered unsolicited feedback. The only one who likes its feed back is a horse.
 

Lumineer is definitely better than Lumi-far

Ring. Ring.

"Hello?"

"Hi, Savannah! What'ya doin'?"

"Oh...Lisa and I are just hanging out with the dogs in the backyard.

LONG PAUSE

"Uh...what are you guys doing?" my daughter politely asked (finally).

"Oh, nothing," I shrugged, valiantly trying for nonchalance, "We're just on our way home from The Lumineers concert."

SILENCE

Then...Savannah and Lisa exploding.

What does that say about me, as a human, that that was one of the many highlights of my INCREDIBLE night?

"What was another highlight?" my husband asked curiously.

"Is it shallow to admit that I loved being enveloped in the confetti cloud?" I cautiously inquired.

Brad laughed. "It was more like a blizzard."

I hadn't known being showered in a curtain of confetti was even ON my bucket list. I blame Erin, who has given me glitter shell-shock.

I bounced in my seat, still buzzing with excitement.

We had SO much fun.

My anxiety limits us much more than I ever like to admit. Bad enough that it affects me...but it also impacts Brad. 

He always supports and encourages my decisions...when I actually get around to making one. "I'd really like to go see The Lumineers," I'd shared, months ago. Then I came up with a thousand reasons why NOT to go see The Lumineers. Brad just patiently waited me out, knowing his role is ground crew on the day of the event. I hemmed and hawed for weeks before pulling the trigger. Sydney and I studied the map showing the available seating and she quickly ruled out the lawn seats. "There was plenty of room there during Willie," I pointed out. She smiled. "Willie Nelson is a bit of a different concert. Let's get you somewhat out of the fray."

Which is how Brad and I ended up with silver bracelets.

The only people who could get closer to the stage were the Gold Bracelets and they were all crammed into a corral like drunken cows.

Us Silver Bracelets had SEATS (not that we used them). We were so close that it was easier to look at the actual musicians than the video screens projecting the images of the musicians to the 17,000 far-sighted people behind us. 

18,000 attended. With me. The girl who crouched and cried in a mulch fort outside a grocery store during Covid. I now have a new favorite Lumineer lyric from the song "Slow It Down:"

And when she stood, she stood tall

Getting me to and from my seat was dicey...I've adopted a more-or-less successful eyes-on-the-ground, following Brad's feet as I clutch his hand strategy. I got flagged through the metal detector but Brad moved directly into my eyesight as security determined I wasn't a threat...the ticket agent just thought I was an every-day-sort-of-idiot as I fumbled scanning our tickets (Sigh...I miss paper tickets...doesn't anyone keep scrapbooks any more?) which I took as a victory, and the people who bumped and jostled me were too inebriated to react to my frightened jolts and gasps as Brad kept a firm grip on me in the crowd. We found our seats (Staff explained and pointed. I nodded. Brad listened and located.) and once I'd spent 30 minutes prairie-dogging the area looking for exits and calculating the quickest ways out of there, I settled in.

"Do the seats really make that big a difference?" I asked Brad as I rattled off a dozen more of my highlights. I likened all the musicians to television personalities...a thirty-something Ron Howard with a beard, Woody Harrelson, "Ann Perkins" from Parks & Rec, a young Bobby Flay, and Ed Helms (which was actually conceivable since he also plays the banjo). I watched them exchange insider smiles, wink at one another, toss guitar picks...I saw the skill and strain of fingers coaxing incredible sounds from a constantly-revolving array of instruments. Yeah. The seats make a HUGE difference. In all the other concerts I've attended, I was swept up in the energy of the crowd...an almost revival-type relationship where we are led to sing with one voice and move in metronomic motion. At this concert though, that chorus was behind us...an incessant energy pushing us forward...up...up...up...toward the band...where the energy originated and pulsed out...you could feel it in your stomach...by the way the hairs on the back of your neck lifted...and in the way you couldn't stand still. Electric.

