Mama Don’t Let Your Babies Grow Up To Be Cowboys…

Around Midnight…

So the girls head out on Saturday night. It’s Contractor Girl’s birthday. Celebrations are to be had each place we meander. But it’s the happenings at our favorite country bar that prove quite interesting.

Packed as usual on a Saturday, we rumble in and grab a table. Part of the reason we go is that it’s not regular Scottsdale fare. It’s a little rougher, a little bit naughty and, as it turns out, the boys like us. A lot. What is it about those country boys?

Five girls: one married, three divorced, one with a boy toy, and one lone wolf widow surround our table. Young girls with bare midriffs flit about, as they do. Somehow, we attract attention. When I check in with the girls today to find out what the deal is, the general consensus is that we looked like we were having fun.

It’s true. No agenda. None of the dolls is looking for someone. Just the girls. Talking to the boys ’round here. Chew tobacco, chew tobacco, chew tobacco, spit. Not a country music lover? Reference lost on you doll.

Eddie has eyes for New Neighbor Bestie and wants to go to lunch. “Just lunch. Please.” She should go. He’s cute. Grew up in a neighborhood near mine in Chicago and even went to college near my alma mater in Minnesota. Small world in the Dale, non? Chicago boys are down to earth, sweet, loud and say exactly what they mean. So, New Neighbor Bestie—have lunch with Eddie.

We meet Bruce, who loves to dance. The only thing Bruce loves more than dancing is dancing with more than one girl. We take turns, but he lights up when the girls are whirling about with each other. A song of the Sweet Home variety leaves him breathless. He jumps in the middle like a five-year-old dying to play. He’s sweet and cute. It’s the night for sweet. They all came out on a random Saturday.

He persuades us Jack Daniels Honey is the elixir of the gods. The waitress brings regular Jack so our lungs and esophagus’ explode and our eyes water. He makes up for it with a sweet smile and something called Cinnamon Toast Crunch. He likes our married friend, who is nursing a broken wing, but backs off good-naturedly when alerted to her status. Good move, Bruce, good move.


Then there’s Suave Country Boy, with killer eyes and a knack for words. His “Yes ma’ams” and tight hold on the dance floor are swoon worthy. A girl can recognize trouble pretty quickly.

Walking back to the table, I note my dolls are again surrounded. The boys have increased during my spin on the dance floor and the girls are holding court. I spy a couple of younger lasses across the room wearing perplexed faces. I choose to decide it’s ’cuz us older chicks are just so damn fun and leave it at that.

We decide its time to put ourselves in cabs and boys follow us out. That’s what country boys do if you’re taking notes. Scottsdale lads—there’s a shout out. What have we learned? Mama, don’t let your babies to grow up to be cowboys. They’re just too damn charming.


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