Lest you fear that I do not think of you, Dear Reader, in my off hours, let me assure you otherwise.  I did something this weekend specifically because I thought it would be good blog fodder.  I was coerced into attending an event for the sole reason of your entertainment at reading the write-up.  And you owe me, big.

I saw “Sesame Street Live” at the Lowell Civic Auditorium.  And I’ll never get those two hours of my life back.

My other single-mom friend Janice began asking me to attend said event over a week ago.  I hemmed and hawed, figuring I’d eventually be able to come up with some reasonable excuse to avoid sitting in a theater full of screaming toddlers and paying $8 for a giant Elmo-head balloon (that was the actual price: eight dollars.  For.  A.  Balloon.).  But as Janice dutifully searched the Ticketmaster Web site at midnight the night before, and I still hadn’t come up with a single argument against it – besides, you know, adamantly not wanting to go – I finally conceded and let her book the tickets (if for no other reason than it was midnight, and my daughter gets up the same time every morning no matter when I go to sleep).  I thought, hey, at the very least, it will make an amusing blog subject.  So the tickets were purchased.  Fifty bucks total for me and my two-year-old.  No kid discount price.  Sesame Street knows they own you.

As Sunday arrived snowy and bitterly cold, I cringed at the thought of bundling us up and risking life and limb on Route 3 to get to Lowell (Massachusetts state motto:  “Welcome to Massachusetts: Kiss Your Wimpy, Safe-Driving Ass Goodbye”).  But Janice came to my house with her spare carseat, installed it in my car, and the four of us were on our way.

After trudging through the still-falling snow and brutal temperatures to the Civic, we found that our seats (Parquet, Section K, second row) were actually quite good.  They were on the far left of the auditorium, but because of that, they were pretty close to the stage.  The place was sold out, but the crowd of under-5s were surprisingly non-psychotic as we waited for the show to begin.  Punctually-challenged as we were, we only had to wait about one minute, until a seven-foot-tall Bert came through the mylar-ribbon curtain.

And then the kids went insane.

It was the Beatles on Ed Sullivan all over again.  This giant Muppet was getting more screaming adoration than I thought possible.  Until Ernie came out.  And then Big Bird.  And then… well, a couple I don’t know.  But they saved the big guns for last:  Elmo.

Now, keep in mind that the last concert I went to was Rush, several years ago.  And despite our fervent love for the world’s best power trio of prog-rock, none of us were shrieking “GEDDYYYYY!”  or “ALEX!” or “NEAL!”  (OK, I probably did scream “NEAL!” at least once.).  These toddlers were chanting “El-mo!  El-mo!”  The kid behind me was absolutely losing it.

Our two girls were just staring, mesmerized.  I’m not sure they knew what to make of giant Muppets singing and dancing in front of dozens of rainbow lights.  I think the promoters were playing fast and loose with the expression “technically-dazzling.”

The show itself was… jaunty.  Super Grover loses his, well, superness, and spends the rest of the show trying to find it.  Sort of a “How Grover Got His Groove Back” for the preschool set.  Along the way, we heard songs about eating right, exercising, getting enough rest, and hygiene (with a running joke about Oscar the Grouch’s mudfish named Gene, who’d always say “hi, Oscar!” after someone said ‘hygiene’). 

It was all good, clean fun, except… well, call me a cynic with way too many gay friends, but… there were a couple jokes that I know were clearly NOT for the children.  To wit: Tully the Monster’s superhero alter-ego is Triangle Boy (ahem), whose crisis occurs at… the gym.  Where Ernie, Bert and the Count are working out to techno music under a disco ball.  Ahem.  Tully also cops to knowing a guy who “wears a feather boa.”  Ahem.

I also enjoyed Cookie Monster’s self-loathing when one of the other monsters asks “what are you doing?”, to which he replies “Is that trick question?  Me eating cookies.  What else is new?”  I feel ya, CM.

I had thought that Janice had told me the show was only 45 minutes long (which made sense to me, given the target audience’s age and attention span).  When I found out it was 45 minutes and then an intermission, and then another 45 minutes, I felt like I did a decade ago when I went golfing for the first time and, sunburned, sweaty and cross, I staggered towards the clubhouse only to be informed that, oh no, that was only the first nine holes, Kath.  We get to do it all over again.

I needed a beer.

I scanned the lobby and saw what I was looking for: the line of men.  The line of women, of course, was in front of the restroom (it is times like this that I am truly grateful that my toddler is not toilet-trained).  As I gleefully debated “beer, or wine?  Beer, or wine?”, my dreams were shattered by the youngster behind the counter who informed me that they were not serving alcohol at this event. “But,” I cried, “this is the event that we need alcohol at the MOST!”  He was unmoved.

So instead I purchased an unbendable piece of cardboard with Elmer’s glue on it, sold under the misnomer “pizza.”  Three dollars to almost lose a crown on something that could have been left over from that Rush concert.  Then it was back to our seats for round two of the Sesame Street gang doing their renditions of “Holding out for a Hero” and “Superman.”

It was a pretty harmless way to spend an afternoon, I suppose (we escaped Massachusetts unscathed); the only harm came to our wallets. I’m not sure our kids were really old enough to appreciate the pageantry and ribbon-gun finale.  But I did my motherly (and bloggerly) duty, and attended my first kiddie show.  I guess it’s all downhill from here – Nemo on Ice, Disney Princesses Tour, Dora the Explorer, the Musical.  I draw the line at Hannah Montana, however.

Anyone wanna go see Rush?