I'd warned Brad during the drive to the concert. "There are four songs that I know by HEART," I confided, "so I'll be good-to-go if I get called up on stage." "What about the other songs?" he wondered, worried on my behalf. We wouldn't want me to be embarrassed, after all. "I just won't make eye-contact during those numbers," I assured him. Turns out, I was relieved that the band didn't need me to help them out because the biggest highlight of the evening was standing next to my husband at that concert. 

 

Buy me some peanut (M&Ms) and Cracker Jacks, I don't care if I never get back (to the airport)

 I had a two hour layover in Chicago.

Well-versed in how to best handle my anxiety with crowds and unfamiliar places, I found a snug little hidey-hole and hunkered down, within eye-sight of my gate, and ripped open my box of Cracker Jacks. When the video I clicked on blasted, I fumbled with the side of my phone to lower the volume...somehow, initiating the accessibility feature on my device. I didn't even know that my cell phone had an accessibility feature.

I could no longer access ANYTHING on my phone. I would tap on one of those little squares for Facebook, gmail, text messages, ect and they would light up green and tell me that they were Facebook, gmail, text messages, ect. 

Naturally, I panicked. 

I clicked, poked, prodded, and punched those little boxes.

I powered up and powered down...several times. 

I couldn't contact anyone. Alone before...I was REALLY alone now.

It was then that my phone rang.

Brad Mosiman.

I shook my cell phone violently...like I was either making a margarita or erasing an Etch-a-Sketch and miraculously heard my husband's voice. 

How does he do it? Hundreds...sometimes thousands, of miles away and still...he knows.

"What's wrong?" he demanded.

Hiccuping. Gasping. Crying. I tried to explain. Somewhere in the middle of all this idiocy...I had failed to notice that I wasn't so hidden anymore in my hidey-hole. Surrounded by a mass of people, I was very aware of my language and didn't want to yell out the word "handicap" in the middle of the Midway Airport. Thank goodness for "Glee."

"I accidentally triggered the Handicapable feature on my phone and now I can't access any of the little box-y things," I whisper-shook at him.

Normally this is where Brad Mosiman utilizes his "tough-love" strategy..."Get yourself together, Woman!"...but he immediately realized that that method maybe wasn't going to work at this particular time. "I'm going to call Sydney and Doug," he told me, "They'll call you back in just a minute. Hang in there."

Sydney called back in record time and I was able to answer using my shake-a-weight strategy. I tried explaining but couldn't. "Mom, are you alone or are there people near you?" We decided that I should move. "I'll call you back in four minutes, " Sydney promised as I juggled my packed backpack, phone, book, and open box of Cracker Jacks.

I found a new hidey-hole, crawled under the seat to plug in my charger as my phone was at an alarming 17%, situated my belongings, balanced my open box of Cracker Jacks on the armrest and waited. 

With a twist and flick, I answered my phone.

It was Brad.

"You do know what the worst-case scenario is, right?" he asked me gently.

I sniffled.

"Amy..."

I hate when he calls me that.

He persisted. "What's the worst-case scenario?"

I paused to think. The only phone number I had memorized was Sydney's. I would have to write Brad's down before we hung up. What if my flight was delayed or, oh my goodness, cancelled? ("We track your flight on the app," I was informed by my daughters later. What voodoo is this?)

"I would have to ask someone to borrow their phone," I whispered, horrified.

"Worse-case scenario," my husband told me, "is that, if we can't fix this, I drive to Chicago."

My stomach unknotted. Muscles relaxed. Teeth unclenched. My brow unfurled. Suddenly, I could breathe again. My heart was full. Of course I was going to get my silly self on that plane and fly home. But knowing that my husband was willing to offer this ridiculous option calmed me.

"Thank you," I whispered. Sydney's name flashed on my screen. "Good luck," Brad said as I whipped my phone into action again.

