Sixty

“Life is mighty precious when there’s less of it to waste.” — Bonnie Rait

When I was a little girl, my birthdays weren't just special, they were a big deal. I mean, between my mama and my grannie, my birthdays became events. 

There was always cake from the Spic 'n Span bakery, always ice cream (Brown's Velvet Neapolitan), always Hawaiian Punch in Grannie's milk glass punchbowl, always lots of family and school friends, and always lots of presents. 

Some of these events got a little crazy. For one, my mom rented an entire set of kids' carnival rides a few blocks down the street. For my 10th, one of my classmates delivered a report on the following Monday detailing everything he ate at my birthday party.  At my 11th, several of my friends debuted our brand new "Granny dresses," which had just replaced mini-dresses as the hottest fashion trend. And Ricky Farmer kissed me while we were slow dancing at my 12th. I celebrated getting my driver's license at my 15th and got to drive my two besties to dinner.

Surprisingly, I didn't get a big Sweet 16 party, even though I really wanted one. I brought a cake to the local Shakey's Pizza Parlor, though, and invited a bunch of my friends. My 17th birthday was actually celebrated in one of my favorite bar/restaurants at the mall. The Louisiana drinking age was 18 then, so my friends put 18 candles on my cake. I was such a regular that no one even questioned it. 

My real 18th birthday was celebrated at another hometown restaurant with my mom and my boyfriend at the time. My 19th birthday was my first away from home. I cried in my college dorm room. I think several of the next birthdays were celebrated at various bars in New Orleans, including the venerable Pat O'Brien's. 

Then things got lowkey for a while -- until I turned 30 and gave myself a pretty big bash where everyone wore black to celebrate the "end of my youth." 

30 Hurt

Since then, there have been few truly memorable birthdays. I expected my husband would acknowledge my 40th and 50th in some ways, but, you know -- baseball season. But Mardi Gras landed on my 51st, then I took my two favorite friends to the beach for my 52nd, 

and threw myself an epic big 70s disco party for my 54th.

And just a few hours from now I will mark another BIG one. Sixty. 

Wow.

When I was young, I used to think 60 was so old. I remember when my Grannie and Grandpa were 60 for goodness sakes! They both retired from their jobs at 65. They were old people. Then my grannie lived to be 88. My grandpa lived to be 90. My mom died at 84.

I'm not a math whiz by any means, but if the law of averages holds up, that means I have about 20 years left to live on this earth. Just 20 years. 

That's not a lot of time...

to write that next book...

to get my others published...

to read that stack in the corner...

to move to the beach...

to visit Scotland and Hawaii...

to go to a college World Series...

to see my daughters get married and have a child...

to see my husband and my stepson win state championships...

to eat crabs and steak and cake with whipped icing...

and to celebrate birthdays....

I've been pretty sad thinking about this the past few weeks, realizing that I'm on the downslope of time and everything else. When I was 30, I wished I had the body I'd had at 25. When I was 40 I would have killed for the body I had at 30. At 50, I wished I could go back and slap my 40-year-old self. Now I'm 60 and wonder why I can't still dance down the street to the local park like I used to. Or pull weeds. Or sweep. 

And what the hell happened to my damn eyebrows?! 

I'm lucky, so far (knock wood), to have good health with only some aches and pains and a still-working brain. Maybe it's good genes. My mama, even though she had a heart murmur for most of her life, worked until she was 82, commuting every day to the French Quarter and partying at the casino every chance she got. She got a little dementia at the end, but I swear I believe it was the meds they had her on. My Grannie had a rougher time with diabetes and her arthritis, but she and Grandpa were entertaining the old folks at the old folks' homes in Houma well into their 70s. 

So, as I begin my 721st month on earth, I will try to be grateful for every moment I get and for every item I get to cross off that bucket list and for every moment of joy I find. I will try to fight time and keep my body and my brain in good working order. I will live, laugh, love, eat, drink and be merry. I will eat crabs and steak and cake as often as I can. I will try to get my family together as often as I can. I will listen to 60s, 70s, 80s and 90s music and sing the lyrics because I remember them and I will drag my husband to all the old bands' casino reunion concerts. I will dance in my car and while I'm doing the dishes. I will float in my pool until my solar lights come on. I will read trashy romance novels -- and some good ones too. I will binge watch Netflix. I will go to the beach. I will continue to try to teach young people how to write a sentence, a lead, and a headline. I will watch baseball and football games and every Olympics opening ceremony. I will drive with the windows down. I will plant more roses (even though Marty hates them). I will keep my plants alive. I will go out to dinner. I will cherish every moment with my kids and my grandkids, my grand nieces and nephews. I will love my dogs (even when they hog the bed). I will write when I need to and continue to tell stories, including those two next books. I will waste some of my time on Facebook. OK. I will waste a lot of my time on Facebook. 

I will remember that this is time that so many did not get -- my daddy, my brother, Parker, several of my classmates, kids I wrote about, my friend Connie and so many other Covid victims, the two Wandas, Pete, Mark, Ed, Brandon...

And I'm going to celebrate every birthday as though it might be my last because I always do -- starting with Saturday's 60s themed party for old hippies.

Peace.

 

That little blue house

I spotted it in a newspaper ad -- back when there were such things and I read every single one of them.

A truckload sale was going to Baton Rouge. On it was a picture of this little blue playhouse. For $100. I wanted it. My daughter, Lora Leigh, needed it. No, she HAD to have it.

