Rascal Flatts

Those of you who know me in real life can attest to the fact that I have become a bit of a "cowboy chaser" over the past year or so (I blame the Western themed Harlequin romance novels that got me through my divorce--Texas Hold Him anyone?).  While this has proved to be difficult in New Jersey, it hasn't stopped me from listening to country music, getting a cowboy hat and purchasing tickets to every country concert that comes into town.

Thankfully I'm not alone in my love of country music and desire to look cute in a cowboy hat.  Last night I popped my country cherry and went to see my first show, Rascal Flatts, with my good friend Amanda Abajian.  For some reason, Amanda and I tend to have crazy experiences together and I'm pleased to say that last night did not disappoint.

Before we even got to the concert, Amanda's GPS decided that we looked good enough to be "asking for it" led us to a remote location off the beaten path from the Izod Center in East Rutherford.  I have a sneaking suspicion that her navigational system is in cahoots with a local rape and pillage cartel and was setting us up for a good gang bang.  For the record, the Izod Center is NOT located at 50 Rt. 120 in East Rutherford--thanks Google.

Thankfully, Amanda had the wherewithal to do what all shrieking girls in cowboy hats do when they're lost on a dark and rainy night and we asked a truck driver for directions.  Since we were in "that part" of New Jersey, the first truck we found was a trash truck, no doubt owned by the likes of Tony Soprano, but we took our chances and pulled up about 20 feet away from him (just in case).  The driver was surprisingly cute and friendly and undoubtedly laughing at us as we shouted to him through the 3 inches of open window that we considered an acceptable risk to take in that part of town.  He offered to escort us through the maze of industrial roads to our destination, which turned out to be about 400 feet down the road that we had just turned off of.  But an escort is an escort and we were arriving in Jersey Trash style, fully appreciating the irony of driving Amanda's cute Infiniti into a wake of styrofoam debris flying off of the truck.

That's rain, not trash on the window

Hunter Hayes and Sara Evans opened the show.  I was going to strongly suggest (to who, I don't know) that 17 year olds not be made to look so cute onstage until I read Hunter's bio this morning and discovered he's 20--score!  Now I don't feel a total creep for commenting on his butt in the tight jeans he was wearing.  Sara Evans was great but super skinny, which made me hate her a little bit.   She redeemed herself with a stellar performance of "A Little Bit Stronger," my unofficial divorce theme song, which I joined her in singing from my seat.  No worries, Sara, we're cool now.

The concert goers seated near us kept us entertained in between acts and taking pictures of ourselves (above).  Two rows away there were a couple of guys, one of whom was recently signed to be a catcher for the Baltimore Orioles.  The cougar next to him was starstruck and spent the better part of the opening acts switching between cozying up to him and encouraging us get frisky with the pro ball player.  She grabbed my hand and attempted to introduce me to him.  Not taking no for an answer, I finally told her that I had a rich boyfriend with a big penis, which was more readily accepted than my original sentiment that I simply was not interested.  She must have shared this information with catcher boy because he caught my eye, winked at me and gave me a thumbs up. 

Rascal Flatts put on an amazing show.  I don't know about the performers but after 2 hours of dancing in our seats, singing and sprinting up and down the stadium stairs for beer and nachos, we were exhausted.  Right before the show ended I got a text message from an obnoxious name-dropping, up-and-coming country singer who I had been talking to on Plenty of Fish.   Although conversations with him were limited to things that rhyme with "truck" and his stories of people I've never heard of singing at the Bluebird in Nashville, I kept in contact with him hoping that my dreams of catching a country singer might come true.  

All week he had been texting me about how jealous he was that I was going to the show.  Around 8pm last night I got a text asking me if I was at the concert.  It wasn't until 11:30 that I got this a picture message from him with the caption: "VIP front row.  It's how I roll lol :)" Gee, thanks for bringing us down with you buddy...or at least telling me you were there so that we could meet in person finally.  Just for that, I'm stealing your pic and posting it to my blog for my awesome review of the Rascal Flatts show.   I also sent him the above pic, asking him if there were any girls who looked like us down in his pit seats.   He replied in the negative then asked to hang out with us...yeah, no thanks.

View of the show from the pit, courtesy of no-name country boy with a Sony record deal...hmm, I really should find out his name.

As expected, it was an awesome night with funny stories that will keep Amanda and I asking each other rhetorical questions for a long time: "Remember when we followed a trash truck to the Rascal Flatts concert and then I told a cougar that I had a rich boyfriend with a big penis?"  Yeah, that was a great night!