"Doug's watching a Youtube video right now," Sydney reassured me...NOT reassuring me at all. Doug has YET to see me at my best. So far, all he has witnessed is me getting caught at the airport smuggling 20 bottles of Ice Pineapple-Coconut waters in my suitcase, me getting hopelessly lost at LAX, me insisting that I was in danger of being sex traffic-ed when a friendly man tried to engage me in conversation as I did the sting-ray shuffle in Mission Bay, and me freaking out at various semi-busy restaurants. I am NOT coming off as the strong, capable, kick-ass woman that I am. "Okay," Sydney said after a quiet, side-chat with Douglas, "Apparently this happens more often than you think..." I sighed. Sydney had her human-resources voice on (Also known as "The talk the insane person off the ledge" voice) which meant that I was, indeed, the only idiot in the world to have gotten myself into such a mess. "All you have to do," she instructed, "is press the power button on the back until it vibrates and then, tap-tap, the screen." 

Oh, for pete's sake. I rolled my eyes (proving that I was still in the game, somewhat). I had already done that. Several times. I am the wife of a man who trouble-shoots for a LIVING. I hear ALL the stories of the doofuses (doofusi?) who don't try powering down first or the super-doofuses (super-doofusi?) who aren't even PLUGGED in...Can you imagine? 

"Mom, repeat it back to me."

Ugh. That's the latest Mosiman strategy to deal with me during panic attacks. All it succeeds in doing, however, is to add an extra layer of emotion to my already-exploding lava cake. This is called the "I want to punch you in the face" layer. 

Through clenched teeth, I repeated her instructions back. 

"I'll call you back in five minutes. Good luck." (This message will detonate in seven seconds.)

I tried.

Failed.

My phone was now at 14%.

WTF

Wait. Maybe the Youtube video was confusing the power button on the back with the sound buttons on the side. The sound buttons that had gotten me into this mess in the first place.

Holding my breath, I held them both down and was pleasantly surprised by a vibration. (Rarely does a vibration NOT make me feel pleasantly surprised...wink, wink). No tap-tap needed because suddenly, thankfully, the green light surrounding my box-y screen things disappeared. I gasped and flung my arms wide in joy, knocking my full box of Cracker Jacks to the ground.

Oh no.

I sank to my knees and attempted to gather them up like a mother hen...lamenting their too-short lives...mortified that I had made a mess at the airport. 

The phone rang.

"And...???" Sydney cautiously asked.

"I....spu....spuh...I spu...illed," I sputtered, crouched on the floor, pulling in Cracker Jacks like a Black Jack dealer racking in chips.

"Mom, are you okay?" Her voice faded as she turned to Douglas. "I can't understand her. It must not have worked."

"It worked," I managed as I lunged after the caramel-coated marbles shooting all across the airport floor. "I spilled my Cracker Jacks..."

Sydney was the perfect Mosiman on this particular call.

"Oh Mom, I'm so sorry." 

I could hear Douglas's baffled voice in the background. I imagined Sydney waving him off. He wouldn't be able to relate. He has protein containers the size of my cheese ball barrels on top of his fridge. 

"I have to go," I said suddenly, "I see a custodial worker."

I raced over to her as she rolled her cleaning cart along. Gesturing madly (with my still 1/3 full box of Cracker Jacks) and apologizing profusely, I explained my predicament. I pleaded for a broom so I could clean it up myself. Naturally, she was stunned. She stared at me, speechless. So I gestured some more with my still 1/3 full box. 

Things came to a head when she reached out and snatched my still 1/3 full box of Cracker Jacks out of my hand and dumped it into her waste receptacle before trundling away, leaving me, shocked and speechless.

I returned to my hidey-hole, sulkily kicking Cracker Jacks out of my way, and picked up the phone to call Brad. It was now at 12%.

WTF.

I dropped to the floor again to check the outlet...and watched my charger swinging lifelessly on the end of its hangman's noose. Oh my gosh...I am such a doofus.