So I sent my sister and brother-in-law, who live in Baton Rouge, to get it. They did it because they love me and they even waited four hours to get it.

Then the Coach's BFF came over and put it together (because we don't allow the coach to use power tools). And it was just precious, with a tiny little porch, a dutch door and little windows. We found a second-hand play kitchen that fit perfectly, a table and chairs, and I outfitted some planter boxes with silk wisteria. We dubbed it 35 1/2 and tried not to let her see it until her birthday.

Of course that didn't work. One day we were in the upstairs bathroom and she happened to look out the window.

"Hey! Can I go see what's in that little blue house down there?

I distracted her.

But on her birthday, after cake and all the other presents were opened, we led her outside and pulled off the tarp that was supposed to be hiding it. She was ecstatic.

She went in right away with her little friend Carolyn and had a tea party.

It was just as I hoped.

She got a lot of use out of that little blue house, playing in it, hiding in it with her friends. We hung Christmas lights on it and planted a garden around it. It was a favorite play area in our back yard, even after we built the pool. It even survived a couple of hurricanes and, like so many New Orleans area homes, got a temporary blue tarp roof after Hurricane Katrina.

But little girls grow up. It wasn't long before she was too tall to duck anymore. Wasps still liked it, though, and some mysterious critters or two.

Last summer we realized it was on its last legs. The floor was rotten. The roof leaked. All we used it for was pool noodles.

So yesterday I asked the crew that was cleaning out Mother Nature's winter wrath to knock it down. It took them only two good pushes. Now it's on the side of the road, waiting for the trash men to pick it up.

Lora wasn't there to see it go down, but I was. And it tugged at my heart a little. Her childhood is over. She's a 17-year old near-adult. Soon she'll be off to college, then to her own real little house somewhere that's not here in my backyard.

Last night when I told her it was gone she stopped for a moment, looked at me and said, "It needed to go."

Yeah. But I didn't want it to.

Sixteen

As much a fuss as my mama made over all of my birthdays growing up, I have to say she let me down on my 16th.

I wanted a party. A big, fancy Sweet 16 party with lots of people, friends, balloons and a big ass cake.

I didn't get that.

I did get a cake, and a couple of friends and I went to the big hangout at the time -- Shakey's Pizza Parlor. I had invited a bunch of friends from school, but not many of them came. I ended up offering my cake to other diners and their kids.

When my stepdaughter, Courtney, turned 16, she got the big fancy party. She and some of her girlfriends who were having March birthdays got together for a big party with lots of people, friends, balloons and a big ass cake. They wore long dresses and got to dance with their dads. It was sweet.

Just a few days ago, my little baby girl turned Sweet 16. 

Knowing her the way I do, I gave her the option: Do you want a big party or a trip somewhere fun?

She wanted a trip.

OK. Where to? The beach? New York? Somewhere historic?

Disneyworld. 

And she wanted to spend her day in Epcot.

OK.

So, after consulting with a cousin-in-law who used to be a sports writer but now is a Disney travel specialist (smart guy), we booked ourselves a 3-day trip to Orlando.

Oh, this wasn't our first Disney rodeo. We took her when she was 4, then again when she was 9 and 11. Keep in mind, my stepdaughter worked as a Photopass photographer for a few years, so believe me when I say we've done Disney. I also went with my mom and my niece way before I met any of current family members.

So I've stayed at the Grand Floridian, All Star Movies, All Star Music and the Caribbean  Beach Resort. I wanted my budding little artist to have a turn at the Art of Imagination Resort, but they were booked. We had to settle on Pop Century, right across the lake.

She still was excited. She started packing on Sunday, bringing out pairs of outfits for the Coach and me to choose between. (They all looked the same to me). We also had to go to Bed Bath and Beyond so she could buy travel sized items of all the things she couldn't live without.

And I went to Amazon.com and ordered her a beautiful tiara, complete with a rhinestone 16 in the center. If you're going to go to princess land,  you must dress the part. Right?

On a Wednesday afternoon after school, we set out from New Orleans to Florida, stopping for orange juice at the official welcome center. We even let our newly licensed driver have a (very brief) turn on the highway -- not realizing that particular stretch would turn out to be completely under construction with absolutely no shoulder. It also was my first time as a passenger with her behind the wheel.

Oh she did great.... And I survived.

After about six hours on the road, we stopped for the night at a little hotel in Lake City, Florida, where I learned how difficult it is to share a small hotel sink and counter space with a teenager who spends her days and nights watching makeup tutorials.

"Just give me a spot," I told her.

We survived that too.

On Thursday, January 26, I woke up to having a 16-year-old daughter snoring in her bed next to me. We woke her up with song and hugs and kisses, only for her to complain about how loudly WE snored in our bed next to her.

After a breakfast at the local Waffle House, we drove the remaining few hours to DisneyWorld. Thanks to modern technology, we didn't even have to check into the hotel. We parked the car by the shuttle, hopped on board and, within minutes, we were in Epcot.

She wore her crown and received a birthday button at the front gate. We spent the day strolling from country to country, dashing in just about every store and having people from around the world wishing her "Happy Birthday."

We ate fish and chips in England, had French pastries and champagne in Paris and (her choice) Japanese food in Japan.

And it was, truly, magical. Friday we went to Magic Kingdom and Saturday we spent a small fortune visiting the Wizarding World of Harry Potter. We even caught the Pro Bowl parade, which is another story (you can read it here... I wrote a column about it.)

