Nashville Day 1: Middle Seat Driver

Do you know what it’s like to sit in the middle seat of a car for seven hours?

Ew, no, of course not. Why would anyone do that?

To get five people down to Nashville, that’s why.

My hubby, my sister, her boyfriend, and our friend Katie took a road trip down to Nashville a few weeks ago. The five of us crammed into my mom’s car (we thought it was a bit bigger than Rachel’s car. I don’t believe it was, but whatever) and made the seven hour drive to the country music capital of the US of A.

The ride down could be a story in and of itself, to be honest, but I won’t bore you with the small tidbits (I’ll save the good ones for The Wake Up Call). We did have one small adventure on the way down, though…

About an hour and a half from our destination, Our driver and co-pilot (Steve and John) decided we should make a pit stop in Kentucky to enjoy our first adult beverage of the day. I was not really on board with this decision–not because of the beverage part, I’m always on board for that, but because of its location: a resort. A resort that was advertised on the side of the road– I took this as a bad sign. As we were driving along the winding, country road, I was starting to feel convinced that we were in the middle of a horror movie.

After about ten minutes of driving following the turn for the resort, I announced to the car, “I really don’t think this is a good idea, guys. We’re probably going to get murdered.”

“Bex, it’s fine.” Steve brushed off my concerns.

We finally made it to the resort, and I decided it was a safe place. Mostly because there was a dog. His name was Ralph, and I got to pet him! (I’m really regretting not getting a picture of Ralph now.) We then found our way to the (empty) resort bar– by the way, resort has a different connotation than this establishment should carry; by no means was this, like, a high-class establishment. Just want that to be clear– where I sat in a saddle (and almost fell off; the saddle was apparently just placed onto a stool. But don’t worry, I got back on), did some lunges (again, stretching from my middle seat debacle), drank a beer, and lost to my husband at tic-tac-toe (isn’t he supposed to let me win?).

The best part of our little detour was this sign:

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Isn’t alcohol what often leads to conception?!

After saying goodbye to Ralph, we got back in the car for the final stretch of our journey. Rachel, Katie, and I did some more singing, dancing, and annoying of the boys.

As we neared the end of our trek, I was trying to stretch my legs, since, I’m sure I don’t need to remind you, I was sitting in the middle seat for seven hours. I placed each of my legs on the outer edge of the front seats, stretching them open into a v-shape. The problem we were facing, however, was that I had a hole in the crotch of my leggings. So, naturally, Rachel made me a loin cloth out of a napkin so that I could spread my legs without fear of anyone seeing my vagine. It was a glorious feeling.

But you know what was even more glorious? Getting out of the car!!

As we got checked in Steve and John went to the liquor store to stock up our hotel rooms with the essentials: beer and water. Katie was staying with Steve and me in our room, and Rachel and John were just a hop, skip, and a jump down the hall.

We set out for Broadway after we all freshened up and had a beverage or two. We
started the evening at Rippy’s, and then headed to Tootsie’s, where we snagged a roof top table– we couldn’t believe our luck! We bought overpriced beer, and took Fireball shots even though we hate them. (Why do we do this to ourselves?)

 

Disappointingly, though, the music on the top floor of Tootsie’s was not getting our juices going, so we decided to head out.

Wandering down the street, we decided to stop in at The Stage. This was an excellent decision. The first thing we saw as we walked in was the band’s fiddler playing the solo in “The Devil Went Down to Georgia” on top of the bar. We all burst into cheers, and started for the bar. Yes, we will be staying here.

After acquiring our beverages, we headed towards the stage. If you ever go to a concert where you have to maneuver your way in the crowd, bring Katie. Within ten minutes, she had us front and center. We sang, danced, and drank. Surprisingly, the band played a bunch of 90’s music, but we were definitely down with that.

During her next solo, back on top of the bar, the fiddler used a beer can to play the chords. She was such a badass.

“I think I’m in love with her,” my husband shouted to me.

2017-04-07 16.07.28

Yep, that’s her. The Badass Fiddler.

“Yeah, me too!” I agreed. But then I was sure to give him a kiss to remind him that he still loved me more. He ran off to the bar quickly afterwards and came back with a beer for the fiddler. He got her attention and tried to hand it to her.

“I don’t drink,” she told him, motioning “no” with her fiddle stick. (What is the proper name for that? Is it fiddle stick? Or is it a bow, like with a violin?)

Steve may have been over-served by this time, and insisted she take the beer. She did, smiling and lifting the beer to her admirer. Then she promptly turned around and gave it to the drummer.

“She gave my beer away!” Steve said, devastated.

“She said she doesn’t drink, babe,” I consoled him.

“Maybe she used to be an alcoholic, and playing the fiddle saved her!” Katie added helpfully.

“I’m going to give her a tip,” and he walked away to go give her the $10 he’d just pulled out of his wallet. When he came back over by us, he said, “I put my phone number on it.” Then he winked. (I just went upstairs to ask him if he really put his number on it because I truly wasn’t sure. He didn’t. “Where would I have even written it?”)

Steve was then almost mowed over by a very angry drunk girl. He ignored it, but a minute later, the same girl walked past and rammed her shoulder into Steve’s.

“What the fuck?!” he said, turning to look at Angry Drunk Girl.

She raised her eyebrows at him in a way that said, “I dare you.”

“C’mon babe, ignore her,” I said, pulling him back towards the stage. “I’m sorry!” I mouthed at Angry Drunk Girl’s boyfriend.

“No, I’m sorry!” he mouthed back. Ah, the mutual understanding of the more sober spouse. The joy.

Steve was then distracted by the opportunity to climb on our friend Stan’s shoulders. This was quite the feat, seeing as Stan is over six feet tall.

It was scary.

I think we left shortly after that.

We got an Uber back to the hotel, put Steve– whom I tried to snuggle, but vehemently denied the snug– to bed, and ate terrible pizza. (Seriously, don’t order pizza in Nashville. Rachel threw it up as soon as we left the room.)

Katie and I tip-toed back into our room and were both pants-less and asleep within thirty seconds.

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Have you ever been to Nashville? What’s your favorite part?

Tune in next week for part two of our Nashville adventures, featuring a hungover Steve, lost koozies, dick shit, and combos!

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5 thoughts on “Nashville Day 1: Middle Seat Driver

  1. ‘Doesn’t alcohol lead to conception?’ Hahahahaha!!!! Very nice piece. Enjoyed reading it very much. If you’re so inclined, I have a pretty good story about road trips, called ‘Drive, She Said’. (Not trying to plug my own blog, just that I think you might get a kick out of it.)

    Liked by 1 person

  2. Heheheh Nashvilllllle! Best part when we went…. hmm.. we did a bar crawl/history of Nashville walking tour! Hilarious yet educational! I also agree with the pizza comment. Even though we ate it like 3 times out there haha.

    Like

  3. Pingback: Nashville Part 2: But I’m Rachel! | The Married Cat Lady

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