Category: humorous?

portugal.

I’m not sure what it is about concerts, for me.  Because, when I really think about it, they’re basically torture.  Torture that I pay for.  In tickets and service fees and gas money and beverages bought just to stay alive after I actually make it into the overcrowded, overheated venue. 

Just hear me out.  And don’t get me wrong.  Because I love live music.  I love it to the point that I used to refuse to get serious with any dude who wasn’t happy to take me to see it.  When Drew and I spent our first Valentine’s Day at a MuteMath show?  I knew it was meant to be.  As I said, I really love concerts.  But sometimes I wonder if this love is logical, or if it’s even somewhat abusive.

You drive many miles to get to the venue, because when are they ever in a convenient location?  Then there’s parking.  If you don’t want to pay for parking, you’re looking at walking approximately five blocks.  And that’s a moderate estimation.  If you don’t want to walk, and decide to park, you’ll most likely realize that you don’t have cash to pay for said parking.  This results in a scramble between you and all of your friends, searching through purses and pockets and underneath seats.  Usually though, you’ll have to find an ATM anyway.  This is an ordeal in and of itself.

After you’ve parked and made the treacherous journey across several busy streets to the venue, you get in line.  I’m convinced that these lines are apart of some sort of alternate universe.  Where people with unnaturally-colored hair and spiky accessories stare at you.  Just stare.  As if they’re questioning why you think you deserve to be here, in this line, to see this band, that they have clearly liked for longer than you have because they’re wearing a shirt from a tour that happened five years ago.

Now, if you want to be anywhere near the stage at this concert, you’ll need to get in line in advance.  How far in advance?  That depends on the popularity of the band you’re planning to see.  The time varies anywhere from 1-15 hours.  Also, keep in mind that the doors always open at least half hour after the ticket says they will.  So get comfortable.  Not that this is possible.

Sometimes it’s raining, other times you’re under direct rays from the sun.  Either way, you’ll probably be at least moderately miserable.  In this case, glare at the bouncers.  It doesn’t do anything to really fix your situation, but seems to help me.

Once the stars align and all of the bouncers are finally able to see our of their third eyes, they decide to let you into the venue.  That you paid to be able to go into.  Regardless, they still act as if it’s some huge service on their part.  They also treat you as if you’re a convicted felon, and will pull a knife out on them at any second.  Oh, and your ID is fake.  Even if it’s real, they’re sure it’s fake.  At this point, you are herded like cows through the doors.  If you’re lucky, you’ll be frisked.  But only on special occasions.

Then comes more waiting.  You like standing, right?  Because you’re going to be standing for a long time to come.  The show most likely won’t be starting for another hour or so.  And if you try to sit down, one of those pleasant bouncers will come over and let you know that such actions are unacceptable.  Because reasons.

If you’re fortunate, there will only be one opening band.  But usually, there are three.  Three half hour sets with 45 minute breaks in-between.  But you want to be in front for the band that you actually came to see, so you stand your ground.  Even while being pushed around by these people.

These people are not your friends.  They are very unhappy that you got to the concert before them, and have a better spot than them.  So, naturally, they spend the rest of the evening making you as uncomfortable as possible.  At least one of them will be extremely inebriated, and fall all over you, the entire time.  Just accept it.  They are never going away.

By this time, It’s 11:00 pm.  You’ve been standing up since about seven, when you got in line to be judged by all of the judgy judges.  You’re exhausted and dehydrated.  But you can’t go get a water, because 1) Water costs a million dollars, and 2) You’ll lose the spot you’ve worked for all day.  That can’t happen.  Then, finally, the lights go off.  The horrible reggae album of Beatle’s covers stops blaring in your ears.  It’s happening.  The actual band that you actually want to see is actually coming on stage.

By now, you’re probably at least partially delirious.  Your legs are numb and the soles of your feet feel like they’re bleeding.  The crowd has started doing this thing where they get into a circle and shove each other in different directions.  After countless efforts at a countless number of shows, I still have found no valid reason for this to be happening.  But it happens.  It happens every time.

Somehow, you’re moving around and banging your head and singing along to these songs you’ve been waiting for all day.  You magically have energy again.  You once were lost but now you’re found.  And you don’t even care about how tired you’ll be at church tomorrow.  Because Portugal. The Man is just that good.

.

-It has come to my attention that one of the only things that gets me out of bed in the morning is the thought that I’ll be able to have a Diet Dew within a few short hours. 

-It has also come to my attention that the above statement may be a bit unhealthy.  Mentally and physically. 

-Conversely, I haven’t been late to work since I started this luring myself out of bed with thoughts of Diet Dew habit. 

-All I’m saying is we humans do what we have to do.  It isn’t always pretty. 

-I’m not really sure if the top I’m wearing today was meant to be a shirt or a dress.  Ever have that?