And I cried.

Even as we were making memories, I was surrounded by them....

Her face when she saw the princesses on the castle stage for the first time....

When she saw Mickey and Minnie....

When she was the little girl dressed in her Cinderella costume sound asleep in her daddy's arms after a long day at Magic Kingdom....

When she was getting autographs for her book....

The moment she balked at getting onto the Hogwarts ride a the last minute (Hey! Those warning signs were scary!)

Now she's nearly a grown up. She doesn't believe in the magic much. She believes in Netflix, Lush, Sephora and Etsy. She refused to get on the Small World ride because it's "creepy," and she almost refused to go on Splash Mountain. And we never saw the Magic Kingdom fireworks because she was tired and ready to go.

And in two years -- just two years -- she'll be off to college.

And Coach and I can go to DisneyWorld all by ourselves.

When I'm 54

As much as I love birthdays, sometimes they do make us want to turn back the clock.

I mean, I can put up with the lines and the wrinkles, but I really hate the little dots that start showing up all over the place. The aches in the feet. The pains in the hips. The bad eyes and the finicky digestive system.

And what I wouldn't give for hair that stays one color or for eyebrows that just stay (what the hell is up with that?)

And when you start thinking about themes for a birthday party, it's fun to turn back the clock. My niece had an 80s party for her 16th birthday. My sister-in-law Lou had a 50s party when she turned 60. And last year I gave Lora a 60s/Beatles themed party when she turned 14.

So, what do you do when you turn 54? You have a 70s party of course!

Actually, it was a Studio 54 Party.

I just kind of threw it out there to the Coach on the way to dinner a few weeks ago, as we were mulling over the idea of a backyard barbeque or a fancy dinner out to mark the occasion.

"We could have a Studio 54 party!"I said.

He smiled. Then he smiled wider. He was down with it.

In case you're too young to remember, Studio 54 was a very famous disco in New York City during the 1970s. It was THE hot spot for movie stars, rock stars, groupies and famous nobodies (like the Kardashians). You just had to be one of the "beautiful people" to get past the velvet rope.

Well, that wasn't necessarily the case at our Studio 54. We let everybody in because they were all my beautiful friends and family members, some of whom spent the day at Goodwill searching for an appropriately tacky 1970s outfit to wear.

Lora and I went to our local thrift shop over the weekend. She found a lovely black velvet dress that could have been in fashion in the 70s but was just as cool today. She bought it for $3.

I lucked out and found an all-in-one pantsuit that I think had been there since the 70s. It had a halter top and wide flare legs and gold studs all around the draped neck. It was perfect and it was on the $5 rack. Of course I had to pay extra -- $7 -- because it was all-in-one, the clerk said. Yes, I got ripped off at the Goodwill Store.

I eschewed the platform shoes, however. Having actually worn them in the 70s, the 80s and most of the 90s, I can no longer feel my little toes and have some spurs growing in some joints. I elected to wear big, clunky sandals instead which is good considering I walked about three miles on this day doing party prep. I did search for roller skates. Those might have helped.

My friend Kristal found a nice silky, polyester shirt which she paired with her favorite flare leg Yoga pants and a pair of big, clunky animal print shoes. She could barely walk the next day.

Ouch.

Lisa found herself a sexy dress and some sexy black boots. "I wanted white ones but beggars can't be choosy," she said. "If I had time I would have tried to spray paint them."

My friend Daniell went but got discouraged when she couldn't find anything. I told her just to buy a mullet dress -- you know, one of those dresses that is short in the front, long in the back. Those were a staple of the 1970s. I wore one to my prom in 1978. And in 1979.

Sadly, they made a comeback just a few years ago. Daniell had one in her closet.

I really tried to get The Coach to come as a 1970s Coach with the Bike coach shorts, the white tube socks and a trucker hat. He opted for the lounge lizard pants and sweater vest instead.

A few just showed up in tie-dye.

Of course we all wore blue eye shadow with glitter and kohl eyeliner and lots of mascara and tied things around our heads. I moved my usual part from the side to the middle and gave myself some "wings." Everyone says I should leave it like that. Hmmm.

Then there was my nephew-in-law who pasted on bushy black sideburns and chest hair.

We drank Boone's Farm wine and sang like the Bee Gees and boogied to the beat. But none of us could remember exactly how to do The Hustle.

Hey. We're lucky we could remember the 70s at all.

We actually remember the 70s!

                                      

And my husband bought me a disco ball.

That's French for "Disco Ball."

What more could a 54 year old woman ask for?

Groovy girls!

Fifteen

I remember my 15th birthday.

My grandmother pulled out her best white tablecloth and the fancy milkglass pedestal punch bowl. My mom got me a fancy cake from Caro's in Houma that was decorated to look like a pair of blue jeans (but was really just a horseshoe). And my cousins Gloria and Laura and Aunt Rosita, my sister Jo Lee and her kids, and a couple of good friends came over to watch me blow out my candles.

And I think the very next day, my mom took me to the Driver's License Office.

Yes, back then the legal driving age was 15, and we didn't even have to go to Driver's Ed class to get it. It was an elective at the high school. Just like HomeEc.

It was 1977.

On Tuesday of this week, the Coach and I were joined by my stepdaughter Courtney, my stepson Daniel and his wife Cori and their two kids, Robi and Laken, at the local Sicily's Italian Buffet in LaPlace, where we watched Lora Leigh blow out two candles -- a "1" and a "5" --  on a Mardi Gras colored cake from the local grocery store.

