Hometown Tourist

You’d think with all of the belly aching I do regarding Nashville’s ever growing population that I hate it here in Music City. That’s not true though – I love this city. I just wish other people loved it the way I loved it instead of moving here and trying my once (and still to some) mini city on for size for a few years before moving on to bigger and better.

OMG. Stop moving here. You are driving me to drink.

The job market is oversaturated, gentrification is becoming a serious side of living here (especially if your income is a single lady living on her own – cannot imagine what it’s like for families), high rises have already murdered the once charming Music Row, First Mate can count 18 cranes (she calls them sky birds and for the record, she’s totally fine with the havoc wreaking taking place) from her downtown office, every.single.fucking. bro country “music” artist has a bar in the once quaint downtown (from Florida Georgia Line to Blake Shelton to Jason Aldean). My once gem of a city is turning into a bonafuckingfide bigger Branson, Missouri, right in front of my peepers.


Country. When country wasn’t cool.

I digress.

When pals come to town, it’s always been fun playing tourist in my own city. Due to the massive growth the last few years, I haven’t taken advantage of seeing Nashville through the eyes of others lately (and because if one more fucking to-be bride drunkenly steps on my foot, I might lose my goddamn mind and kick her Taylor Swift wearing cowboy boots with skirt outfit circa 2015 to the fucking state line).

There’s enough crazy in town already, bachelorettes.

This past weekend, my college bestie, Tdawg was in town to get her giddy up on with some of her gal pals from Denver.

It was the group’s first time in Nashville and I threw caution to the wind, swallowed $40 for two hour parking (you parking lot people are seriously horrible human beings), and trotted my ample ass down to the swanky hotel on Friday and met the crew at the rooftop bar.

Gorgeous lobby.

Intricate ceilings.

Most importantly, the bar.

The views from this spot did not disappoint.

Three ladies and an asshole.

Because I must always be up to no good, I was more than happy to oblige photo requests.

Oh. Just you three in it? Sorry. Not sorry.

They had supper reservations Friday night and I promised (after she forced me to call the studio by literally holding the phone up to my ear to make an appointment while I guzzled rosé at the bar) Tdawg I’d meet her on Saturday morning for an exercise class at Pure Barre. If you wonder who the fuck works out on a two day vacation, look no further than Tdawg. I have enough trouble sweating in my own city, let alone when I’m traveling.

Unless I’m visiting Yoga Barbie in Denver, I DO NOT workout on vacay.

Needless to say, I overslept and missed the fucking class. It ended up being OK thought because Tdawg was overserved the evening prior and spent the next several hours in her dreamy hotel bed. But she was up and at ’em for the evening and after supper, I took the gals to my fave honky tonk on the planet – Robert’s Western World to see my fave country band on the planet – The Don Kelley Band.


I used to frequent Robert’s so much before the besiege of tourists take over every summer, the last time I was there, Don Kelley said to me, “you don’t get out much, do you?” while I was dancing for the 4,812,654 time in front of him.


Usually, on a Saturday night at 8:30 it’s already asses to elbows on Broadway and it was no different when we were frolicking about downtown. However, luck was on our side and when we galloped into Robert’s, there was an open booth at the front of the bar waiting for our rear ends. This kind of magic hasn’t happened since 2014.

Yeehaws all around.

Tawg was beyond impressed with the twang and spent most of her time at Robert’s on one of many devices.


The owner of Robert’s, JesseLee Jones, is the leader of the house band, Brazilbilly. They play every Saturday night from 10pm – 2am. In all of my years going to Robert’s, every single Saturday night, his mom comes and watches his show. Every. single. time. She sits in the same spot and drinks either coffee or Red Bull. It’s the fucking cutest thing ever.

Mama Jones.

Tdawg called it an early night but No Digity, MoHo and yours truly stayed to see The Don Kelley Band’s famous rendition of “Ghost Riders in the Sky.”

We didn’t hate it.

Upon returning to the Noelle Hotel, I tried to fill Tdawg in on what she missed.

No pillow talk for me.

The ladies had to get up at the first sign of the sun to catch their 8am flight. Meanwhile, I was able to get some much needed beauty sleep in a quiet, cool, dark hotel room.

Not so sleeping beauty.

When my lids decided to fling open, I realized that this place was a whole lot fancier than the Holiday Inns in which I’ve grown accustomed.


This mastery was just a reach beside the bed and I honestly don’t know how much longer I can live without one.

Controls for the entire room.


Parched after my previous evening’s boozefest, I sauntered out of the room to get some water and didn’t know how many choices there were when it came to H2O.


I couldn’t figure out where the ice machine was until I saw what looked like a fancy refrigerator drawer below the water.


I would have taken some ice packages if I had a bigger purse with me. Because, I’m nothing if not white trashiness at its finest.

Speaking of finest, what about my departing outfit from the fancy Noelle Hotel?


