It Comes With the Job

When I worked as an event coordinator for PGA of America, back in the 90’s, I got my first peek into the world of corporate sponsorship. I used to think it was all about the money. True, profits drive the bottom line, and money does change hands. But, in reality, a sponsor is more like a partner, an entity meant to improve a company's image. And the deals, themselves, are made by people, people with business associates and customers and friends and kids and wives who, for lack of a better way to put it, expect to be entertained. At least fed and housed. If they’re not, chaos ensues. I’ve seen it happen. Sometimes all it takes to soothe them is a bowl of chilled shrimp.

It’s big business these days. Stadiums all over the country are being torn down and resurrected with state-of-the-art sponsor “entertainment” facilities. There was a forerunner in this game, though. They started WAY back and have always proudly worn their sponsors’ hearts (aka logos) on their sleeves – literally. How they treat their fans AND their sponsors impressed me at my first race. Having the opportunity to witness their operations first-hand as a guest for the past three years has been an honor. Of course, I’m referring to NASCAR.

NextEra Energy Resources is the “Official Renewable Energy Provider of the Daytona International Speedway.” As the wife of a NextEra executive, I’m now watching from the other side. But I guess watching’s not really the right word, it feels more like “watched.” Not that I’m unaccustomed (it’s the hat). The gravity of the impression I make when allowed to mingle with the general population didn’t hit me, however, ‘til this year, specifically five minutes before Scott and I left the hotel to catch the shuttle to the NextEra Energy Resources 250. He asked me, “Do you have anything dressier than that to wear?” and I thought, looking down at the faded sneakers, t-shirt, and denim mini-skirt I had on, “Why? This is what I always wear…”

If I may, I’d like to pause and take a moment to publicly apologize to my husband for, well, for being me. At least being “too much” me when good taste and sense dictate otherwise. He’s tried repeatedly to get this message through. I’ve heard it, but have struggled with the follow-through. I imagine a lot of wives would take offense to being asked to change five minutes before departure. But I’m not a typical wife. He’s worked very hard to get where he is, and I’ve worked very hard to make his life easier and not screw things up for him. Now, I realize it’s time to kick it up a notch and make the ultimate sacrifice: go shopping for new clothes. Yipp-friggin-ee. Only for him…

Friday night, I changed into the outfit I’d brought for Sunday’s 500 and, since I haven’t heard different, all went well. Though the bartender we’ve had for the past three years was a little shocked I didn’t take the first Coors Light she offered me (thanks, Bee!), I didn’t drink too much, didn’t laugh too loud, didn’t call (too much) attention to myself, and didn’t embarrass my husband or jeopardize his company’s partnership with the track.

Surprisingly, we still managed to have a great weekend. Friday night’s 250 was fun. One of Scott’s customers was the race’s Grand Marshall. He got to say, “Start your engines,” plus greet all the drivers and ride in the pace car. At Epcot on Saturday, we “entertained” the same customer and his wife by drinking our way around the world. We started in Germany, where Scott couldn’t help himself and had to immediately snap a picture and share his “wienerschnitzel” on Facebook. I had the most incredible shot of tequila in Mexico, complete with chaser! Japan had tasty sake. Since there was no Ireland, I settled for a shot of Jameson’s at the British Rose and Crown. And the beer was good everywhere. I was glad I took pictures of the fireworks. Scott and our guests claim they were amazing.

The 500 was disappointing in that – yet again – the race ended with a green, white, checker finish. Actually TWO of them. And Tony Stewart didn’t win. But I got my name and “GO SMOKE!” on the finish line, stood on the field to watch Brad Paisley, our upper deck seats were awesome, the race was thrilling, and the winner was adorable. In summary, I spent a nice weekend with my husband, he strengthened his customer relationships, his company developed promising contacts, and I made new friends. With all that and free beer, who wouldn’t be entertained? Cheers to Lynn and the crew for putting it together! You needed that Peace River trip! :)

Oh, in case you’re wondering, the kids didn’t burn down the house while we were gone – though the trees around the fire pit look a little charred. And Scott swears the driver’s seat was in a different position when he locked up the truck. Overall, the boy and the teenager did a bang-up job keeping the place running while we were gone. For that, we’re grateful. Things could have been worse – HAVE been worse. As parents, like with marriage and corporate sponsorships, we’ve learned disaster, mingled with occasional bliss, comes with the job.