 I guess by the age of 15, we're just too cool for themed parties with balloons and coordinating paper plates. By 15, it's just about family and friends.

On the Saturday before she turned 15, Lora had a couple of friends over to "celebrate." By celebrate I mean, they sat around my dining room table playing on their phones, took selfies, SnapChatted with each other, ordered an obscene amount of pizza, listened to some crazy-ass music on Spotify and, before the night was over, watched an "Office" marathon on Netflix

Welcome to 2016.

Welcome to my world.

We've moved on from the pink parties, from the princess parties, from the mermaid party, from the Kim Possible party, from the Hannah Montana parties, from the Harry Potter party, from the Doctor Who party, from the Beatles party.

I didn't know what to do with myself. I had no dishes to cook, no dips to make. No themed goody bags to put together. At least she agreed to use the left over tye dyed plates and napkins from last year.

Yes, I now have a full-fledged teenager. I think. It's hard to remember when she hardly ever comes out of her room. When she does, it's for pizza rolls, Dr. Pepper or chicken pot pies. Or to take a shower. Or another one. Or to ask if her friend Devin can come over. Or if she can dye her hair blue.

I swear, sometimes she comes stalking into the living room and I jump in surprise because I'm almost forgotten that she lives here. She doesn't think that's funny.

I don't either, really.

The Coach and I have now reversed our roles a bit. Where I used to be the one who got her up, got her dressed, got her on the bus and talked to her about endless things, now he's the one. She is a freshman and he is a teacher at her high school. Now, he gets her up, makes sure she's dressed appropriately and has her school ID. There's no more bus, though. They ride together.

Now, he knows her routine, her dramas, her friends, her frenemies.

There's not much to know, really. She's an outstanding Honor Roll student. She sings in the choir. She's in the art class. She's on the girls golf team (because her dad is coaching it). She has nice friends both male and female. She doesn't bully. Doesn't get bullied. In fact, she's the one who will tell the bully to knock it off. All her teachers rave about her.

And she has a straight spine that only occasionally bothers her, like when she stands for a long time or when she just wants to get out of doing something.

Maybe I should be waiting for a shoe to drop.

Well, there is Driver's Ed in the very near future.

Fourteen

I didn't suffer through hours of labor in a hospital delivery room.

Instead, my labor took place in the hospital hallway, just outside a set of heavy wooden doors leading to the maternity ward. That's where I waited while, a few feet away, a woman I had barely met was going through the horrific pains of induced labor, as well as the pains of uncertainty.

She was having a baby she knew she should not keep, should not try to raise on her own. After much prayer and thought and deliberation, she had chosen me -- a woman on a piece of paper, a friend of a friend, a voice on the phone, a woman who was on the verge of desperate. I had only suffered through six years of unanswered prayers, of monthly meltdowns, a few failed science experiments, some false hopes and one giant broken promise.

And at that moment, on that January day, we were both trying to remember to breathe.

A few minutes later, I was allowed inside the doors and into a delivery room. It was all already over. Then I was handed the most precious, most wanted baby ever born. "Your daughter," she said. It took me some time to believe it.

Instantly, we fell in love. Two days later, we took her home. Eighteen months later a judge said she was ours for real.

Now it's 14 years later.

That tiny little shrimp-colored baby is all grown-up, morphed into a beautiful, quirky, retro, unique, hard-headed young woman I absolutely adore with her own style, her own ideas, her own beliefs.

If you've followed this blog over the years, you know that she has gone from the I-Only-Wear-Pink phase, to the Disney princess phase, to the Hannah Montana phase, to the Harry Potter phase to the Doctor Who phase -- with a few pit stops in between (Kim Possible anyone?).

But now that she is a full-fledged teenager, she has left behind her Disney ways. She is now my little retro girl who doesn't do Facebook (it's stupid) or Twitter. She does have an Instagram account, but she has blocked me from tagging her on it.

She has a Kindle she never uses. A laptop that "sucks," she says. And an iPhone that has the most eclectic mix of music you'll ever hear --  The Arctic Monkeys, The Killers, Fall Out Boys, Two Door Cinema Club, The Naked and Famous (really?) and dozens of other bands I have never heard of.

My retro kid asked for -- and received -- a record player for Christmas, even though her dad and I tossed our old vinyl collections years ago. (Shame on us!) And her first records? The Beatles -- Abbey Road, The White Album and Sgt. Pepper. She wants more.

She still sings beautifully ( but won't unless bribed), draws fabulously (but only her own little quirky characters who live in her head) and writes wonderfully. She is trying to learn to play the ukulele. She also made her lounge singing debut in December, wowing the elderly crowd with her rendition of La Vie en Rose, a beautiful song released as a single in 1947 but made famous more recently in an episode of "How I Met Your Mother."

She has seen every episode. And "Friends." And "The Office." And "Orange is the New Black." She did finally give up on "American Horror Story." The clown got her.

She has made the Honor Roll at her school both semesters.

She has graduated from her macaroni and cheese addiction to more of a Pizza Rolls every day thing.

And she is taller. Straighter. Stronger. She underwent a grueling 7 1/2 hour surgery  in July to correct her severe scoliosis, amazing all of her doctors and nurses (and her parents) with her tolerance for pain. She took the drugs for about two weeks. That's all. My teeth still hurt when I look at her scar. To her, it's a  badge of honor, of a warrior. She grew about three inches during the surgery.

