Last night, we went to grab a bite with a friend at the local sports bar, the CooCoo's Nest. The idea was to grab dinner, come home, maybe watch a movie with a bottle of wine. So I threw on a fleece, grabbed my sneaks, and off we went. 

Seems this place becomes Club Coo Coo on Saturday nights. Literally. The place to be in these parts. There was no way we could can't pay for better entertainment. 

You see, it's a different breed in these parts. I'm not talking about the people who moved to South Forsyth for the schools and large pretty houses. I'm talking about the offspring of the people who lived here before the retail mecca on exit 14 existed, and own significantly more land than they do square footage. Which in most cases is on wheels. 

The women. You have kittens and cougars, and not much in between. Dressed in clothes that were cool in Atlanta two seasons ago and two sizes smaller than necessary. All the right elements, just not the right mix. But they are oblivious, and they are h-o-t. Just ask 'em. Or watch them. Pole dancing is taught in elementary school up here, but they failed to mention rhythm is necessary to make it work. 

Admittedly, I'm in awe of their bold confidence and lack of insecurity. Maybe that's what inspired me to do what I did next. 

I was with two men, one my own. It's man's nature to oggle when something is writhing, even if it looks like two pigs fucking under a blanket. I wasn't irritated, merely entertained. But I'm competitive by nature, so I felt compelled to bust out a condensed version of the Pink Pony hair-whipping hip-slinging routine to Pour Some Sugar on Me -- complete with a split -- on my way back from the bathroom. Yep. I did.  Anywhere else, this move would have made me a complete ass (and thus never attempted).  Here, my little display was met with "do that again!". 

For the record, no pain today. I can still back that ass up and get low with the best of them. 

The high point of my night (I know, right? That last part wasn't good enough?) occurred in the ladies room. "You're a townie, aren't you?" she said. Wait, let me rephrase that: "Yer a townie arentcha?" 

A townie. Never mind that this is a term commonly used in university towns to refer to residents not affiliated with the university. In this case, she meant someone from Atlanta. What gave me away? My lack of accent? Use of words with the correct number of syllables? 

Nope. It was my fleece and sneakers. 

"You weekenders come up here all casual in your flip-flops and keds while we get all dressed up." 

I could have debated the definition of "dressed up" with her all night, but given that I found this distinction of being a townie to be a huge compliment, I peed and went on my way. For the record (that's two) I was not wearing keds. 

There was one woman who was particularly relentless about pursuing the guys I was with, a woman who smelled like an "odd waffle" as described by one of these guys. They walked off together (read: running away), and she was still standing at my table rambling aimlessly. 

It's then I decided to shut this down. I told her they were gay, but not very open about it given where we lived. "Those two guys have sex?" she said, in horrified disbelief. Yep, they do, I confirmed. She was madder than hell and stomped off screaming "I'm done, I'm done". 

Well thank god for small miracles.  

We decided to leave, now the heathens of the bar, because it could only go downhill from here for two gay lovers and their townie fag hag. But not before this same woman hollered "yeeerrrr gay!!!" across the parking lot as we walked to our car. Apparently not a popular sexual preference in these parts. Note to self and all my gay friends. 

I suppose it's a good thing we're moving next week. But I could not have planned a more apropos way to say goodbye to our year as societal cast-offs. 

In the city, I will wear my Townie distinction with Pride. 

(aaannnnddd....she's back. Shazaam.)


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