One year, back during my pre- JennyMac stage of life, my Mom flew into Atlanta for a week to visit. I planned a surprise weekend trip to Nashville. We grew up listening to Willie Nelson and Johnny Cash so I knew my Mom would truly love to visit. I was already a fan.
The road trip there was too much fun, the weather flawless, my Mom on Cloud 9 being there. After getting situated in our hotel, we decide to stop off and have a refresher. We perch at the bar at Tootsie's and order.
A large man seated next to us was growing impatient waiting for his drink, and waving his money at the bartender. I was enjoying my libation too much and told him I thought that trick ineffective anywhere but TV. He laughed in a scruffy, scrappy sort of way and told me he didn't think I could get a drink any faster.
Oh. Are you challenging me to a duel, sir?
Any woman can get a drink from a male bartender before a large man waving money can. I would like to think it was all charm and sophistication. No. Basic social economics.
He was so delighted that he bought us a round. And then he sort of gave me the hey little buddy punch in the arm. Except he was a giant. And his fist was larger than my quadricep. And he was wearing a huge Bowl ring from the U of Alabama, which incidentally looked neat indented into my arm. After I recovered, he kept buying. And kept buying. There was simply no way for us to keep up with him.
Eventually we surrendered. And then escaped. Oh, it was a hot time in the ol' town that night. As we cavorted around. Or, as I cavorted around town with my Mom, many an antic was introduced. My mom's least favorite is the following:
My mom is gorgeous. She looks like my sister in a smashing, classy way. She is also far less the extrovert. She has been divorced for years and while I am sure she has many a gentlemen caller, she keeps her business to herself. That evening, she met a handsome cat, long and lean in his Wranglers, topped with a giant Stetson. For my mom, the owner of several horses, Stetson is a favorite word.
Nearing the point of collapse from being overserved, I decide to walk the block to our hotel room. My mom declines to escort me. I am sure I quizzed her. I think I said things like "Are you sure? Is that safe? You two better be good!" Why did I do this? Who knows. She is after all, grown, in a huge public place, and not exactly having her first chitty chat with a suitor. And why would I be questioning her? Again, WHO KNOWS. The only thing shinier than my halo was the hypocrisy in which I shrouded it.
I return to the room. And apparently start making big, important decisions.
I called my Mom on her cell. About ten times. I told her I thought she needed to come home. I am CERTAIN this was entertaining to her. And Stetson too. She said she would be back to the room shortly. I
My Mom finally returned. I believe I yammered on about chastity. I believe she told me she would get me back.
But she didn't need to. Because the tango between Mr. Giant-Alabama-Ring-Beer-Cartel and various other antics caused me to be in one of my all time most painful hangovers of my life the next day.
Who had the last laugh? My Mom. And why is that? Well, that will be saved for another post.
Sorry Mr. Hot Stetson that you couldn't spend more time making my Mom's acquaintance. She is an amazing person. I know you gave her your number. I think that piece of paper was a casualty of war. Yes, I do think it non too classy to be lit up like a Vegas casino when supposedly spending quality time with your parent. Thank you for pretending I was a joyful comedic delight.
Sorry Mom. If you were ever curious what is meant by Hot Mess; Example A: your daughter this night in Nashville.
And if you were never curious what is meant by c*ckblocking well, too late.
DITTO on Example A