And of course there are fewer kisses. Fewer hugs. Fewer morning cuddles before school. That's not cool, you know. She still hates it when I car dance, too. And when I try to mess up her hair.

Before her 14th year is done she will be a freshman in high school. She already is thinking about college and what she wants to be when she grows up -- more. Today it's film making (amazingly, the same thing I said when I left for college).

Who knows what tomorrow will bring?

All I know is that, 14 years ago, a miracle occurred. Two strangers found each other, trusted each other and helped each other. An empty heart was filled. A dilemma was solved. And a family was created. We can't imagine it any other way.

Happy

Just a few days ago, the very nice man to whom I spill my guts once a week or so asked me a rather simple question:

"Where do you see yourself in 10 years?"

That was easy.

"Living at the beach," I replied.

Of course, I had just had the time of my life at the beach and the memories were so fresh I still had sand in my shoes and, very likely, tequila in my bloodstream.

Just days before, I had spent my 52nd birthday in the company of my two best girlfriends, an adorable young airman, two half-naked and half-drunk hotel employees and some really good bartenders in Pensacola Beach, Florida -- my favorite place on earth. It's the place where my husband and I go for our summer vacations and a couple of our winter anniversaries. It's the place where the water is the perfect color of turquoise and the waves actually make a sound. It's the place where my soul seems to be at peace.

It's also the place where they make really, really good Margaritas and Pina Coladas.

So it's the place I decided to go with my girlfriends when I realized that my birthday would be on a Saturday and The Coach would be on a baseball field five hours away. I've spent too many of my birthdays waiting for him to come home to me -- empty damn-handed. So this year, with his encouragement, I decided to run away from home for a weekend. And take accomplices.

Bright and early on my birthday morn, my two young, no-longer-married friends Daniell and Kristal pulled into my driveway. We filled the trunk of Daniell's brand new car with wayyyy to much stuff,  opened the sunroof, hit the road and settled on a music genre. We started with the 80s -- for me.

And we started with a nice, polite selfie pic.

But by the time we got to Biloxi ...

We were rockin' the Top 40, singing the nasty version of "Thrift Shop," Googling the lyrics to Beyonce's "Drunk in Love" and bombarding our friends with pictures on Instagram and Facebook.

And we hadn't even had a drop to drink yet.

By late afternoon, we had listened to the 70s, the 80s and the Top 40 more than a few times, knew all the words to "Drunk in Love," (and what they meant), had stopped for orange juice at the Florida Welcome Center -- and pictures.

Blue Angel and Not Charlie's Angels. 

Orange juice! But, there was no Vodka.



So we hurried to our destination and, by sundown, we were on our first cocktails of the day. I started with a classic Margarita at The Margaritaville Beach Hotel. On the beach, of course.

It was the first of many cocktails. Yes, there were many. And shots. Many of those too. Ones I'd never heard of. And Pina Coladas. And a very tasty drink called a Junebug. And something called Rumplemintz. And drunken texts to my husband, who was on a bus on his way home to an empty house.

(Heh heh. Serves you right.)

And the next day we headed home only slightly hungover with wonderful memories, a new friend and plans to return next year for some reason. Any reason.

And I made the resolution that, someday, I would live at a beach. Any beach. Hopefully, Pensacola Beach, but I'm not all that picky.

But this was more than just a Girls Weekend or a birthday weekend or even a beach weekend. This was my Get Out of Jail Free weekend. I've just spent a long, hard 16 months of being trapped in my own home or close to it as I took care of my mother-in-law Jane and gave up my life and my identity to do it. I've been hiding away from the world in a darkness of sadness and depression. The one day I did run away from home in frustration, I went to Big Lot's.

Now I'm free. This weekend was me asserting my independence once more. It was me finding myself and my soul, reconnecting with my friends. And fun. It was the first time I've gone off with friends since my college days. It certainly was the most alcohol I've consumed since then. And the most fun I've had in a long, long time. It was me, being reborn.

So Happy Birthday to Me!

Happy to Me!

Thirteen

If you're a regular visitor to The Lyons Din, you'll notice a few changes around here.

I've updated my bio just a bit so you have a little better idea of who I am and what you're dealing with. It's shorter. More to the point. I tried to be brief.

There just isn't room to tell you all that I am a crazy woman who is still dealing with the fact that I got laid off from the job I love last year, who has tried to find something new with her life but keeps getting stuck in quicksand, who now spends her days waiting for her mother-in-law, who still chases high school boys (and girls) with her digital recorder and writes for anyone who will pay me to do so.

Who has a husband who cheats on me with his mistress named Baseball; a kooky mama who, despite being 80 years old, commutes from the suburbs to the French Quarter of New Orleans where she reads Tarot cards and tea leaves for locals and tourists alike (and if you're famous, she probably won't recognize you); a very cranky live-in mother-in-law who requires much care, much patience and many drugs; two grown step children I didn't mess up too badly and who have grown into fine, upstanding (mostly) adults;

And a teenager.

Wait. What?

Yes. A teenager.

On Sunday, January 26th, my baby girl transitioned from the Snarky Tween to, officially, a Snarky Teenager.

Lord help me.

