When we were younger and had fewer children, my husband and I faithfully showed up at every gig a semi-local band played in our area. We knew all the words, knew all the tricks, knew what to say when he said “YAY-OH!” or whatever the hell it was that he said. We were always excited when we heard they were coming. I remember the time I was really sick and couldn’t go. I was so bummed when my husband told me the band hung out near his table and I’d missed out. Over time, we grew weary of a few of their antics - mostly the too-long breaks between sets and the lead singer’s love of his own speaking voice. Still, we enjoyed them when they played and had a good time hanging out with our friends and when I’d had a couple drinks, the guitar player was pretty cute.

Seemingly overnight, the bar scene changed here. Suddenly, it was all about a DJ and dancing instead of a stumbling bass player and waving devil horns —-> \m/. The timing wasn’t all bad because we had kids at home and jobs and a mortgage and very tired livers. A few weeks ago we heard they’d be playing in our area. We decided we’d go check them out and relive a little of our youth.

And then it is was 8:00 p.m. and we were sitting on the couch with a coughing toddler who we were pretty sure had two doses of cough syrup much too close together because he doesn’t usually try to suck his whole chin into his mouth like that. And my husband flipped through the channels aimlessly while I folded cloth diapers and sorted socks. And then we drank some prune juice and put fresh tennis balls on our walkers. Seriously good times.

And then! It was 9:30 and The Toddler was lying in bed, unmedicated and NOT COUGHING at all. So I curled my hair, slapped on a face and away we went.

So we get there, right? And everybody in the town auditorium (tiny town, smaller auditorium) was crammed together in front of the beer and the beer tickets. But we managed to get our tickets and our drinks and made it out onto the dance floor alive.

But wait! Usually, if you go to see a band and you pay $20 to get in, you get to see a band. Right? Wrong. We listened to a CD for half an hour. Guess what. The CD got over before the band’s break was over. It was making us cranky. Because you know how old people get.

Just when I was about to march over to the bass player and tell him to get his ass and his friends on stage right this minute, mister!, they all appeared in front of us, poised and ready for action. Hallelujah!

Then they started playing. Let me tell you something, Master Retard of the Soundboard: That shit doesn’t need to go up to eleven when you’re playing for 80 people in a shoebox. For reals. It was a MESS. Louder isn’t better. It’s just louder. And the lights? Who put those up? Did you bother to stand in front of the stage for ten seconds to test those out? Of course you did. And then you were TOO BLIND TO FIX IT. I forgot to put sunscreen in my eyeballs before we left the house so I’m rocking it Stevie Wonder style now, baby.

But it wasn’t all bad. They were playing and I had some Pepsi with a splash of rum in it. I could deal. I could just stand there in front of my husband and be all chill and such and then there was an elbow in my left tit. And it wouldn’t move. Even when I moved it with my hand. So we scooched over. Chill again. Ahh. Toe-tapping. Hip wiggling. Drunk girl in front of me flailing wildly and dipping her hair into my drink.

Ladies, gentlemen and Canadians, I want you to know I try to be a nice person. I really do. After babysitting in the church nursery this morning, I held the door for a lady even though I was waaaaaaaaaaaay ahead of her and could have kept walking and it wouldn’t have been rude. I smiled at the guy who made eye contact with me at the grocery store which made him comfortable enough to ask me where things were and I helped him. AND I DON’T EVEN WORK THERE. I like rainbows and flowers and puppies. I’m awesome with crying babies. In 31 years, I haven’t killed even one person. You see? I’m super nice!

But when I’m standing in one spot and I’m there first and then you come over all drunk and flap yourself around like a wild bird with a broken wing and dip your overly-gelled hair into my expensive cup of soda with a hint of rum? I will want to punch you. I will want to pour my drink over your head. I will want to twist my hand in your hair and pull you backward onto to the floor and scream, “GET UP OFF ME!” with a lot of naughty words mixed in. And if I don’t have to admit it on the Internet, I would probably step on your face while you’re lying there.

So we moved farther back, to the very back edge of the ultimate fighting cage dance floor and I took a bunch of cleansing breaths. And then some dude stood right in front of me. And not right in front of me six to twelve inches away, but in front of me with his butt pressed into my pelvis like I’m his freakin’ boyfriend or something. I nudged. I flicked my straw at the back of his neck. I stepped forward. I pushed my hips forward twice in a dry humping motion. Then I poked my longest fingernail into his back.

If you want to talk to that guy, I think he’s STILL standing in the very same spot right now. Seriously.

So we moved again. And the band finished playing two of their original songs and since they only have SIX (or eight, maybe) complete albums of material from which to create a set list, they started playing Lynard Skynard. And the largest dude in the place, who obviously rode in on his Harley, was beside himself with joy. He was at least 6′5″ and built like a brick wall. So when he danced into me, I kind of felt it, you know? And when he started to fall backward into me, his elbow moving directly toward my forehead, my husband reached out one hand and put it on the guy’s back. And the guy turned around and I saw our lives flash before me in his crazy, crazy eyes.

My husband says, “Back off.” And I think, “Sweet Jesus. He’s too young to die. He doesn’t own a suit. What will we bury him in?” and the insane biker dude says, “Excuse me.” and he almost means it a little. Enough to let us live to see the end of the set (which was two originals and five covers, if you’re keeping track.) just so we can sit through another half-hour break.

During the break, Security* talked to the insane biker dude about an unrelated issue and the biker dude’s girlfriend pointed at me and glared while making eye contact. And I don’t know what that’s about but it looked like she thought I took something of hers.

The band finally got back on stage and played two songs before the lead singer started babbling on again and looking for a small girl who would take her bra off so a “fat bastard” from the crowd could try to put it on. And then the lead singer was very clever and sang, “Fat guy in a little bra.” Because we didn’t see that coming you cheeky little monkey. Shut up and play something.

And that’s when we left. But at some point between my husband telling that guy to back off and my subsequent hard-on** wearing off at the site of a shirtless chubby dude, I turned to my beloved and said, “You are a huge stud, and I am totally blogging this.”

*Security was four attractive, juicy, young men whose visual deliciousness made me very, very hungry. Rawr.
**Of the figurative variety, I assure you.