My husband and I had an interesting weekend. I had a few consecutive days off of work before the new school year starts and I’m stuck to a firm schedule. I sprung a last minute vacation idea on my husband and he was ecstatic!
Kidding, he was not into it.
We did a “staycation” in Seattle instead of a whirlwind romantic overnighter. We went to a tattoo expo, saw some amazing examples of poor choices and lost bets, and called it good. We opted to nap in our hotel room before dinner because….. sleep. We were overconfident in what we perceived downtown life to be and fully expected to go to a restaurant and eat around 9pm.
Epic fail.
I guess Thai places like their beauty sleep on the weekends, because most spots near the hotel – including the outdoor “fireside” bar/cafe- closed at 10.
We debated a few options and landed on taking an Uber to a local bar called The Flatstick Pub. I thought it was an amazing idea as they had indoor mini golf, various table top games, a bar and some good looking bar food.
We walked in… Y’all, when I say it was loud … I’m talking just pure “noise”. There was music playing, but the echo in the giant warehouse-style venue just reverberated high tinny shrill 90’s music and a low roar of folks trying to talk over the loud, echoing music.
We were going to stick it out until we saw an order board with sizes next to “digital pour”… no idea what a digital pour is. You?
Next up I started looking around and saw that we were the only people there over 27.
My husband and I have been to some clubs. In our “good hip years” we even danced. We are not strangers to clubs, bars, karaoke, dive bars, whatever. I have never, until now, seen a den of Hipsters quite like this. I immediately felt old, and thanks to the music, hard of hearing. There was a giant bucket with a tap in it you’re supposed to drink water from, stark metal fixtures and just youth everywhere.
We sucked down our digitally poured alcohol and boogied right out of there to a spot a half a block away where the grown ups go to eat food and have conversations. It was delicious barbecue. The waitress described the crowd at the previous place as Adult Children and I think I’ll now forever use that phrase.
It was a fun night all in all, and a great time to reconnect with my husband. I often say that it is important for couples to get away to remember why they are contractually obligated to love each other forever. So much gets into the relationship, you have to just escape and be people for a bit together.
We followed up our epic romantic tattoo, overage clubbing experience with car shopping.
I KNOW, right?! Like how many situations can we shove into 48 hours that bring out the best in people and scream “Make love to me NOW!”? Car shopping is for sure the topper to that sundae.
Here’s my summary of car shopping:
Pull into a parking spot
Shit. They saw us.
Hand shake, introductions, correct their pronunciation of my name
Repeat my name
Correct pronunciation again … then just accept my name is Sarah/Sharon/et al
Drive the car myself-woman-
Salesman immediately asks what husband does for work
Listen to the exuberance over video game industry fan
….. listen to lots of video game stories
Husband drives car
still swapping stories with husband
Arrive back at dealership where all questions and paperwork gets handed to my husband
Car shopping without husband:
Lukewarm interest beyond the car itself
Push for actual information on vehicle
Request confirmed answers to questions salesman doesn’t know
Proceed to direct salesman on how to move along with the process when husband is not there to buffer
Leave with kids and no car deal
Just a general idea on how it goes. This is one of the last aggressively sexist areas of business and I cannot explain or articulate how fucking aggravating it is to have anything done right with an automobile industry need. Car sales, buying, service, maintenance, etc etc.
Is it every dealership? No. Is it every mechanic? No. Is it most? Yes, si, absolumont, verdad, absolutely.
For now, no deal.
Sarcasmica 