Not that much will change, mind you. Regardless of her biological age, she's had this whole snarky thing down for quite a while. She has perfected the eye roll, the "tsk," the smirk and the foot stomp (she doesn't really slam doors because, well, that's sorta my thing), the staying up 'till dawn and sleeping til 3 in the afternoon thing,  the unmade bed thing and the dirty clothes all over the floor thing, the eating nothing but macaroni and cheese thing.

 But I knew she was getting close to teenagerhood when she started taking showers every day, sometimes twice a day. And leaving the towels on the floor.

To mark the occasion of her 13th birthday, she decided she wanted to have a little party at the house on Saturday. She invited some girls to sleep over, and she wanted a Doctor Who theme. Yes, we've transitioned from Disney princesses to mermaids to Kim Possible to American Idol wannabe to Miley Cyrus (lawd) to Harry Potter to Doctor Who. There were supposed to be some boys there (NOT to sleep over), but there was a Monster Truck rally in New Orleans that night.

Me? I know virtually nothing about The Doctor and the TV show. I think I've watched one episode and her insistence. But I have The Internet and me, being me, I had to do it right.

So, we went down to the local furniture store and asked for a big refrigerator box. I took her to the hardware store where she picked out the perfect shade of Tardis blue. Then we went to work.

Thank you Haydel's Furniture store!

                                               

And, she being my kid, it had to be right. (For the purists, we did add the little ambulance circle later.)

A short time later, she posted these photos on her Instagram account. Shortly after that, a kid replied, "No way! That's yours!" To which she replied, "Heck yeah it's mine."

And this was her cake:

Created by the fabulous Angie Poche Parsons of Luling, LA

We then spent the night eating chips and pizza and watching Sharknado, After Coach and I went to bed, they stayed up all night giggling and writing messages to their past and future selves on the walls of our homemade Tardis.

And as she counted her 13 candles, I counted my blessings: How lucky I am to have found this child, to have been given the opportunity -- no, the privilege -- of being her parent, her mom.  How blessed I am that her first mother chose me,  trusted me, believed in me, gave her to me.  And how thrilled I am to have been able to make her dreams come true for a day.

Because she made mine come true 13 years ago.

50 + 1

"If you want something done right, do it yourself."

Right?

Women?

As some of you may know, I turned the ripe old age of 50 last year. A lot of you people do know this because I wrote this cute little poem to myself, which has gotten, like, A TON of hits.  OK, most of them are from women who were really trying to Google "50 Shades of Grey" and found me instead.  I wonder how disappointed they were.

Anyway.

As some of you also may know, I did not have a big 50th birthday celebration last year. I went to lunch with my dear friend Danielle. I bought myself an hour-long massage. And, after a good nap, I took myself to dinner with family and friends at my favorite Mexican restaurant in my hometown. Of course, I had to drive my 11-year-old home and it was a school night, so I couldn't even drink... More than one.

 It's not that I didn't want to have a big, fancy, blowout party to celebrate this milestone birthday you only see once in your lifetime.  It's that I trusted my husband, The Baseball Coach, to put it together.

"Stupid is as stupid does."

He didn't. He had a baseball game. He claims he tried. That he and the gang were working on a nice little surprise party for me, but that the Louisiana Department of Transportation and Development decided to close the big bridge which connects our community that weekend. So he canceled. And there was no other weekend in February or March that they could have had it. Or April. Or even May. Go figure.

So I was left disappointed. Again.

I told this story to a complete stranger the other day. First she tried to take up for my hapless hubby. "Well, he at least gave you a really good gift right? Like some jewelry or something?"

After I laughed hysterically I gave her some shade and said, "No."

She gave me some right back and said. "And you're still married to him?"


Yes. Yes indeed I am. You see, this isn't the first time he's let me down. There was the whole 40th birthday fiasco, in which he remembered it was my birthday but not which one. And he just doesn't get the whole birthday thing like I do. Never has. I do love my birthday. I love looking forward to it, I love celebrating it, I love the 256 "Happy Birthday" messages I will get on my Facebook wall. AND I love birthday cake!

I know. I should be used to my husband's lack of skills by now. But it still stung. OK, a lot. And the pain got worse as so many of my friends from high school hit the milestone and shared their fabulous celebrations on Facebook. Leslie got a surprise party. Donelle got 50 roses. Margot got a spa vacation. Me? I got tacos.

But this year, I'm not waiting around for my husband to make it happen. I'm giving myself my own damn party. I'm calling it "The First Anniversary of my 50th Birthday, Which My Husband Screwed Up Royally."  I invited my own damn friends.  Bought my own damn napkins and plates.  Ordered my own damn cake with my own damn name on it. Bought my own candles -- a 50 and a 1.

It's going to be epic.

And The Coach won't even be here. He has a game to play that day.

Maybe I should have hired my own damn stripper.

Twelve

I didn't get to see my daughter make her grand entrance into this world, didn't get to hear her first cry.

I was told, later, that she came out hand first -- reaching. That is no surprise to me. She is always reaching for something, usually macaroni and cheese or Diet Dr. Pepper, occasionally money. But very rarely for me anymore.

That's because she's a big girl now. Twelve as of yesterday. A taller-than-me, more sarcastic than me, sharp-as-a-tack, rapier witted tween who is one-year-away from being a  (OHMYGOD) teenager. I'm still trying to figure out how in the hell that happened.

I know that 12 years ago yesterday I was standing in the hallway of the same hospital where I was born, holding my breath and praying to every god and every saint I could think of that my husband would return from his "quick errand" before  the woman we had just met gave birth to what we hoped would be our child.

