Tuesday, September 1, 2009

"I'm a Patron"

So yesterday I mentioned that we took the girls to see Carrie Underwood on Sunday night. What I didn’t mention was that there is a story attached to it.

There’s always a story.

Before I get to the story, however, I have to backtrack and tell you that Maggie spent her Saturday afternoon looking through her dad’s old scrapbook. At one point, as I walked through the room, she said to me with all kinds of amazement in her voice, “Mom, one year Dad got all C’s.”

“Really?” I asked. I wanted living proof that my husband isn’t as perfect as he seems. “Show me that report card.”

Maggie flipped back a few pages and turned to B’s second grade report card. Yep, straight C’s alright. C for Commendable, that is. That’s like getting all plus marks today. Or, if you want to look at it this way, straight A’s.

We like to tease the only man in our house about being Mr. Perfect. Seriously, I don’t think I’ve ever met anyone who is luckier than him. Not only did he win the lottery when he married me (sorry, but that previous sentence just walked me right into it!), he’s also won many a golf outing prize, raffle, or contest. The guy just exudes success. It’s weird.

So on the way to the concert we got into another of our teasing fits. Maggie even said, “I got kind of sick of looking at Dad’s scrapbook—it was so full of awards and straight A report cards.” We laughed at how everything he touches turns to gold.

But on Sunday night it was good to be in the same car with B because his Midas touch came through yet again. See, earlier in the week we had been sent a pink postcard in the mail with instructions about parking for Sunday night’s concert. It made very little sense to us, but it seemed like something we should hold onto and even take with us because it talked about “Patron parking.”

Now, B’s employer is a patron of the arts and a sponsor of this music festival, and since we had ordered our tickets through B's work we thought maybe the special pink parking postcard was somehow related. Since the instructions were very specific, and it was definitely delivered to B at our home address, we knew it wasn't a mistake.

We just couldn't figure out exactly why it was sent to us.

The concert was sold out, and even though we arrived near the concert venue three hours (yes, you read that right--three hours) before the concert, the line of cars to get into the regular parking lot was about 2 miles long and moving veerryy slowly. The line of cars crept down the center lane of traffic, and, if they were lucky, they might get a place to park in about an hour.

But our little pink postcard told us to head down the right lane where there was no traffic, basically bypassing all those poor people who were waiting in that 2 mile line. B and I kind of looked at each other for a second . . . but only for a second . . . and the decided to go for it. Let’s just see what happens when we get to the lot, was our thinking. It couldn't be any worse than waiting in this line.

Suddenly we were in Midas mode, cruising around a long line of cars toward the “patron” lot.

We were greeted by two security guards who couldn’t have been more than 18 years old. B handed them the pink postcard and innocently asked, “Is this where I’m supposed to be?”

These guys had no idea what the pink postcard was about, so they radioed ahead to their supervisor. “Ah, yeah, I’ve got a guy here who has a postcard that talks about patron parking. We don’t know what to do.”

After a brief conversation between the guards and the supervisor, the guard said, “Just head down there and talk to our supervisor.”

Great. Happy to oblige. We were a few yards closer to the lot than we were a few minutes ago, so we headed down to have a chat with the parking lot supervisor. B showed him the pink postcard.

“I’ve never seen one of these,” said Mr. Supervisor. “Are you a patron?”

“Yeah, I’m a patron,” said B. Sort of.

“Do you work for ____?” The supervisor mentioned the name of the sponsoring bank for that evening's concert.

“No, I work for ____,” replied B. His bank also sponsors some concerts, just not the one we happened to be attending.

He stared at the card, obviously unsure of how to handle the situation. “Well, just head on up there.”

We were in! Just like that, we were headed to the sweetest parking spot I’ve ever had, not twenty steps from the front gate. Oh, and did I mention that we didn't have to pay a thing? All because of Golden Boy.

Later that night we were laughing about how we got one of the best parking spots in the entire place and how we might not have been supposed to have that spot. Maybe. Probably. And we may have laughed just a little about the supervisor’s reaction to our pink postcard: “Hmmm, I’ve never seen one of these cards before.”

And then one of the girls let out this well-timed zinger: "Well, Mr. Parking Lot Supervisor, that’s probably because people don’t usually hand you their mail!"

That's when it hit me . . . Golden Boy might just be raising three Golden Girls. We'll just have to wait and see.


5 comments:

  1. Funny! Oh that B! Wish I knew him better. Actually, I kind of feel sorry for him living in a house full of women who call him The Golden Boy.

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  2. Are you kidding me, Linda? Any man who has four women who adore him is a lucky man in my book. :)

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  3. So of course I love Carrie... but I thought this was supposed to be travel tuesday!? I still want to hear allllll about what you did in DC :)

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  4. Oh, Kira, you got me! I thought about that this morning. Sorry, you'll have to wait until next week.

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