Dreams fade

Although I was all excited that Mr. Bickerson had given me the go-ahead to attend the Donny Osmond performance at The Mall of America tonight (I was gonna wear my purple hat!) it looks like there's little hope of getting an autograph. How was I to know you have to get up early to get a wristband and wait in line all damn day. Rules, schmules.

And just in case you think I have to get permission from my husband to go to Donny Osmond concerts, I don't. But when I told Gary that I would get a babysitter tonight so he could go with me, he told me he wanted no part of helping a 40 year-old mother of two fulfill her Osmond fantasy at The Mall of America. He would probably rather have a vasectomy. First of all, he hates The Mall. Second of all, he thinks putting a Donny Osmond concert IN the Mall is like making the place exponentially worse. I believe he refers to The Mall as Fanny Pack City.

So, he was going to stay home with the kids and let me go make a fool of myself in relative anonymity. But I can't get an autograph, so, I don't know. I guess I could still go and just hear him sing. Maybe if he looks out over the crowd and spies a pathetic, wristband-less, 40 year-old woman in a 30 year-old purple velvet hat, well, who knows what could happen.