I held my breath as I waited, and watched a closed door as that baby was born and prayed like crazy that, soon, I would be allowed in. Finally a nurse came out of that room with a bundle of linens. Spotting me, she signaled me with her head, "Go in." Really? "Go in." So we did.

And minutes later, the woman we had just met made all of my dreams come true as she handed me - me -- the little bundle she had just given birth to. And I am still in wonder that she chose me. She trusted me. She gave her baby to me.

I have cherished every second.

And every hug, every kiss, every smile, every "I love you," along with every stomp and every eye roll.

I love her because she is sweet and funny and smart and witty and is so very fluent in sarcasm, and in spite of the fact that she is incapable of making her bed or picking her socks up off the floor.

I love to hear her sing and watch her draw. I love that she watched and loved "Rock of Ages" with me and that she sat down at the piano the other day and picked out the tune to "Sister Christian."

I love that she held my hand today as we watched "Jersey Boys" on the stage, and that she knew some of the songs. I love that she was as excited as I was that I got us tickets to see Elton John in March.

In the days after my daughter was born, well-meaning mothers kept telling me that I needed to put her down, that I was spoiling her.

 I kept telling them to shut the hell up. My arms had been empty for too long, and I didn't want to waste a minute. Even so, I wish I had held her more. Picked her up more. I wish I would have known I wouldn't be able to pick her up at all after about three years. And I wish I had known how soon she would stop needing me.

But I'll never stop needing her.

With her my world is in color. 

One

 

She would have been one.

Should have been.

My husband's first grandchild. His son's first daughter. More steps for me.

A perfectly beautiful baby girl named Parker, she was born one year ago today. But instead of a joyous celebration of life, this date is one we will never forget.

She was born sleeping.

I saw that in a post by another heart-broken mother somewhere. I liked the way it sounded, though it's no less sad. No less tragic.

She was otherwise perfect in every way.

And this should be her first birthday.

She should be blowing out her first candle, receiving her first birthday presents, mushing cake all over her adorable face.

Born in December, this should be her first magical Christmas. We should be picking out presents and little red velvet outfits with lacy pants and tons of toys. She should have sat on Santa's knee for a picture and screamed for her mommy.

So much we must imagine.

When I lost my beloved cousin this year, the officiant at her funeral talked about her dash, the mark between the date we arrive on this earth and the date we leave. Some people, like my cousin, fill that dash with a full, rich life. Others do not.

Parker didn't even get a dash. She only got one date. This one, for all of us to remember.

So we gathered today as a family. A Louisiana family, of course. There were boiled crabs and beer. And laughter and love, a cute smooshy baby boy and beautiful little girls.

And chips and dips and candy and cookies.

But no cake.






.

Tick, tock

My belly is full of filet mignon and garlic mashed potatoes, salad with creamy Italian dressing, hot French bread dipped in sauce, several pieces of stuffed artichoke and two glasses of wine.

I'm so glad I wore my stretchy pants.

My husband, my mother, my daughter, my step children and their respective significant others gathered with me tonight at one of my favorite restaurants, Crazy Johnnie's Steakhouse.

 I know, I know.  I live in New Orleans (the suburbs, anyway), and I'm supposed to be eating red fish covered with crawfish etouffee and crab meat au gratin at Galatoire's. But, frankly, I'm not a millionaire.  And the French Quarter is far, far away (with a $12 parking fee).

And while I do enjoy my share of boiled crawfish, crabs and shrimp, I am primarily a carnivore. I love my steak.

And just when I thought I couldn't take one more bite, our nice waitress brought out a huge slice of chocolate mousse cake with a little candle on it and she, my family and several other patrons sang "Happy Birthday" to me.

Now I"m pretty tired and sleepy and I would just love to go upstairs and crawl into my nice, soft bed with the cool sheets and my warm husband.

But I can't.

I'm waiting. Waiting for the clock to strike midnight.Waiting for my 49th year to end and my 50th to officially begin.

I  admit it. I love my birthday. All of them. Yes, even this 50th.

 Here I am like a little kid waiting for the party to start. I am. Tomorrow is my birthday. And I'm so excited I can hardly stand it.

And I don't understand why everyone doesn't feel this way.

Just the other day a childhood friend celebrated his big 50th birthday. I dutifully wrote on his Facebook wall my hopes for his happiness, good wishes and birthday cake.

"Thanks," he replied. "But it's just another day."

NO IT'S NOT.

It's your birthday. The anniversary of the day you were born. The day you became you.

To quote Dr. Seuss (from my favorite book): "Today you are You, that is truer than true. There is no one alive who is youer than you." 


Read that book. It's how every birthday should be celebrated -- with food and horns and people coming out of the woodwork.


As children, we counted down the days, excited for the party or the presents or the new bike dad promised to buy.  Sure I was spoiled. My parents always made a huge deal out of my birthday. I had parties with my friends, cakes with pink roses and Hawaiian punch in my Grannie's milk glass punch bowl.

Even as I grew older, I knew it would be a day to gather with family. My grandmother would slip me an extra $20 bill. It was the one day of the year my father would call me.


The way I see it, birthdays are like your very own special Christmas. It's the day people will think of you. Remember you. Celebrate you. 

