Friday night finds us sad that Middle Chicken is headed back to DC. She has to go–law school, a fall internship and endless twenty-something hijinks await. The quorum of Sisterella, Middle Chicken and Baby Pea decide appetizers and cocktails at a fancy spot might be fun. And the crazy ensues…
First stop is a Scottsdale culinary experience known best for seafood and amazeballs martinis. Having taught Baby Pea the finer points of a dirty martini, I urge her to try the best in town. On first sip, her eyes grow wide and she declares, just a bit too loud, “That is the best dirty I have ever had. Delicious.” There’s a reason my son loves this girl.
Middle Chicken marvels at the dry ice in her cosmo and understands the fascination the Sex and the City women had with the delish concoction. Sisterella announces her Pinto Noir perfect. My night is complete when the bread basket arrives and the pretzel rolls are warm. Since I’m with my besties, I can jam as many as I like down my pie hole. We decide on a mix of culinary treasures and lament that we never took Middle Chicken to our little country dive bar. Oh, and we also make fun of the peroxide, boob addled girls at the next table.
Squees abound as we decide there’s no time like the present. See? Just like last time. It’s not exactly the type of place you plan for. Cocktails make the decision. We grab a cab.
The ancient honky tonk is filled as always with nary a seat to be found. No problem. We march to the table with the Reserved sign, deposit it in my bag and plop down. Theresa, our waitress seems overly happy we’ve arrived. Why not? We are super friendly. We tell her we are celebrating Middle Chicken’s return to law school and her ability to light the world on fire. Theresa suggests lemon drop shots and who are we to disagree?
I first spy Sleeveless Denim Man as I lower my lemon drop. His table faces ours. Black cowboy hat, jeans, and yes dolls, a denim shirt with the sleeves torn off. And he’s not bailing hay or leaning on a pickup truck in the South, making that look work. A sleeveless sixty-year-old. Sixty-one actually–he tells me later. Hmmm. Our quartet spies him all at the same time. Our heads shake in unison.
“How very unfortunate,” say I. It may be 105 in Scottsdale but there is no excuse for a gentlemen over five to be out in public with the sleeves ripped off his shirt unless he’s exercising in some way. My pity at his choice is short lived.
The band calls out, “What y’all wanna hear?” We need little prompting to call for a song of the Sweet Home variety. I sent Baby Chicken back to Bama last week and have serious withdrawal. The band obliges and our foursome entertains with gyrations and “Roll Tide Roll” screams and squeals. I know I’ve got it going on as my dress is bright blue (one of my colors) and pleated so when I spin it twirls. Some things we chicks just never outgrow. As we dance Sisterella and I observe a trend.
Seems ladies of certain age dance with arms up, hips all over the place, kind of spastic. Baby Pea and Middle Chicken are calm; arms down, cool and detached, barely moving. In short, they look kind of jazzy and hip and we look, well, spastic. Sisterella points out that her gorgeous offspring dances the same way, moving slowly creating a detached assurance. We make a note to learn more. It’s not that we’ll change our ways. We’ve just made an observation. We agree to consider it later.
Sisterella and I are breathless after all that jumping about. The girls, having kept themselves under control, are collected. I turn and find Sleeveless Denim Guy at my left. “Dance with me,” he says. Having never mastered, “Get the fuck away from me,” I oblige and hope no one thinks I am attached to a man who might appear sleeveless in public. I don’t know that even The Norwegian’s closest ever saw him sleeveless. Well, he’d have to be shirtless so that’s a no.
Sleeveless Denim Guy holds me a bit too close and instructs me to relax and look him in the eye. Whaaa? Taking direction is not one of my best talents but making a scene is even lower on my list. Besides I’ve been asked to leave this dance floor before. Seems singing in a beer bottle to The Norwegian and refusing to leave until said song was complete is frowned upon. When they asked us to exit, I inquired, “Do you know who I am?” The Norwegian calmly asked as we got in the car, “Who were you going to be?”
“I don’t know.”
“Okay.”
Denim Guy explains the two step, taking my refusal to be so close to him as lack of knowledge and not “get your damn hands off me.” He spins me and instructs. Spins and instructs. He tells me his name and his divorced status. I know it’s due to all that instruction. We discuss George Strait songs demanding a two step and that Denim Guy is from Nebraska. He tells me to come back next week to dance with him and says, “And lose the heels.” Whaaaa?
“Well that’s not gonna happen,” say I. Tip boys–don’t tell a lady what to wear unless you want a punch in the face or the two of you are long terming it and certain outfits are something you’ve agreed on ahead of time. “It’s good to see a girl like you in a place like this, not in one of those places like (blank) and (blank), one of which being the place from which we just cabbed. I see my chance and take it.
Hahaha. I throw my head back laugh. “We just came from there.”
The song ends and he escorts me to my chair instructing me again to meet him next Friday. He has no idea how much that’s not gonna happen.
What he doesn’t know is, from the dance floor, I spy Middle Chicken’s eyes fill with tears at the sight of her mother dancing with someone who is not her father and the guy told me not to wear heels. Really? This from a man wearing sleeveless denim? Pfft.
The Duchess Diaries 