"Go buy yourself another snack," Brad urged but I was tapped out for the day. "I think I may have some M&Ms left over from my flight to San Diego," I said. "Good luck finding those," Sydney said after I'd checked in with her quick. She wasn't a fan of my carry-on packing style.

When I'd settled down a bit, I began the journey to the bottom of my backpack. Past the tightly rolled blanket. Brushing against my warm, fuzzy zip-up. Past Book #1. Past Book #2 (In case I finished Book #1). Between my journals and notebooks. Ah-ha! I felt something smooth. Nope. That was my Bible. There! At the bottom! Happily, I grabbed the bag and pulled...realizing, too late, that my package of M&Ms was upside down. "No!" I wailed, as the candy poured out and the bag deflated...my mood right along with it.

I looked around.

To hell with it. 

Shoulder-deep, I monkey-fisted small handfuls of M&Ms...fishing them out from the depths of my backpack and then consumed them like a hungry chipmunk...deftly...daintily.

As I squirreled away my treat, a text came in:

What sort of nut comes in a Cracker Jack Box?

I texted back:  Peanut

No. Walnut. Because Amy walnut fail in her quest to get home.

That's nut funny.

I hate to bring this up: Suffering from a "terminal illness" on my last flight

 I admit to being both annoyed and embarrassed as my family "subtly" makes adjustment and accommodations to alleviate my anxiety in known problematic areas. Case-in-point:  Sydney Lynn flying all the way from San Diego so that she could fly back with me. 

Ridiculous.

Unnecessary.

Infuriating.

"It was amazing!" Doug exclaimed, having monitored the entire flight on his computer, "Your pilot managed to find the one small break in the storm pattern and slid right through."

Storm pattern? More like a crazy quilt.

So...to explain:

The first leg of the trip was, admittedly, a bit bumpy but manageable. "In terms of over-all flights," Sydney told me as we exited the plane in Chicago, "That was probably the third worst in terms of turbulence." She expertly guided me past all my secret little-hidey-holes where I curl up to wait out my next flight and planted me at a bar in hopes that a little drinky-drink would help me relax. I decided to throw an order of fried ravioli on top of that.

Bad idea.

One of my many secrets to success (that flies in the face of popular opinion) for airplane travel includes a strict regimen of dehydration as I refuse to leave my seat unless it's to proceed to the nearest exit to leap onto the safety slide. So, my little drinky-drink threw me for a little loop-de-loop as I wobbled to the restroom before heading to my gate. 

Strapped into my seat, brain a-buzzin', I settled in, content to watch as many episodes of And Just Like That that it takes to rocket across the United States to get to San Diego. Turns out...it just took 20 minutes, a storm system, a cargo bay filled with airport ravioli and booze, and a girl with a long and lurid history of motion sickness to get me THERE. 

THERE.

A condition now known in our family as FOF:  Face-on-fan.

My mid-50s have been accompanied by a fun wave of hot flashes so I am usually armed with a small, discrete ("Discrete?" snorts Brad Mosiman.) fan. As the plane pounced like a puma on its cumulonimbus prey, my head spun, my stomach rolled, and my skin steamed. I resorted to my lamaze breathing as I tried, in vain, to control the nausea unleashed by this not-so-amusing ride. Alarmed, Sydney rubbed my back, watching, in horror, as I sank lower and lower in my seat, contorted in pain and desperation...finally, I was even unable to hold my tiny fan, laying it, face-up/full-power, on the seat-back tray and lowering my face directly onto it. Face-on-fan. 

Fortunately or not fortunately, we were in the very back seats of the plane so Sydney was able to communicate with the strapped in flight attendants who were the perfect balance of firm and funny to the frightened passengers. A wonderful balance of "We got this" and "No, sit down. You'll have to vomit in your seat, thank you very much." 

