Wish List
By: Linda McCarthy
Every year my Christmas wish list remains the same: I want to be transported to that parallel universe where I’m blessed with three beautiful daughters … who are all on the honor roll … who wake up asking what they can do for me … who are gainfully employed and who are at home in the kitchen. I also include a kitten named Fluffy and a husband, who is handy, handsome and happy to hand over money when asked.
Unfortunately, I have about as much chance of this happening as I do scoring a Play Station III. Don’t misunderstand, I love my boys. It’s just the life I have is not the life I envisioned.
In a rare display of pre-holiday planning, last summer I spent an obscene amount of money on tickets for the Rolling Stones concert in Atlantic City. This was a well thought out early Christmas present for my family. We are all fans and I thought it would be a great way to spend quality time together. What was I thinking?
The original concert date was cancelled because Mick Jaggar had a sore throat. The hotel rooms I took out would not accept cancellations. I can understand why; I’m sure we were the only patrons who didn’t pay by the hour. I requested the rooms be near each other but they were on three different floors; they were however, all in Atlantic City. The nicest room had a plunger resting outside the door. On the bright side, suddenly I didn’t feel so bad about the shape of my bathrooms at home. With nothing to do we gambled away money we didn’t have and on the way home broke down on the parkway in the pouring rain. I should have read the handwriting on the wall and turned in the tickets for a flat screen TV.
Fast forward to the rescheduled concert date:
After much cajoling, everyone was willing to try again. I had the car repaired. I took out rooms in a more reputable hotel. I continued to lose money in the slots at a staggering rate and all seemed right with the universe. We took our seats at the venue.
The problem with a band like the Stones is that they appeal to all age groups. My boys settled into the seats next to some respirators and a few walkers. I could sense trouble brewing when the section we were in didn’t stand up as Mick took the stage. My boys did. They sang every word to every song and were having a great time. Then worlds collided.
I was sitting next to my youngest. The man in front of him turned around and started yelling at him for singing. I tried to play peacemaker and the guy grabbed my arm. I was happy to discover my boys really do care about me. Two of them hopped the seats and got into a fistfight. The other one was being held back by his girlfriend and proceeded to get slapped around by the irate fan’s wife. (In my son’s defense she was very burly.)
My husband hopped the seats and wound up on the floor with the guy’s hands around his throat. (The floor of the arena was surprisingly clean; hardly any gum.) My friend joined in and broke his wrist. (Now his wife has him drinking three glasses of milk a day). I’m singing, "Get off of my cloud" in time to the flashing tongue buttons I spent $20 on and the next thing I know we’re being escorted out by security.
I’m explaining to some 10-year-old bouncer that I’m really a peace, love and rock and roll type girl. Oh and yeah, I’m a librarian at a Catholic school. The friend who was escorted out with me teaches 3-year-olds. You would think she would be more equipped to handle men.
Anyway, long story short, we’ve reached a new low in family togetherness. From now on it’s Barry Manilow or bust.
Linda McCarthy resides in Robbinsville with her husband and three children.

