Good day, hooligans. I’ve been taking a light sweater to school and I saw a leaf on the ground yesterday so I guess it’s officially FALL IN LOS ANGELES. It only took two whole months, a lot of 11:11 wishes, and the emergence of Starbucks’ red cups to get the season going, but nevertheless, it’s sort-of-basically here.
Today’s post will be kind of short (to offset the novel from last week) so let’s dive right in: as a post-grad, struggles (more often than not, without snuggles) are everywhere. Whether they come from the hours you’re suddenly working, to the separation from friends, to the feeling that we’re a little more lost than we’re letting on. I’m dealing with a variation of this post-grad syndrome, as I’m sure everyone else is, and like my blog posts, I offset these worries with my weekend plans. For example, this weekend, I went to the Fall Out 4 release party with Charlotte to walk the (back of the) red carpet, make eye contact with the guy who played Simon on 7th Heaven (full beard now, y’all… like, almost Duck Dynasty-length), almost say a timid “hi” to Brian Wilson (RIP Fear the Beard, go Giants), stand next to Randy Jackson for a full seven minutes (did not have a beard, just for continuity’s sake), and watch Calvin Harris kill the game, full Vegas style (confetti canons, smoke machines, and a blonde, Scottish beard). Also, In n Out catered. That was Thursday.
On Saturday, Steph, Lauren, and I went to see a musical at the Hudson Theater. A fellow Chapman grad is in the cast and we’d heard great things, so we met up (Steph and I walked nine blocks to find a restaurant we liked, then decided on a deserted Thai restaurant because they had an aquarium with a puffer fish) and watched. It was fantastic, y’all: singing, murderous cheerleaders. The music and voices killed it. It was one of those productions that made me ashamed I stopped doing theater after high school, so you know it’s good. Anyway, new dog-mom Lauren (WELCOME, ROCKET) had to scurry home to her child, so childless Stephanie and childless Megan decided to hit the town. And by “hit the town” I mean a gay bar, high-end bar, and then the patio of the Den. So… yeah, that’s actually pretty active. We did bar-hopping really well, actually.
- The gay bar: The Abbey – I drank a lemon drop while Steph knocked back her usual Jameson on the rocks. We felt safe from being hit on. We were hit on. Steph glared. They assumed we were lesbians. I was going to give them a speech. Steph scared them away. We watched the male dancers. We fell in love. We wanted to ask if they had a day job, and if so, what was it. We didn’t have any cash. We couldn’t get close enough to ask our question. A bachelorette party almost passed out on us. We left.
- The high-end bar: The Bar at SUR Restaurant – We just wanted to see if they’d let us in. They did. The place was v tiny, but it took us twenty minutes to get to the bar. Because rich people don’t like to move when they’ve planted themselves somewhere. Even if that’s being belly-up to the bar. We were the youngest people there. By fifteen years. Or more. And we were by far the most casually-attired. Women had on Harry Winston necklaces and Louboutins. My neon-pink bra straps were showing. We saw Jax from “Vanderpump Rules.” They were playing “Vanderpump Rules” on the TV behind the bar. He was watching. He was watching himself, on TV, in the middle of the restaurant the show is shot in. We left when a drunk sixty-year-old knocked my drink.
- Our comfort-zone: The Den – We stood around for like thirty minutes with drinks. I left for three minutes to go to the bathroom. Returned to find two Irish guys chatting Steph up in my absence. Self esteem punch. Questioned their accents. They were real. Bar closed. The four of us walked the streets of LA. Hung out with them until 4:30. Wanted to go to sleep. Couldn’t shake them. Ubered through the McDonalds drive-thru with them. Semi-tricked them into getting out of the car at their apartment. Speeding away in the Uber. Falling asleep at my apartment. Having a dream about an Irish McDonalds hashbrown. Reminding myself how much I love Irish accents.
No but seriously, I love Irish accents. I wouldn’t have hung out until 4:30 if I didn’t.
As much time as I spend during the week agonizing about my life and my future and the decisions I’m making, this is the stuff that makes everything worth it. I hope everyone knows that I don’t blog about every aspect of my life: I promise you, my weekdays are vastly different than my weekends, but I blog on Monday for a reason. Talking about the weekend is just far more entertaining. If I wrote about my weekdays, all the posts would be named things like “Today I Cried Again,” “Trying to Have it All: Doing Homework While Watching a Documentary About Sharks,” or like “I’m Going to Rehab for Excessive Open Tabs on Google Chrome: Job Hunting While Doing Five Group Projects, And More.” They wouldn’t have the same pizazz, I can tell you that much. That reminds me, I’ve got to book ninety flights and help my sister with her history homework. ~*wEeKdAy MeGan*~
As Jenna (Marbles) Mourey once said, “Always talk to him about your period. Guys love that! Because they don’t have periods! The curiosity will just kill them.”