"Can I get my mom a ginger ale?" Sydney shouted. She was handed a (yucky tasting but...who's complaining?) tonic water. While I sipped the bitter-tasting concoction and mentally recited the 10 Commandments (forwards and backwards), Sydney alternated between chatting it up with the flight staff and exclaiming over the majestic beauty of the light-show out our window. As the attendant predicted, I started feeling a bit better (I could lift my head off the fan) after about five minutes. Tonic water contains quinine which is derived from the bark of the cinchona tree found in South America, the Caribbean, and western Africa. Not only does it ease nausea, it may also address issues associated with restless leg syndrome and is a common treatment for malaria. 

"Better?" Sydney asked, smoothing my hair. I nodded, reluctantly sipping my bitter beverage. I noticed then that Sydney was armed with the familiar white airplane "lunch"  bag as well as a roomier version that the flight attendant had tossed at her during my darkest hour. I had been unaware of these receptacles so, as I had stuffed my face between the seat-back in front of me and the tiny plane window, I had indulged in a bit of brainstorming about how I would handle it if/when the levies rose and the dam broke. Eyeing up Sydney's cheetah print snuggie that I had alternately wrapped around my shivering self or tossed off my sweating self, I realized that it might have to take one for the team...fast. Fortunately, it never came to that.

Exhausted, I leaned into my daughter and sighed. With a sweet side hug, she gently urged me to take some more sips of the awful antidote. "I'm so glad you're here," I admitted, shuddering at the idea of having had to deal with my hunched-over hysterics among horrified strangers. "I'm sorry if I didn't show enough appreciation for all of your effort to make me feel safe and comfortable," I told her. "Not to worry," Sydney assured me, smiling, "under these circumstances, it's understandable for anyone to have a bad altitude."

Bequeathing my Marilyn wig as a family hair loom

 For my friend, Sarah, everyday is a theme day (except, ironically, actually assigned theme days...and then she balks...this is, of course, when our relationship was cemented). I lack the energy, creativity, talent, and enthusiasm for such devotion to design...however, I do occasionally rise to the challenge...

...as was the case when Sydney Lynn purchased beach-based tickets for us to watch "Some Like It Hot" at the renowned Hotel del Coronado which provided the memorable exterior shots for the famous Marilyn Monroe/Tony Curtis/Jack Lemmon comedy. Upon hearing the news of these plans, I squealed with utter delight and immediately began planning what our party would wear.

I,  of course, would go iconic Marilyn in the "The Seven Year Itch" dress and depend on Sydney to represent "Some Like It Hot." I waded in carefully with Savannah and Douglas...my diffident deer...my reluctant rabbits...my wary woodland creatures...but my worries were unfounded. They sported their captain's hats like jaunty cherries on a whipped cream sundae. It may have been out of relief that I didn't try to wrangle them into a more ambitious costume or, as I prefer to believe, they, too, were caught up in the excitement. 

I think that, years later, when I look back at this evening, I may remember the preparations for the event even more than the actual experience. The silliness. The giggling. The racing from room to room. The awkward adjustments. Man-handling me into make-up (Think lipstick on a pig)..."It stings," I complained as I offered Sydney a litany of palettes upon which to work:  Pursed lips. "Relax," she frowned, concentrating on painting her hostile canvas. Bird lips. "Relax," she scolded. "Try opening your mouth a bit. No, not that much." Elvis sneer. "Mother," Sydney sighed, exasperated, "Pretend you're popping an M & M in there. Perfect." She dove in while I complained again, "It stings." She paused to look at me. "Like emergency room sting or I'm being a big baby and it doesn't actually hurt that much sting," I side-eyed the mirror and saw, with great alarm, that my lips were black. "Marilyn MONROE," I hissed, hindered by my M & M-shaped mouth, "Not MANSON." "It's a stain," Sydney explained, already planning her strategy on how to get me to wear a strapless brasserie without having to chase, tackle, and sit on me. "It'll turn red in a minute." I stared at her, shocked. "I'm not a porch deck, Sydney Lynn."

