So Much For My Happy Ending

Several of my girlfriends and I recently saw Avril Lavigne in concert. My best friend had gotten pretty good seats at half price, so we piled into the car and drove an hour to join the freakish mix of people that you would expect to see at such an event. "Have fun with the teeny boppers," the husband sneered as we pulled away.







(She looks good blonde, I didn't expect it. AND she's all of 5 feet tall. She had to stand on these huge blocks to be seen, and even then she was shorter than everybody in her band.)

I drove, since my best friend goes into panic attacks when going places she's not familiar with, and as we pulled up we fully realized what we were getting into. Immediately upon arrival, two chicks outfitted in 80's style prom dresses (paired with black combat boots, naturally) sauntered past the car. 10 year old girls sported heavy black eye makeup and red devil horns. I saw a pair of twenty-something parents posing their 7 year old daughter for a picture, teaching her how to throw up the shocker as she stuck out her tongue. It was really something. We seemed to make up our own little demographic; "chicks pushing 30 trying to relive their youth". There weren't too many like us, that was for certain, and it became clear that we had to be drunk before going through the gates. Girlfriend #3 to the rescue; she had the presence of mind to bring a cooler. Bless her little heart.

We knocked back 2 bottles of Twisted Tea apiece, and each poured another into a big red cup with ice that we could nurse as we walked up to the gates. We pushed our way through a scowling group of teenagers and got ourselves in.

First words out of #3's mouth; "I have to go tinkle." We collectively rolled our eyes and dutifully stood outside of the facilities while she relieved herself. #3 has an incredibly small bladder; can't be bigger than a fist, she literally has to piss about 8-10 times every time we go out. And she refuses to use Port-O-Potty's, so we have to hoof it to a real bathroom every time. She actually walked out, said "Shit! I have to go again!" and WENT BACK IN. I think it's time for her to see a doctor, but what do I know. She finally finished up and we made our way to our seats.

We sat down only to find some piss ant opening act called "Butch Walker" up on the stage. Now I've never heard of Butch Walker, nor did I recognize any of his material, but we cheered and screamed things like "WE LOVE YOU BUTCHIE!!!" and "I'LL HAVE ALL OF YOUR BABIES!!!" like a bunch of salivating groupies at an 'nSync concert, just for fun. We got disgusted glares from the responsible parents who were chaperoning groups of 12 year olds. Fuck them and their sensible shoes, we were there to party.

Gavin DeGraw was up next. I like his music, but he sat at a piano and wasn't much fun to watch. We yawned our way through that shit, and it was at that point Girlfriend #2 decided that she needed a drink. Keep in mind that a 16 oz of cheap draft beer was $6 bucks at this particular event; she wanted a margarita. The margaritas were upwards of $13 dollars, but it came in a 2 foot tall souvenier plastic guitar with a large straw, so she had to have it. By the time she staggered back to the seats, she was halfway through it and feeling pretty good. She opted to climb over the seats rather than walk through the aisle, and ended up in a strange man's lap. She thought this was hysterical; his wife did not. We dragged her over the last row of seats and sat her down. During this debaucle, the straw did not leave her lips. #3 had to piss again, so she climbed over the seats as well. Needless to say, we were not very popular with the people sitting behind us.

Gavin finally finished up, and Avril came on. I have to say, she puts on a good show. She doesn't lip sync, actually PLAYS some instruments, and bounces around the stage like a bunny rabbit on crack. Any sense of lameness dissipated as we screamed the words to Avril's greatest hits. We might be pushing 30, but women of every age can relate to a chick who's been burned. Even though none of us would ever admit to buying one of her albums, we all knew the words to "I'm With You," "Don't Tell Me," "Complicated," and "So Much For My Happy Ending" by heart. Oddly enough, it was a pretty good time, and we wrapped our arms around each other and swayed to the beat much like the drunks at a Jimmy Buffet concert would.


As we were leaving, the 10 year old girl who had been sitting next to us attempted to snag Girlfriend #2's guitar-shaped margarita glass. #2 had a fit on her. "GIVE IT BACK! GIVE IT BACK! I PAID $13 BUCKS FOR THAT SHIT!" The kid dropped the glass and ran. "Yeah, that's what I thought ya little bitch," she mumbled under her breath as she picked it up. When we are faced with underaged teeny boppers, we take no prisoners.

We managed to find the car in the sea of bumper to bumper traffic and made our way into a line. Girlfriend #1 hissed under her breath "If you let anyone in front of us, I'm going to kick your ass." It was her car, so who was I to argue. I was a horrible selfish bitch, one of those people you just want to ram with your car because WHAT WOULD IT KILL THEM to let one lousy person into the line, but it wasn't my call. I mustered up every ounce of ruthlessness I could and tried not to look anyone in the eye. I was almost expecting a mob to come up and drag us out of the car for the beating we so richly deserved, but we managed to escape unscathed.

On the way home, #1 decided that we had to stop for gas. At the pump, she managed to stick her credit card into the slot where the receipt comes out instead of swiping it through like any normal person would have done. We had to steal a barrette off of #3, and we used it like a pair of tweezers to get the damned thing out. It's not unusual for an evening to end like this, either. Somebody usually ends up doing something that borders on retardation. This week, I'm just glad it wasn't me for a change.

So we had a good time. And we're all secretly downloading Avril's greatest hits so we can scream the man-hating lyrics in the privacy of our own cars, burning them onto unmarked CD's so that nobody catches us being lame. "Seriously baby, it's not mine..."