Nashville Calling…

Hello. Nashville calling. Chicken and music will steal your soul.

The place Baby Chicken calls home is charming, fun, and famous, to be sure. Some girls are known to swoon when they hit the South. Roll Tide. Others of us join the fray, can speak Southern with the best of them, and dance the night away at Luke Bryan’s. Nope, no sighting. He was probably huntin’ or fishin’. Song reference for the non-country folk.

Major historical markers–didn’t see ’em. I had a wedding to take care of y’all. Instead, we snuck in cowboy hat-making, moonshine tasting, and dancing on Broadway. And, after the partying, Printers Alley and its ghosts called to us. We answered, spending the afternoon in a darkened blues joint with a shaky past. Case in point: Our table was reserved for a dead guy. No kidding. We agreed that if he showed, we’d skedaddle. You can’t make this shit up and you can’t find it in The Dale.

It makes a girl question whether she’s living in the right place. Would she take full advantage if she were there all the time? Are there enough vacation days to see it all? There’s The Ryman, The Opry, and enough Southern lore to make a girl pull up a chair, grab a chicken leg, add a sweet tea, and while away the afternoon.

And then there’s rowdy debauchery places named Kid Rock. One gal spies the sign while we’re dancing at good-boy Luke Bryan’s place. Heart races. A few dolls know that even Duchesses have a bad boy that stirs it up. Mine disgusts most of them, especially those tagged offspring. Feet flee the dance floor of their own accord and carry this girl across the street and into the House of the Bad Boy. Naughty Boy Radar sweeps the perimeter, the balconies, the band, and the crowd. No sign of him. It’s then I notice the place smells of beer and sweat.

Did I really think I’d encounter the ultimate bad boy? And, if I did, what the hell would I do with him? Show him my stretch marks and tell him that generally, I like a good book and bed by 9?

There are problems with places that lure. The things that attract us (besides bad boys) are generally not the things best for us–like barbeque or a cocktail known as NOLA Sweet Tea. Or cowboys that call us darlin’. Although some of us could listen to that drawl ’til the cows come home.

What is it about a Southern gentleman? Is it the gentleman part? Do they all seem tall to you? They generally know how to dance. And by that a girl means, lead. Women don’t intimidate them. They’ll march right up to a girl and make her feel positively weak in the knees. And beautiful. And not old. Oh my–who’s got my fan?

Nashville continues to haunt weeks later. More for the lovely homes, food, and gracious living than the bad boy cowboy thing. Really? Nah. A bad boy cowboy could swing a rope and I’d be gone. Pfft.