My One Imagination Movers Regret

Dear Mover Rich –

Hi! It’s Nicole from the Imagination Movers concert in St. Louis last week! I’m sure you remember me – I was the brunette off to the side whose daughter kept arguing at the top of her lungs that Warehouse Mouse is a real mouse, not a puppet.

I have to say your show was fantastic – you and the rest of the Movers are not only talented musicians, you seem like sweet, genuine family men, which I completely respect. But seriously, dude – no “Shakeable You?” I listen to that even when the kids aren’t in the minivan. It’s in my booty-shaking mix along with N.W.A’s “Express Yourself” and Jay-Z’s “99 Problems.”

Anyhoo, I have a big favor to ask of you – if it’s not too much trouble, would you mind swinging by our house sometime? I’ve been feeling like a horrible mother since last Thursday because MJ didn’t get to meet you when you walked by our row. In fact, an exhausted MJ wailed, “I didn’t get to meet Riiiiicccchhhh” when we got home that evening and continues to repeatedly remind me, “You didn’t let me meet Rich. Mom, why didn’t you let me meet Rich?”

The truth is, Mover Rich, I’m not the same girl I was in my early twenties. The one who clotheslined a chick to get to the front row at a standing-room only Collective Soul concert (yes, in fact I am embarrassed typing that) and who lied and manipulated her way to get into a George Clinton afterparty. The girl who was a total band groupie, but lacked the promiscuity to snag a backstage pass.

So when you passed our row last Thursday, I didn’t want to drag MJ by the arm and plow over the ten people on my left to get to the aisle. Plus, there was a woman who looked like she would impale me in the neck with her car keys if we snuck in between the two of you. In fact, I don’t know if it was her or her kids who wanted to meet you more – I had the feeling she wanted to toss a copy of her house keys in your jumpsuit pocket.

I don’t blame her – when us moms are witnesses to a steady stream of Disney Junior all morning, we have to find a crush somewhere amongst the shows, and it’s just downright creepy to fantasize about Handy Manny.

Since the concert, I’ve been on a major mom guilt trip because MJ’s been so disappointed. I think it would be great if you just stopped by, said hi and played a little “Shakeable You.” I promise I won’t keep you more than two minutes. I make a mean raspberry brownie and Mr. P has a beer fridge stocked with Pabst. Tempted yet?

I just feel so bad I let MJ miss her one chance to meet you. And maybe I feel a little bad too since my inner rock chick just gave me the middle finger for being a wuss.

Rock on, my brother! And have a wonderful tour!

Sincerely,
Mrs. P