Yay! Restrictive laws!

it still seems so weird
to leave exhausting concert
and not smell of smoke

Last night at the Coldplay/Fiona Apple concert, these little girls in front of us (who talked on the phone for the entire concert) lit up some cigarettes. And whatever – if you want to smoke, smoke. But don’t make me smoke. And don’t make the Gestator smoke, especially in a facility that is famously non-smoking.

Before I could even work up some indignation, though, an usher appeared from nowhere and told the girls to put out the cigs or else. It was fabulous. And even though it’s still a little weird to leave a concert and not have a burned out throat and watering eyes and smelly hair, it’s something I can get used to.

So the concert…. good and fun and concerty. I, apparently, didn’t get the memo about having to be 17 and clad in an "ironic" t-shirt to be allowed in to the concert, but the guards took pity on my fat tummy and my perplexed husband (Fiona Apple sings those angry songs, right?) and let us in anyway.

Fiona channeled Janis with her angry, screaming songs, and it was great angry, screaming fun.

Chris Martin was so dorkily hot with his curly hair and weird white boy dancing, that it was lucky for him that three tiers and a pregnant belly slowed me down in my attempt to heave myself onto him while he sang "Don’t Panic."

Perhaps the best part, though, was as we were leaving the show about a gamillion hours after I usually go to sleep. As I tottered through the door, grasping a half-eaten King Size Snickers, a security guard looked from my belly to my candy bar to my tired but happy face and then patted my shoulder and said "bless your heart." ha.

In other good news, the wee one stayed with my sister and her husband overnight while my hubby and I enjoyed the concert and a swank hotel (which overlooked an indoor ice-skating rink so we could watch people fall on their asses – lots of fun). Everyone survived the wee one’s visit, and he didn’t miss us once.

In order to congratulate him on his accomplishment, my hubby and I bought him a toy hippo. It’s hard plastic and heavy and has an open mouth and is both hilarious and possibly educational. The wee one has named him "Fighty" and decided that "man hippos aren’t mommies." I don’t know what that means, but I guess I’m OK with it.

yes, we love Fighty
he may not be a mommy
but he has moxie

All in all, a good weekend, even though I am old and refused to spend $45 on a Coldplay t-shirt so that my friends know how cool I am.

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