The other night I took my two eldest daughters, 14 and almost 12, to their first concert. Fall Out Boy seemed a safe enough choice. I actually like some of their songs. People my age without kids apparently have never heard of them, though, because a couple of friends who asked who was playing responded when blank stares when I told them. I’m the wrong person to ask about just how famous or not famous a band is. Just because I haven’t heard of them (and I hadn’t heard of Fall Out Boy until about 6 months ago when Cordelia played “Centuries” for me on You Tube) doesn’t mean they’re not über-famous, and just because I have doesn’t mean they are.
They put on a good show, but the opening act…sigh. A good mother would have Googled to find out who/what this person/band she’d never heard of was. But I figured since Fall Out Boy was an unobjectionable rock band, the opening act would be of the same ilk. Right? Wrong. Wiz Khalifa is a rapper who calls himself the King of Weed. Oh, dear.
The girls were impatient for the main act, and complained about the smell of the pot smoke wafting through the air. This warmed my maternal heart, naturally. I was kind of glad (but felt guilty for being glad) that I’d been too much of a slacker mom to Google, since I would have felt obligated to say no to the concert on “it glorifies drug use” grounds, and they would have missed seeing Fall Out Boy.
The girls had a good time, Cordelia because it’s her favorite band and Elizabeth because her best friend came with us. I had a good time because they had a good time (that’s what moms do) even though getting out of the parking lot afterward was as bad as leaving Dodger Stadium when you stay for the bottom of the ninth, and once I got out, I made a wrong turn and had to double back and then the interstate on-ramp was closed and I had to double back again, go south to the next exit to get back on the northbound and finally get back to our hotel past midnight, thankful that I’d decided to stay in Albuquerque rather than driving back to Santa Fe.
When we woke up to the sound of people talking at the pool, which was near our room, my first thought was, “How did they get in there? The pool doesn’t open till 9:00.” Then I looked at my phone. 9:48. Seriously? I don’t think I’ve slept in past 7:30 since I had kids.
After the girls got out of the pool, we had lunch at the Golden Corral, because the trip was all about them and not about me. I detest buffets. I watch what I eat, avoid carbs, and always opt for quality over quantity. Buffets are all about the quantity. And the carbs. OMG, the carbs.
I found some roast chicken that wasn’t bad, and some asparagus that wasn’t overcooked. The Brussels sprouts were inedible, though, so I used that as an excuse to eat fried okra instead. When in Rome…
I watched people going back again and again for more, more, more food, trying not to think about how many people in this country have diabetes or heart disease because of the appalling way so many of us eat. There I was endorsing it for my kids, of course, by taking them to that temple of processed carbs, but for us it’s a once in a while thing. They eat differently at home, and aren’t overweight.
Still, look at what one of them brought back from the buffet table. That is just so wrong. And after a healthy meal of carbs with a side of carbs, there was dessert. Oh, the humanity! I wondered how much Wiz Khalifa, who according to Wikipedia spends ten grand a month on weed, could put away at the Golden Corral when a fierce bout of the munchies came on.
When I took Elizabeth’s friend home, her mother had Googled, and knew her daughter had just seen the King of Weed. Awkward. But hey, she Googled after we’d already left, not before she said yes to the invitation, so she couldn’t be too disapproving. I didn’t tell her that her daughter had a spaghetti tostada for lunch. At that point, I just didn’t have the stomach for it.