The Hangover Says: You were up all night.

(I can't call this post "What You Once Were Isn't What You Want To Be Anymore", cuz Patti beat me to it).

Last night, for the first time since Violet was born, I went out and tore it up, child-free. It felt fabulous to put my cute new wrap, carry a purse (no diapers! no leaky sippy cups!) and wear earrings without fear of Violet ripping one through my earlobe.

Patti and I left our men to mind the chillen, and went to see Jeff Tweedy perform a solo show at The Fillmore. He was great, of course -- better than great, actually ((swooning)) -- but for me the highlight of the evening was spending time with my good friend, drinking stiff jack n' cokes, gossiping, giggling and otherwise disrupting the hardcore Tweedy/Wilco fans ("Ssshhhhh!")

We reminisced about our rock n' roll pasts, shows we've seen, bands we've loved. Going to a show used to be a weekly event for me: I'd put on my hipster best and head out for a night of good -- and sometimes not so good -- music, over priced -- and sometimes way over priced -- beer, and rampant cigarette smoking. These days, I'm more excited about who sleeps through the night, and who learned to play peek-a-boo, than I am about who's playing Bottom of the Hill, or who's got tour coming up. I've pretty much fallen off the hipster radar, and I'm cool with that. The fact that I got my tired shit together enough to stay out past midnight, combined with the fact that I am nursing a nice little hangover this afternoon, is enough to make me feel like I haven't completely sold out.

This morning, Hazel asked, "Mama, how was your date with Patti? Did you see Wilco?" And I said yep -- and it rocked.