This was the scene in front of Qdoba Saturday.
As we approached the protest, multiple cars honked their horns. Of course, we automatically assumed the horns were for us, five attractive women beginning our girls’ weekend with an afternoon of shopping. When we piled out of my car earlier, another car slowed down so the occupant could yell, “Woo Hoo! Ladies night!” at 1:00 in the afternoon. We obviously had it going on.
Imagine our chagrin when we got closer and heard the shouts, “Honk for Freedom!”
Truthfully, Freedom is pretty cool. My friend, Pam, took the pictures and even had a brief conversation with a couple of the women protesting. I hope their friends and family in Syria find Freedom and peace.
My girlfriends and I found our own brand of freedom (Note the lower case f. I do realize it’s not in the same universe as Syrian Freedom.) in our second annual escape from work and family responsibilities. We strolled up and down Bardstown Road all afternoon, wandering in and out of funky boutiques, consignment shops, artists’ studios, used book stores, and even an African bakery and craft store. We tried on hats, shoes, vintage dresses, and handmade jewelry.
I bought a pair of awesomely funky shoes. Here they are looking hot beside Tammy’s boots.
The day was gorgeous, partly sunny and mid to high forties. No sign of the “white death” the hostess at Cracker Barrel had warned us was coming. Tammy thought she was warning us about the 2012 apocalypse. We were momentarily confused since it’s only February. I’ve decided White Death will be my karaoke stage name…or the title of my next book.
We stopped for a late lunch/early dinner at Impellizzari’s Pizza. Linda ordered a beer and claimed it would probably fill her up too much to eat. After which, she proceeded to make a massive piece of the deep dish Sicilian sampler her bitch, along with two slices of the thin crust margharita pizza and several breadsticks.
The pizza was excellent, but the company was better.
We shopped a bit more after eating, but decided it was time to call it a day when a member of our party who shall remain nameless spent $20 on a bracelet made of string. In her defense, $20 for braided string seemed perfectly reasonable after a couple of beers, and it was cute.
When the shopping wound down, we geared up for an evening of music and dancing. On the way in to the tavern, a car honked. Pam declared that it was NOT a honk for Freedom.
We heard some great music. The band opened with Pink Floyd, and four teachers belted "we don't need no education" at the top of our lungs, but sadly the dancing did not come to pass.
We were ready. See? Don’t we look cute?
We had our dancing shoes on, but when we got there…
Linda, “This is like the Inferno. What fresh hell is this?” (You’ve gotta love a friend who combines Dante with Dorothy Parker.)
Pam, “This is enough to make me never drink again.”
Tammy, “Not enough alcohol in the world to get me out there.”
See Linda’s face?
Let me paint the picture she’s gazing upon in horror.
Three women dancing, all wasted, beyond wasted, probably didn’t leave the tavern under their own power wasted. Now, I’m not throwing stones at their degree of drunkenness. And Linda is no shrinking violet. A trio of trashed girls in and of themselves would not elicit this face.
One of the girls is overweight. So what, right? There's more. Her shirt is askew, and her bra is twisted. The only thing sort of covering her large breasts is the stack of Mardi Gras beads around her neck. She rips her shirt open again in front of the band’s lead singer. He hands her the beads, but turns his head. She is way too drunk to notice, but seriously, if the dude is turning away from your breasts, you should probably quit flashing them.
The second girl keeps her shirt on and would probably be cute sober and not grinding on everything with a pulse. Boys, girls, it really doesn’t matter. She grabs people and loops her beads around their necks, essentially trapping them in an obscene embrace. Some, like the bass player in the band, look slightly alarmed as he tries to keep the beat with a girl humping his leg. Others, like the chick with the boobs and the beads join in with gusto. At one point a guy squeezes in between me and Tammy to get a better look.
“What the hell? Is she motor-boating that girl?”
“I’m trying not to watch.”
“It’s a f’n train wreck. How can you not rubberneck?”
Tammy turns and looks at him like he is a piece of toilet paper on her shoe. It's daunting, and he backs away.
Pam has this to say about the last girl in the dance floor triumvirate. “This is her night off. She’s way too good on those stilettos to be an amateur.”
She is over six feet tall in the heels, and she has a banging body. She drops to the floor and slides back up a person in one smooth motion, even blind drunk. We see that move a lot. When she gets up close and personal with the lead singer, her boyfriend pulls her off. Her boyfriend is a mountain of a man. If she is six feet, he’s six-five easily, broad shouldered with hair past his waist. I can’t tell you if he’s cute. I never see his face under the lion’s mane of blond hair. Together, they get into a head-banging, hair-slinging contest that clears the dance floor. Even boob girl and bitch-in-heat get out of their way.
Can you see it now? Just out of the frame?
So yeah, we didn’t dance. But the band, Stone the Crow, was very good. They mostly played classic rock covers, but they did it well. The lead guitarist was incredible. Watching him almost made me forget the train wreck on the dance floor.
The icing on the cake came when we left. The temperature had dropped, and our coats were in the car, so we sprinted from the exit. I dived into the front seat without looking right or left, so I didn’t initially see why Pam was screaming.
“OH MY GOD!!!”
OMG indeed. In the SUV right next to us, live in Technicolor, a woman was “taking care” of her man. Or a man. One wonders if it was actually her man since they didn’t wait to go to their house to do the deed. We backed out of the parking place and rolled down our windows.
“Look in that car!” Pam yelled to a group of people approaching. “Hurry! Right now! Look!”
Six people pressed their faces to the glass. They screamed and then laughed. We honked on the way out of the parking lot. For Freedom, baby!
We ended the night at Krispy Kreme followed by Steak and Shake. What? Life is short, eat dessert first, especially if dessert is hot and fresh Krispy Kremes.