Port-a-potty Confession

“She’s playing like the devil, but she’s sent from up above.”
- The Crave

Disclaimer: Putrid smells blow through this blog.

I am a bad blog mother. I have neglected my blog babies, and left them naked and starving. The welfare check meant for their care has been poured and drained by booze, men, and Harley Davidson’s t-shirts. To redeem myself I have brought a grocery bag (paper, not plastic) of canned vegetables and discount meat for tonight’s dinner where maternal love, wisdom, and support will be served by the salt-loaded spoonful. Perhaps my clear eyed and malnourished children sitting eagerly around the table are curious where their loose lipped mother has been, while they have had to forage for provisions and scrap the bottom of the Jiffy crunchy peanut butter tub with an unwashed spoon. My children, I have been at the Harley Davidson 105th anniversary festival.
Take a helping of potatoes to fill your aching stomachs and listen to my port-a-potty confession of the absent week.

The beginning came as I sat suffering from temporary narcolepsy bathed in the shade of a tree. My head bowed and stood, my hand loosely gripped a black pen, as I watched a string of bikes sputter across the road. The sound of engines roaring into formation had a drowsy effect, lulling me into a coma of relaxation. The sight of two burly bikers embracing rocked my drooping shoulders. The leather chaps weaving through the crowd whispered a lullaby into my ears. I sat lazily beneath the tree tickling the blades of grass with my silver toenails and rubbing the wrinkled neon paper bands circling my wrist. A woman’s voice yelled from afar, “This is for the rednecks out there!” I cocked my head to the left, snaking my neck around the silicon breasts, and found the orange outline of Amanda Overmeyer gyrating across the stage. “Raise your hands if you are proud to be a redneck!” I lifted my hand in acknowledgement, but stopped halfway in uncertainty of my true redneck heritage. Ryan grabbed my bare ankles and motioned for me to rise – backstage was calling my name.

A rockstar boyfriend is like an American Express card – never leave home without it. One perk of carrying one in your purse, or wallet, is that it can get you – a lowly and un-famous individual – entry into the half-circle behind the stage, known also as backstage. My card granted me free Miller Lite, access to a vegetable platter, a bag of Fritos, and permission to use the upscale port-a-potty (who knew there was such a thing) reserved for the above average individuals in possession of talent.

I sat on the closed lid of the potty in fear of what lay beneath mixed in with discarded toilet paper and a curious blue fluid. In my journal I documented the day and chuckled with amusement over the coining of the term “port-a-potty confessions” until a loud knock interrupted my comedic roll. The bang of the door rang as I exited the blue rectangle of excrement disposal brushing the smell from my shoulders. I stood like a child scanning the shelves of Wal-Mart; the guitarist from Foghat peered down through the mesh screen at my flushed cheeks with concern. The excitement had heated my traditionally pale face; an uncharacteristic blush colored my neck and face.

In my embarrassment I hid in the trailer stuffing chocolate chip cookies and club crackers into the pockets of my purse. Ryan nodded his head to the left, sinking the hook of his boyfriend-reel into mycheek, and pulled my thrashing limbs, cookie crumbs falling from the zipper, to the stage. I smiled and waved to the fans absorbing the five minutes of fame into my pores, but left after four songs in search of beer. On its own fame is hard to digest.

Go brush your teeth and comb your hair. When you have finished the story will continue. The toothpaste is in the bag behind the Spam.

For those who took offense to my political Tourette's: I share a quote from an e-mail my mother sent me last week.

'I think Obama is winning with respect to getting his name out there. Tessa uses Barack Obama as a place? when playing. I heard her say to Sophie on more than one occasion that '....we better go to Barack Obama!' I think you should somehow blog about that.'