Thursday night / by vanessa

Today’s day 29, except it’s not 29, it’s actually day 33 and I’ve just been really slow at posting on time, because apparently I like to self-impose torture, slowly. Last night I went to see a show like a boss. It’s only noteworthy because I go to see shows about the same frequency with which I go to the dentist for a teeth cleaning. Yet I still carry earplugs around in my wallet ‘cause you just never know when the mother of a two-year old and full-time busy body will have a concert to go to. Coincidentally, I also got my teeth cleaned yesterday morning.

Anyway, my boyfriend manages a band called Motopony. They’re great. He knew most of the guys in the band from his Seattle days but only started managing them after he moved to LA. They played at a really great venue here called the Troubadour. A band called Jon de Rosa opened before Motopony and since my old roommate was on drums in that band, my other old roommate on bass, and my third, other old roommate was filming it, I felt like I was living in a Chateau Shaman (the enchanting, witchy manse in the hills the four of us shared) dream.

I go out so infrequently these days that for me, f*cking amateur night. My friend Scarlett and I ubered to the show, and while it’s not her fault per se, we do have a history of troubs when we’re together. We drank four tequilas. I ended up running into a bunch of people I know who are affiliated with Motopony in some way and I might have blathered on and given a few too many hugs. Tequila always sounds like a really good idea at the time.

Until the morning hits, and then I remember why I need to pull it together. I woke thinking about how my neighbor, who had graciously watched Jonah at the very last minute, must have questioned entrusting my own child back into my hands after I wouldn’t stop complimenting her on her hair at 12:30 in the morning. You know how some people find themselves with the tell tale signs of a walk of shame? (Btw, if you want to witness this, be at Erewhon at 8:30 in the morning on a Saturday.) My version is oil pulling the hell out of some coconut oil. Twice, just to make sure I don’t have a hangover.

Ryan doesn’t—or rarely—drinks. He never has to swish his oil in the morning recounting his stupid enthusiasm in painfully slow detail. But then also he doesn’t pull oil, so that probably says something else. (Like he’s just not a hippie? I don’t know.) Anyway, most times I go out, I have this really fun time and I think, “I should do this more often!” and then just as quickly I forget about that and slink back into my social anxiety hole.