-There seem to be a number of women who would consider it a dress, at least from what I’ve seen at nightclubs (not that I know what those are, mom). 

-I personally don’t consider any top that you can’t comfortably bend over in without biker shorts underneath it to be a “dress.”  But what do I know.  I’m wearing what I’ve decided to call a shress with cutoff jeans right now. 

-It sort of looks like I didn’t have time to fully change after ballet practice? 

-Nope, it isn’t cute.

-Also, I never took ballet, but I should have because my feet have freakishly high arches.

-Instead, I did marching band.  Which I was clearly too preoccupied with to develop any sense of style at such a crucial style-forming time in my life. 

-I mean, a shress?  Really?

-These listing has become redundant and unnecessary.  And so has this post.

I got waxed this weekend.  I am going to spare you by avoiding specifications concerning where or why.  But you can probably do the math.  Swim suit season + vacation next week = ….pain.  Lots of pain.  I tell you, it was a looong winter.

As I’m laying there, wincing and trying hard to avoid screaming out in agony, I’m participating in one of my least-favorite things.  I’ve mentioned it here before.  They call it “small talk.”  To be fair, the girl I was small-talking with was considerably less awkward about it than most people I come across.  But it still had it’s moments.  I mean, you can only be so personable while experiencing such discomfort.

“So where did you meet your husband?”

“In high- OUCH! -I mean, high school!”

“Oh how sweet! How long have you been married?”

“Just a little – ah! – bit – AHH! – over a year!”

“Well that’s great!  So you’re still in the honeymoon phase?“

To be honest, I dislike this question.  Firstly, because it directly contradicts the whole, “The first year is the hardest!” warning I got about a billion times during our engagement.  I mean, which is it?  According to these geniuses who can’t keep their marital advice to themselves, the past year of marriage was supposed to be more difficult than any other year to come, AND the most enjoyable because, of course, we’re mentally still on our honeymoon.  As if we somehow brought the beach and the no-cost-to-us vacation home with us.

Secondly, because I never know how to answer.  If I say yes, I come across as a naive little twenty-something who won’t tell her husband to wipe his urine off of the toilet seat for the sake of avoiding confrontation.  But if I say no, then what does that mean?  That I’ve finally “grown up” and learned the “hard truth” about marriage?  That it’s just one big joke and no matter how hard you try, after this “honeymoon” narcotic wears off, complete repulsion for your spouse is inevitable?

Are you just asking me if I still like my spouse?  Because, yeah, I do.  If that means that I’m still in this so-called “honeymoon phase,” then sure.  So be it.  What. ev.

The way I see it, each day that I wake up, still married and still true to my husband is my way of saying, “Hey husband, I’m happy that I married you, and I would marry you all over again if I had the chance.”

I wouldn’t say it’s easy, exactly.  But I would say it’s simple.

sin city.

a bit overwhelmed with the great size of this H&M, also with the ridiculously loud music blaring from it.
I started a trend in-between sets.  I call it sitting.

“Why don’t these girls wear more practical shoes?  Why is this guy trying to hand me a picture of a scantily-clad woman?  Wait, why is a woman trying to hand me a picture of a scantily-clad woman?  How can that homeless man afford Gucci?  She really calls that a dress?  What happens if she drops something?  Where in the world is everyone getting these huge plastic cups?  Wait, those have alcohol in them?  Don’t these people know it’s only 2pm?  Do they really make a living, dressing up like batman?  Are we in another casino?  Is smoking inside even a thing?  I can’t breathe, can you breathe?  Where can we find water?  Why is that music so loud?  Is anyone even dancing?  Where are the stars?  Is that safe?  Is that legal?  Is that logical?  We need to burn this place to the ground.”

Mom.

Drew went on a business trip and left me for a whole day and night.  My mom saved me from having to sleep alone and we had a slumber party.  One thing you should know about my mother is that she plays “Draw Something” incessantly.  Ever since she got an iPhone, the game hardly leaves her face!

At one point in our sleep over, she was looking for something new to draw.  She asked me, “Megan, what is ‘zaycefron?’ ‘Zackeefroon?'”

I looked at her screen.

“Mom, Zac Efron.”  

She didn’t know who I was talking about, and I didn’t think that was such a terrible thing.  But I did laugh.

Needless to say, she drew something else.  Happy Birthday (yesterday), Momma.

we live here.

Sometimes, when you live in our apartment, you hear a chainsaw going off at 6:30 in the morning.  We haven’t quite figured out the reason why this chainsaw would be on and sawing about as loudly as possible at such an ungodly hour, but the non-negotiable fact is that it is.  And we just lay there, the helpless victims who want nothing more than to be able to sleep for an hour and a half more.