We’ve also learned to savor the bliss...

February Means 500 -- Again!

The first time our daughter stole the truck, she was twelve. Scott was in North Dakota. I was at a weekly writers’ group meeting, one of the few activities that used to get me out of the house. My phone was on, but in my purse at my feet. Shortly before the meeting was over, I looked down and noticed I had eight missed calls. Half were from Scott, half from the Palm Springs Police Department.

She was cited for (1) driving without a license, (2) not wearing a seat belt, (3) having a passenger without a seat belt, and (4) operating without headlights in the dark. They should have added one for being a dumbass for driving past the police station. The truck was parked in the lot, and they detained the girls outside while they waited for me to pick them up. It wasn’t my first parental consultation with an officer of the law. The same daughter scratched 13 cars in our townhouse parking lot with a rock when she was three. Around age ten, she was spotted spray-painting the sidewalks, court markers, and at least one fence. That news came directly from the officer who stopped by the house to say he’d received a report of a “little blonde girl with a paint can,” and he thought  he’d check our house first to see if she was home.

There were other cases, mostly minor, like the chalk incident. And, since that first joy ride, she’s confessed to borrowing my vehicle “more times than she can count.” Makes one reconsider the ACTUAL benefits of sleeping all night. One instance in particular, which began with a second “operating without headlights in the dark” citation, cost us $700 in fines and impound fees.

For years, we’ve played an endless game of tug-of-war with our daughter. We give her a little slack, she pulls us into the mud. We pick up the rope, reign her back in, hold her steady for a while, get comfortable, give her a little slack, and … she pulls us into the mud. She’s 17 now. Her latest stunt involved taking a group of friends 4-wheelin’ Friday night. She called to tell us about it at 8pm on Sunday. One missing side window, a detached spare tire, a broken taillight, and a shit load of scratches along the passenger side and across the hood later, she’s living in fear and refusing to come home.

We’re gonna miss her.

This is the climate in which my husband and I will be attending Sunday’s Daytona 500. Last year, I broke my ankle the Friday prior and had to navigate the unforgiving grandstand stairs on crutches. The year before, I was wandering the stands, taking in the event while looking for a Jack Daniels vendor I didn’t need, and missed the end of the race. This time, like our first, I’d like to enjoy myself AND see the winner win. Which reminds me: It’s a Daytona tradition for fans to sign the checkered finish line. Having never been a NASCAR fan, and maybe catching the equivalent of a race and a half on television up to that point, I wasn’t aware of the tradition ‘til our first trip in 2006. I’ve made it a priority ever since, even ditching the crutches last year and wincing against the pain to get there. Should you happen to watch the race, be on the lookout for the words “DAWN WAS HERE!” in one of those checkered boxes on the pavement. It’ll be next to “GO SMOKE!” and “I’M IN DAYTONA, BITCHES!”

My strategy for 2011 is to (a) not break anything this week, (b) pace myself at the open bar, (c) make fewer trips to the Jack Daniels trailer, (d) be in my seat for the final lap, a.k.a. pay attention if it rains, and (e) don’t think about the teenager or the truck or the possibility that she and her 24-year-old brother, who came home from the Army last month, will forget to feed the dog, leave the front door open for the rabbits and raccoons, burn the house down, and leave us a mess to clean up on Monday.

Oh, and (f) forget we don’t have liability insurance.

If I survive, I’ll be back with stories and pictures. If I don’t, could someone please stop by and feed the dog?

~ Dawn