Amy visits a bar: Pay no attention to the scene BEHIND the red dot

Running evening errands last night, Brad and I were looking for a quaint little diner to enjoy a quick meal. "How's this one look," Brad asked. I nodded. As we walked in, the dining area was empty but...on the other side of the wall, a boisterous crowd of mostly bearded...uhmmm...people were enjoying a late Thursday afternoon, up to their shoulders in suds.

I bellied up to the bar, feeling out of place with my lack of facial hair, and asked about meal service. The friendly bartender whisked us away to a table comfortably situated next to a shockingly pornographic picture on the wall. It was framed which lent it just the right touch of class.

It was "Wing Night." The crowd showed its displeasure at my lack of conformity when I instead ordered egg salad. "You know," I told my husband, unable to peel my eyes away from the mounted picture beside me, "You ruined any chance of my becoming a bar-fly." Oh my goodness! DO NOT look that term up in Urban Dictionary! I thought it just meant a nice girl that occasionally visits a friendly neighborhood pub or two. "How's that," Brad asked, enjoying his Reuben which was apparently deemed acceptable by the Old Testament prophets gathered around the well. "We married so young," I explained (in a somewhat accusatory manner), "the only place you ever took me was TJ Cinnamons or sometimes Hotdog-on-a-Stick."

"Let's play darts," I said, clapping my hands in excitement over this very bar-like thing to do. "Let's wait until our friends are done," Brad answered nodding at the open men's room door where the waiting patron was live-streaming with the current resident. As we waited, a man removed himself from his stool (ironically NOT related to the bathroom story) and approached us. "Hi. I'm Digger." I glanced at Brad. Do I make up a cool nickname for myself? Would my husband provide one for me? Would I be his "old lady" which is WAY not cool now that I'm actually approaching 50? Brad extended a hand and introduced himself. Oh, I thought to myself in relief (ironically NOT related to the bathroom story), like church. Digger, a bearded entrepreneur, apparently had a trunk full of baseball hats with his catch phrase that didn't make any sense emblazoned across the front. He also had a face full of ketchup that thankfully distracted me from the smutty picture next to me. We said we'd consider a purchase later (I sincerely regret not having snapped one up now) and Digger returned to his stool.

Brad indulged me in a game of darts. Turns out that I'm as good at playing darts as I am about going to bars. I aimed enthusiastically (and unsuccessfully) at the center target and trash-talked my husband as he hugged the outer rims. As the game drew to a close, I suddenly took note of the numbers that seemed randomly assigned around the edge. Oh. Game over. We paid our bill, drumming our fingers to Lynyrd Skinner's "Simple Man" as a picture of Johnny Cash graced the register from which the bartender drew our change. Americana. Just like Norman Rockwell. If he'd ever painted porn.