As Sydney put the finishing touches on her amazing outfit, I forced Savannah to be my photographer as I attempted to re-enact Marilyn's subway grate scene. Straddling a box-fan is as magical as you can imagine. 

Douglas gallantly dropped us off at our destination before parking the car. I, at first, suspected that this was an (understandable) avoidance strategy so he wouldn't have to walk with us through the grounds to get to the beach but I realized I misjudged him because he OWNED that captain's hat as he jogged back to us...offering a chivalrous arm to his fiance and proudly guiding her along the sidewalk, balancing her across the sand to her seat. 

The journey to the movie area was more running a gauntlet than walking a red carpet. I was expecting some looks. Some laughter. I was not expecting to not be noticed AT ALL. Wow. I guess it should be comforting that I was not even in the top ten of weird things these people encounter in a day...but, c'mon, folks! Let's muster up a smile at least.  

Then we found our people.

Our approval rating went from invisible to accepted, appreciated, and admired the minute we stepped on to the sand. Sydney, clutching her stole, demurely waved a slender, gloved hand at her fans as Savannah wrestled a blanket out of the ukulele case to cover my bare legs as the setting sun clocked out to let the Pacific determine the weather, changing the dial from solar to polar. 

Earlier, as I attempted to gracefully get in the car without dislodging my wig or displaying my goods, I slammed my skull against the

top of the door. This wouldn't have happened to Marilyn, I thought glumly, Instead, I'm forced to do all my own stunts. Sporting a splitting headache, I nevertheless enjoyed every second of the cinematic experience. We adored ALL of the actors but the true star of the screen was, of course, The Del. There she was, in glamorously timeless black and white footage while, behind the projection screen, she still stood...ageless and elegant, filled with colorful stories...a legend. A starlet beneath the stars. 

Squinting at the screen, I attempted to ignore my headache...occasionally removing my glasses to hug my head in an attempt to alleviate the pressure. Was it the car door? I wondered. Am I dehydrated? Just tired and over-stimulated? Oh my gosh! What if it's an aneurysm? I was scared at first but then thought, If I'm going to go out...please let it be dressed as Marilyn at a screening of "Some Like It Hot" at The Del. Wouldn't that be a great story for my family to tell rather than "Mom died on the couch watching re-runs of MASH?" 

Obviously, I survived the experience. We returned home and I crawled up the stairs and into

the bathroom. Removing the wig, I then contended with the netting that was ensnaring my hair. Recall, if you will, the fun science experiment where one places rubberband after rubberband around the middle of a ripe watermelon and the messy aftermath. Yeah. I tore my tendrils free and then, euphoric, subsequently discovered the release from my malaise. 

Was it worth it? The planning and cost? The headache? The self-inflicted social embarrassment? The hot, itchy wig? I won't actually admit to liking it hot. But, over-all, I would say it was a small price toupee. 

My sad tale of whoa at the Rodeo

  Still a bit skeptical but nonetheless caught up in the excitement and Americana-feel of the event, I found myself, for the first time in its 64 year history, at the renowned local rodeo. As we entered the gates, I was pleased to see a large variety of food vendors including my friend, Brenda who, with her husband, Tuff, runs Kick-Ass Concessions and was more than happy to dish me up a saddle-size serving of fried dough! 

A penned Brahman bull stood calmly by, patiently willing to pose for pictures. "Are you going to do it?" my husband asked, well-aware of my penchant for pictures. "Nah," I muttered, "$10 per adult seems pretty steep." Sydney laughed. "First of all, you paid $7 for the fried dough that's going to disappear in a cloud of sugar dust in two seconds... " I vehemently interrupted, quickly listing all the virtues of my delicious snack. "Second," Sydney continued, "You have paid much more exorbitant prices to have your picture taken with racing pigs, snakes, sea lions, alligators, and a giraffe."

