I went on vacation. Oh, yes I did. For a whole week. The first week-long vaca to somewhere other than my parents’ house that I’ve had in three years. So you can bet your bottom dollar that I’m going to be blogging about it for a while. Mostly because I have nothing else to write about. But also because I am cruel.
Mr. Wonderful and I got up at the crack of dawn on Monday and drove 74 hours to Denver. We arrived in time to go to the Great Divide brewery, which has a lovely, intimate tap room where you can sample their fine wares starting at 3 p.m.
By 5 p.m., we were so soused that we had to find a dinner spot we could walk to. We did. I ate bison meatloaf, as I guess that’s what you do in Colorado. Then, Mr. Wonderful slept in the car for 20 minutes while I counted the Subarus and Toyota 4-Runners that drove by. Colorado is evidently the Subaru’s native environment.
Then? Then Mr. Wonderful woke up. And MapQuest fucked us over, and we were late. Late for a date with My Boyfriend Dave Grohl.
Yes. We had tickets to see the Foo Fighters. Monday and Tuesday nights. At Red Rocks. The greatest band ever at the most awesomest amphitheatre in the universe. Yep.
So, MapQuest got us lost. And we were late. And then we found Red Rocks! And it was lovely! And … there was a lot of parking. A. Lot. Of. Parking.
We parked next to the entrance.
We figured something was very, very wrong.
We found some similarly lost-type folk. Turns out My Boyfriend Dave Grohl was sick, and they had postponed their Red Rocks shows until September.
We sat in our front-and-center seats and stared at the empty stage. It just wasn’t quite the same. We were glad that something awful and tragic hadn’t happened, but at the same time, I was all, “I quit you, Dave Grohl!” Because I am mature like that.
Next: Cha Cha moves on. But her dinner doesn’t.