Corn Dogs and Cashmere

Microstock News Wire would like to dedicate this piece to all the loving wives out there who support their husbands and kids in their racing endeavors, without actually enjoying racing themselves. Let this be a warning to all of you who are married to one of these wonderful women, Who support you and readily say "Yes" when you ask if they want to go to the track. Sometimes its better not to ask without giving them option of a spa trip.

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Corn Dogs and Cashmere
By Kimberly Johnson


Some days in your life are just more telling than others. There are days that just melt by seemingly with no real impact on the greater scheme of life and others that ring truth for the rest of your days. Today rang truth like the Liberty Bell, loud, tinny and a little cracked.



I began today attending a conference with a new friend. We went to see another friend, Joyce Meyer speak at a large arena. Neither of us actually know Joyce Meyer but she tends to speak the right words in times of need and really what more do you need from a friend so I would consider her a friend. Feel free to let her know that if you see her.



Anyway, dressed nicely enough to attend an informal church meeting I went to the conference and had a wonderful time. Following the conference I enjoyed a lovely lunch with my actual, physically sitting next to me friend on a breezy patio close to my home.



Then I made the haphazard transition to the rest of my day. I planned to spend the evening with my husband watching him race a little car around in circles. Pressed for time I quickly realized it was getting chilly and I ought to grab a sweater. The beige cashmere sweater that hung in my closet was the item most readily available so I grabbed it and headed out the door. I arrived to meet my husband and his father and sister (his mother had opted to stay home) and hopped in the back of the Chevy pickup with my beach bag full of magazines, water, organic fruit snacks and of course my cashmere sweater. As we headed west to a very rural area in the next state over from ours I began to feel the climate change. I often feel this change whenever we leave the hustle of our suburban neighborhood. The change in environment goes beyond the difference in convenience and traffic. It supercedes the obvious physical difference in houses and absence of street signs and sometimes-even streets. It becomes more of a change in lifestyle. Priorities change. People are different.



I spent a good portion of my time sitting in the back seat of the truck reading a glamour magazine. The racers, my husband and his father were busy meeting their fellow racers and my husband’s sister was content to tag along. I chose to relax in the van where it was clean and less dusty and clean (did I say clean already?) and I wasn’t picking rocks out from between my toes. I had missed the memo that held the vital information describing the track as dirt as opposed to pavement, which would have sparked a footwear change. My jeweled flip-flops were not appropriate for this venue although they were very cute with my outfit. I started to feel hungry. My husband’s sister had been to the back of the truck to remove the cooler of breaded chicken cutlets that her mother had packed. Not a word from her, just swept the cooler out from under my knees and closed the door.



I was left like woman versus dirt to forage for food. I scoped out a snack bar just beyond the outhouse I had visited earlier. Which by the way has given me new respect for the Laura Ingles of our history. I had not experienced the enviro-toilet before which was essentially a hole with a toilet seat. That’s a story for another time but suffice it to say any fear I ever had as a child of a monster grabbing my behind from inside the toilet was realized thanks to the envirotoilet.



Once I made my way to the counter I found a variety of high-carb, sugary, choc full of preservative choices to tempt my pallet. I settled on two corn dogs and a diet coke. Due to an apparent rush on corn dogs there was only one left so I paired it with some fries and at the last minute threw in a package of Twizzlers for dessert. My feast was complete and I began to make my way back to the truck. As I walked back to the “pit” area I passed two old men at the gate one of which leaned over and helped himself to one of my fries as I walked by. I smiled for lack of a socially acceptable response to an obviously socially unacceptable behavior and high tailed it to my backseat dining room.



Not surprisingly the corn dog was cold and so was I as the breeze was becoming gusty outside. I put down my dinner and put on my cashmere sweater. There I was wearing cashmere and eating a corn dog in the back of a truck to avoid the dust and dirt. And also not surprisingly a question came to mind: “Why am I here?”