Our debate was interrupted by the Pledge of Allegiance...recited, then sang, and then followed by the National Anthem. I had powdered sugar all over my heart by the time we were through. Proud veteran that he is, Brad still became a little antsy as the devotion to our country looked like it was going to extend into a Lee Greenwood montage.  "I can't even see the flag," he complained as we said The Pledge to the back of the bleachers. "Use the one for sale in that vendor's tent," I advised. "Where?" Brad squinted. "There...next to the Confederate flag." Sydney spat out her water next to us and Brad had to take his hand off his heart to pound her back.

We navigated the cowboy-hat-wearing crowd  to get to our seats. It takes a bit for me to settle in as my Enochiophobia (I love big, tongue-twister-y words that make it seem like there is a rational scientific and medicinal explanation why I act like a lunatic in situations like these) has my heart racing and my flight response at Code Red. Because I'd (necessarily) dawdled in choosing my snack, we'd lost the chance at a prime, top-of-the-bleachers seat featuring a kinda-comfy backrest and NO ONE BEHIND ME. So I had to deal with 3-D stereo and audio coming at me from 360 degrees. I sat, ramrod-straight, like a prairie dog, mapping out all my exit strategies.

Suddenly, my phone vibrated.

It was a text from my work friend Lauren:  Settle down, crazy lady! The bulls are supposed to be the highlight of the show!

My face flamed red. Someone I KNEW saw me acting like a big ol' baby. I whipped my head around, trying to locate her in the audience. As I did, my gaze lighted on the smirking brunette next to me. The rowdy, smirking brunette next to me. The pain in the ass, rowdy, smirking brunette next to me. Lauren's sister. Who I had met ONCE. Over three years ago. And not in the most dignified and mature of venues. Oh no.

Mikayla

"I thought that was you," she laughed. I wiggled uncomfortably on the unforgiving metal bleacher seat. The Amy that Mikayla was encountering now was a far-cry from the Amy she met at an...um...intimate implement affair several years ago. Lauren didn't help with a follow-up, clarifying text:  "She texted me and said, "Who was the funny lady at your sex toy party? I think she's next to me at the rodeo." 

Oh my gosh. Is THAT my identifier? Funny lady at sex toy party? What about:  Amy Mosiman:  Philanthropist? Charitable? Benevolent? Articulate? Bold? Creative? Kind to animals and small children? No...instead I'm funny lady at sex toy party.

Fortunately, Mikayla's attention was quick to wander before she could clue Brad in on the behind-the-scenes summary of our salacious history. I can't completely recall but my husband may have been under the impression that I was at a Tupperware Party that evening. 

I'm not sure if I had more fun watching the rodeo action or watching Mikayla trying to get some action of her own. She somehow lured the 50/50 guy to her seat and coquettishly kept taking his tickets. I kept Lauren updated as I divided my attention from cowboys attempting to lasso calves while Mikayla attempted to ensnare a date. 

Amy:  Who flirts with the 50-50 guy? (3 guesses...they all start with your sister)

Lauren:  Single and lookin' to mingle!

Amy:  When he asked her if she wanted "an arm's length, " I held my breath, fearing she was going to ask if there was another option.

Lauren:  Which do you think would have been the better deal?

Amy:  Oh my.

The Mosimans left after The Flaming Whip. He was magnificent. I thought I was pretty skilled in swinging my school lanyard but I've got NOTHING on this guy. My only suggestion was that he END with the fiery whips which, admittedly, would be pretty tricky to do as they must plunge the arena into total darkness prior to the arrival of The Flaming Whip. We watched as mysterious plumes of dust arose from each set of ropes he used. "Hey...I smell baby powder," Sydney exclaimed. "The Flaming Whip..." remarked her father, "smoothest hands in the West."

We bid adios to Mikayla and began our journey home. As the sun set on my experience at the rodeo, all I could do was hope that this encounter would spur Mikayla to modify her original impression of me. Now, maybe instead of funny lady at sex party, I could be fun-loving, adventurous, and yet still somehow dignified lady at rodeo.

Yeah. You know that's a bunch of bull...