At roughly 12:30 am, it isn’t rare to hear the girls that live above us walking into their apartment.  Unfortunately, in order for them to do this, they have to walk right past our bedroom window.  Their comings and goings are often accompanied by shrieks, loud exclamations, and louder boy companions.  One time, a group of these hoodlums were gathered directly outside our window, talking as if they were all at least half a mile away from each other.  Good heck.  I crawled across our bed, and Drew, to the window, pulled the blinds away and knocked very loudly.  I added a nice, “Shut uuup!” for a dramatic effect.  They all looked shocked, but followed my orders.  I’m sure I looked terrifying.

There are other times that we hear sirens.  We are fortunate enough to live in extremely close proximity to the fire and police departments.  This is a good thing because if we ever had a fire or a burglar, it would get taken care of at record speed.  This is bad because of the sirens.  I don’t mind them too much, unless they go off when I’m trying to sleep.  Then it gets old.

Almost directly next door to our apartment is a convenience store.  Even for a convenience store, it is very convenient for us.  I have really enjoyed the benefits of living so close to this place (aka: chocolate and Diet Dew less than ten steps away at any time I darn well please), except for one time, the other day.  On this particular afternoon, a man had parked his black car outside of the store while he went in to do a little shopping.  The only problem was that he left the music playing in his car on, with the windows wide open.  Bigger problem, the music was played by some horrific metal band at full blast.  Let me repeat the fact that he wasn’t even in his car.  The music was just echoing through our street.  He must have stayed inside for roughly twenty minutes, and I wanted to drive the car into the store.

We are also happy to report that we live right down the street from a lovely old bar.  That was sarcasm.  Some strange (and considerably inebriated) characters have been known to wander past our apartment, making obnoxious noises.  They also, at times, choose to break bottles and leave cigarette butts.  Lovely.  So lovely.

But, on the bright side, the rent is cheap, the windows let in lots of light, and our landlord recently blessed us with a new water heater.  It heats water in such a way that a warm shower can last for more than five minutes, and the bathtub fills up completely before the water gets cold.  Amazing.

minor breakdowns and an epic fail.

I know you’re all wondering.  As in I’m sure that all twenty of my followers lost a considerable amount of sleep over this one question this weekend:

How did the sugar cookies turn out??

It means a lot to me that you’re all so concerned.  Friday night, husband and I took Boba kitty to the vet.  She really hates her new cat carrier.  Afterwards, we stopped at Gandolfo’s to get some din din, because I had cookies to make and heaven knows I am simply not capable of handling more than one kitchen-related project at a time.  We left my car behind Gandolfo’s and rode in Drew’s car to my parent’s house, where I planned on making the cookies because my mom has actual baking supplies.  And, heaven knows, I don’t really have any.

When we arrived at parent’s house, we realized that the house was locked, and the garage door opener was in my car which we left at Gandolfo’s.  After some whining on my part, Drew was able to find a way in after about ten minutes of standing in the cold with a meowing kitty.  Once we were in, we realized that there were no eggs.  After more whining on my part, we placed all of the baking supplies we needed in a laundry basket and hauled it to our house, where there were eggs.

Once we got to our house, I realized that I left the recipe for the cookies at my parent’s house.  After a minor break down, I looked one up online and all seemed to be okay.  Then we realized that my car was still at Gandolfo’s.  Another slight breakdown.  We left in Drew’s car to go get my car.  Once we got to my car, I realized that I had left my car keys at our apartment.  After a slightly less minor breakdown, we headed back to our apartment.

After a few minutes of searching, we concluded that my keys were in fact not at our apartment, but most likely left at my parent’s house.  We promptly headed there.  Once we arrived, we realized that we still didn’t have the garage door opener, and couldn’t get into the house the way we had formerly, because we made sure to secure it this time.

So, just to be clear, we couldn’t get into my parent’s house to get my car keys because we didn’t have the garage door opener, which was in my car, which we couldn’t open because we didn’t have my keys.  And I still had to make these freaking cookies. Following?

After a considerably ridiculous breakdown, I called my mom.  My brother was with her and said that there was a spare key under the mat, which never happens.  But thank heaven it did in this case.  So, we were able to get into the house, found my keys, went back to my car and drove home. 

What about the cookies, you ask?  They were a major failure.  The dough was too dry to roll, so I just bought some the following morning.  Yes, after all of that trouble and emotional drama, I just bought the dang cookies.

Here are some pictures.

social norms.

My favorite part of our weekend, other than just sitting at home with my cat and robust, bearded partner was walking out of Big Lots.  Drew and I are just making our way to the car when we hear, “Are you Jesus?!  ARE YOU JESUS??”

We looked around, but couldn’t tell where this voice was coming from.

If it was you, I am sorry to say that, no, you did not see Jesus in jeans and a pair of Vans in the parking lot of Big Lots on Saturday.  I suggest you just wait it out until judgment day.