I looked like I was a hot mess because I was a hot fucking mess. No Digity gifted me a Robert’s Western World t-shirt that I refused to take off. When I went to retrieve my car from the valet, the dude asked me where I was heading home to (since I looked like a confused, hungover bachelorette from Nebraska).

No shame in my game.

“West Nashville.” Ever heard of it?

I had so much fun being a tourist in my town, I can’t wait to do it again. So consider this your warning if you’re coming to Music City and staying at a fancy establishment. I’m crashing your party. Until then, I’ll be riding as high as the rooftop bar I was lucky to experience.

Oldies but goodies.

Party on.







How to Thwart a Mugger

Stilettos, studs and screams

Stilettos, studs and screams make muggers scram.

This past weekend I was at a holiday work party spreading sparkly merriment on Music Row (you know, where all of the music-y magic happens) in Nashville.


Party cuddles.

Many of the businesses on Music Row are located in houses from yesteryear, which makes for some way cool atmosphere. In lieu of grassy backyards, black asphalt is laid for private parking lots.  And most folks who use these houses for business always enter through the back door, which is what all of the party goers did this particular evening.

After some manhandling and a few festive cocktails, I decided to continue my celebrating elsewhere and said my goodbyes before heading out to my car that was parked among the throngs of other carriages under bright street lamps.

Manhandled enough

What party would be complete without a grope?

It was fairly early (9:30pm) and the parking lot was well-lit, private and full of guest cars and catering trucks, I had zero qualms about walking the ten yards to my vehicle.  Because my typical key chain resembles that of a stadium janitor and I was flaunting my uber k-ute clutch, I only carried my car key that evening.

Instead of the usual

Yes, I do need the compass because I often don’t know my ass from my elbow.

Have studded purse. Will beat your ass with it.

For all things fabulous, such as this clutch, I downsize.

Key me

A key fit for small spaces.

Prancing to my SUV, I noticed that I had left my parking lights on and as I was unlocking the driver’s side door I muttered, “fuck me in the goat ass,” (assuming I was going to need a jump).

No sooner than I ended my statement I heard a deep voice say, “I’ll fuck you in the ass,” (which is probably the most appropriate pick up line ever, yes?).

As I whipped around to lay into what I thought was a drunk dude who’d just been at the same party as myself, I came nose to nose with a seedy looking stranger, adorned in a dark hoodie, one hand in his pocket, the other shoving what I assumed to be a gun into my belly.  If I paused a moment to take a deep breath and process what was actually happening, I could even have told you what he had for lunch, he was that close to my face.

“I’m gonna rob you,” he hissed pressing further into the depths of my belly.

The fuck you are I thought.

My immediate reaction was not to cry for help or shout for anyone to call 911. Instead I started screeching at the top of my lungs (which hold copious amounts of air resulting in the loudest screaming voice in the history of mankind) and repeated variations of “oh my god” over and over and over again for what seemed to be an hour (which was probably more like 45 seconds).

OHMYGOD! ohmygod! OHmyGOD! ohmygod! OMG! OH!MY!GAWD!

OHMYGOD! ohmygod! OHmyfuckingGOD! ohmygod! OMG! OH!MY!GAWD!

Backed up against my open driver’s side door, thoughts flooded my brain faster than Ted sprints to his food bowl every morning.

I realized in .00001 second (while still wailing “oh my gods”) that I was going to fight this sonofabitch and under no circumstances was this ass clown going to maul me, steal my piece of shit SUV or my fabulously studded bag that housed gallons of lip gloss.

The Mighty

Have studs, will beat you.

Luckily my purse was cradled in my dominant hand and in a panic, I hauled off and hit the motherfucker upside the head with it (still shrieking “oh my god” of course – and hoping none of the studs fell off. Priorities). Not missing a beat (and having no idea from where my survival instincts emerged) I stomped as hard as I could with the heel of my boot on the top of his foot (I would have squawked hiiiieeee-ya but I was too busy still wailing “oh my gods”).

Hiiiieeee-ya! Heeled him.

Heeled him.

And just like that, the would be mugger took off in an Olympic paced sprint down the driveway to the street, probably realizing I was waaaaaay too high maintenance (i.e. loud, obnoxious) of a lady to mug.  Watching his exit, I stood shocked (didthisjustreallyhappentome?) still hollering “oh my gods,” and then I got the fuck outta that parking lot.

After filling in the police (dude of same description successfully mugged a chick just before making an attempt at yours truly) and making other party goers aware of the situation, I settled down with ten a few shots of ice cold whatever the hell liquor was around.

Ten for me please.

Self medication for attempted muggings.

While my heartbeat has returned to normal days later, I realize how lucky I am nothing more serious happened to me in that parking lot.

I’m lucky I was gifted lungs that could house an ocean full of water.

I’m lucky to have learned the lesson that no matter how nice the neighborhood, no matter how close you park to the door, no matter how well-lit the parking lot, no matter if you’re aware of surroundings, don’t walk alone when it isn’t necessary.

Stilettos, studs and screams

Stop. Or I’ll stiletto you.

I’m lucky as fuck I accessorized right that night.