I am not a racing fan. I don’t like dirt and dust is even worse as it brings on an allergy attack that couples a major headache with the inability to breathe. I do enjoy a corn dog about once a year for what reason I don’t know but I will undoubtedly pay for it later. I can’t say it is for the company because I really don’t have any. Oh, I remember, the obligatory supportive wife role. My husband who has racing in his blood from his father and grandfather before him really enjoys this. And I, having only been married a year, want to be supportive of my husband and his hobbies and passions. Now I remember. I was making a sacrifice because my husband asked me to be here.



To pass the time I called my husband’s mother. I thought she decided to stay home because she wasn’t feeling up to coming. I came to learn that she felt terrific! More than terrific actually, fabulous (although I am not sure which one of these exclamations out weighs the other on the “beyond great” spectrum). She had spent her evening with an old friend enjoying wine and cheese in the gazebo in her yard. And now she was tucked snuggly in her bed ready to drift off to a peaceful sleep. I was filled with betrayal. How could she have not warned me? How could she have allowed her daughter in law to walk into this without so much as a heads up? She couldn’t tell me she said. I had to go on my own she said. This is the boy’s thing she said. Ironically she was sitting home harboring some guilt (not much but a little) about not being the supportive wife because she chose to stay home. I told her she had made a good choice and that any attempts to make her feel guilty should be met with “if you want support buy a jock strap” and she should enjoy another glass of wine.



I returned to my dinner.



After about two hours, who should appear at the window but my husband! He wondered where I was. Thank you for your concern but it is a little belated; I have been here for TWO HOURS and don’t even think of touching my fries! He went back to play with his cars.

I finished my food and decided Twizzlers are no fun unless you can share them so I left the safety of the truck and ventured out. Of course there was no one around so I followed the dirt covered trail to the track where I found my husband waiting in his car to enter the race. I offered him a Twizzler. He sucked it in through his helmet, smiled and went off to drive in a big dirty circle. I watched from the bleachers while I absorbed my surroundings. I found that many of my fellow spectators had made the similar choice to forgo dental care in lieu of the entry fee for the race. That made for interesting conversation as I dodged the spit flying unobstructed through the scruffy faced mouths of my temporary neighbors.



I looked down at my formerly pedicured feet in my jeweled sandals and tried to imagine the work ahead of the technician at my nail salon following this field trip. That’s going to cost me a big tip. My cashmere sweater was beginning to reek of stale dust and I know something got stuck in my eye. Still I followed my husband and waited with him on line to weigh his car. He went in to the weighing station and I waited outside. Noticing there was only one way out I figured I would catch him on the other side. I waited like the cheese standing alone in the middle of a circle of dirty racer boys (and I don’t mean that in a good way). Obviously I am not among my peers here I thought as I looked up to catch a glimpse of my husband running with his car back to his spot at the opposite end of the track. I excused myself (like it mattered) and walked back to the trailer to find my husband and his father and sister busying themselves with pre race tasks. I approached my husband who said “there you are” as if he was looking for me and informed him that I loved him but I hated this and he had better just leave his credit card number with the spa because this was going to take some fixing!



I grabbed a chair and decided to stay outside and try to make the best of situation I would not be repeating in this lifetime. I looked up at the wall of the trailer and noticed the picture I had given him for his birthday. The picture is of me wearing a tiara with the caption “Queen of My Double Wide Trailer”. At that moment I realized that cashmere and corn dogs is a combination that should only happen once if at all and support comes in a variety of ways. My husband did not need me at the racetrack any more than I needed to be there. It was enough for me that he wanted me to be there and that I wanted him to enjoy his hobby. This is one of those times when good intention will have to do because when it comes to my support of racing the best he is going to get from me is positive energy being sent from the massage table at the spa!



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So, for any of you in a simmialr situation. Here is a link for you that may just save your life.

http://www.depasqualethespa.com/the%5Fspa/home.asp