We Went OUT, Y'all

I want to write.  I do.  I wish I had a good excuse for not writing, but mainly it's because we fired our house-cleaning service in exchange for a laundry service which requires far more work for me.

I have this new friend that I met at work.  Her husband is a drummer in a band as his second job.  For weeks she's been encouraging me (and others) to go see the band play at a bar last weekend.  A real bar.  Honestly, I didn't even tell my husband about it until the last minute because really, what the hell are we going to do at a real bar?  It made my 36.5 year-old heart all anxious and hand-flappy.
Turns out that when I casually threw out, "Oh Jenny wants us to go see the band..  .it's a country band (he doesn't like country music) and it's in the Stockyards.  The bar is named Filthy McNasty's.  Doesn't seem like our kind of thing. . .," he responded, "that sounds like fun!"

So we went.  Jenny assured me that I really did know what to do. . . I wasn't sure.  I mean, I stood, puzzled, at my closet for at least 5 minutes.  We went.  It was fun.  I forget how LOUD and smoky bars are. The smell of my hair awoke me in the wee hours of the morning.  The people watching!  Oh, the people watching!  I not so subtly videoed the cowboy glory.  You're welcome.  (And yes, this is for real, and no, not the norm in the whole city, only in specific areas and specific establishments.)