I keep a calendar every year, and every January I dutifully mark the birthdays of the friends and family members in my life. But I could just as easily mark the dates of my second grade boyfriend, the guy I had a crush on in high school and my college boyfriend. I still remember them and I think of them on that date, wonder how they are and wish them well.


I remember my father on February 23rd, my grandmother on July 16, my grandfather on August 26 and my brother on September 29. And wish I could help them blow out one more candle.

A few years ago I said the same thing to my father-in-law, Pappy, on his birthday.

"Just another day," he replied.

"Hey," I said. "Enjoy it. You don't know how many more you're going to have."

It was his last. July 19th. 


Celebrate. While you can. For as long as you can.


I am.








 

50

I thought that I would never see
     A face this old belonging to me!
I look in the mirror and WTF I say,
     As I approach this "BIG" birthday.
I may look strong and ready to go,
     But in truth my years are starting to show.
Just follow me to the checkout at CVS
     And you'll see that I am just a hot mess.
There's dye for my hair and creams for my face,
     And stuff that promises years to erase.
I've tried all the pills to make me thin,
     And potions to make me look young again.
But my tummy still pooches and my arms still wag,
     And my Double Ds have a definite sag.
My roots turn gray every once in a while,
     And I buy special paste to brighten my smile.
And then there's that big bottle of Aleve,
     For all these aches and pains to relieve.
My hip, my knee, my back, MY FEET!!
     The neck -- Oh hell when did I get so beat?
What have I done to take this toll?
     When did I get to be so damned old?
I sowed my wild oats in Uptown Nola,
     I spent seven years of my life at Loyola!
I had a sports writing career that I loved so well,
      Until this newspaper business went all to hell.
Now I'm benched, living a live of crime,
     And wasting much of my employer's time.
I've loved handsome boys and a famous one too,
     But ended up with the one I was meant to.
 Fifty years I've lived this life,
     17 of them as Marty's wife.
Six years spent waiting for a dream,
     Years of frustration that made me want to scream.
Finally, the last 11 as Lora Leigh's mother,
     And also as a sister without a big brother.
So come on Big 50, I welcome your sight,
     I will party all through Thursday night.
No surprises in store for me this week,
     My husband is not a good enough sneak.
I planned my own celebration to have my fun,
    While The Coach is off hoping for the winning run.
I'm psyched for the fiesta with blue birthday cake,
     And also for the pre-birthday steak!
Some friends will remember and remember to call,
     Some others will just write on my Facebook wall.
It will be my own very special day,
     Well, me and Mickey Dolenz, any way.
And though I'll be happy to celebrate,
     I'm wondering how much time is left to my fate.
 So come Friday I will take good care,
     It's March the 9th and I must beware.
And to all who will wish me good birthday cheer,
     I say, "Thank You" -- until next year.

                                                                 Love,
                                                                    Lolo

    

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The man I love

This is my husband. The man I love.

The guy in the middle.  With the red jersey on. Which matches his face at the moment.

So is this. 

 

 On a different day, at a different game, with a different umpire and a different result.

He was asked to leave this particular field by this particular man in blue on this particular day.  For which he received a standing from his team's fans, who felt that this particular umpire was not calling balls and strikes the same way for both teams. He happened to agree with them.

It wasn't the first time.  It won't be the last.

Oh, he doesn't always look like this.  Sometimes he looks like this:

 But, if his players don't listen to him or do what they're supposed to do, he can look like this:

And after the game, he usually looks like this:

 My husband is a high school baseball coach.  A pretty darned good one.  He is  377-216 overall in his career, 240-102 at his current school, which is located in the suburbs of New Orleans. His teams have made the playoffs every year of his tenure,  and have advanced to the state tournament six times. He has yet to win a state championship, however. But he will. Eventually.

I just know it.

The man I love has a love other than me. He has a mistress I will never overcome, never displace in his heart. And he brings her home with him every night. I can see her. I can smell her.

Her name is Baseball.

And I like her rather a lot myself.

The 2012 season is about to begin in earnest. Which means he will be leaving me for his mistress more and more. There will be too many late nights. Too many dinners alone.Too many days I'll be left fending for myself when the sink stops up or the toilet overflows. Too many sleepless nights waiting for him to come home. Too many long weekends. Lonely weekends.

And spending my upcoming 50th birthday without him.

 And when he does come home, I'll be there to pick him off and dust him off and send him back out to her again.


I am a baseball widow. Always waiting for him. Always rooting for him (sometimes from afar). Going without him. Doing without him. Missing him.

It's what I do. For the man I love.






.

Eleven

Where did the time go?

No. Really.

Wasn't it just yesterday that your father and I drove like mad down a lonely stretch of highway, to the same bayouside hospital where I was born, to await your arrival?

Wasn't it just yesterday that  I was standing in that cold hospital hallway, my eyes glued to that closed door, waiting for you to be born and waiting for your father to return from his "quick" errand?

Waiting for someone to come get me, for someone to tell me, "Yes. She is here! Yes, she really is yours"?

Wasn't it just yesterday that we wrapped you up in tiny pink clothes and took  you home with us forever?

Wasn't it?

It certainly feels like it sometimes.  Other times it feels like forever ago.

Eleven.

As of today you are 11 years old.  No longer just one syllable.

No longer my baby. Not even my little girl. A "Tween," who is nearly as tall as me. Who is nearly as tall as her teacher. And her principal.

Who has outgrown all of the children's sizes in the stores. Who can wear some of my clothes. Who fits in my shoes. Who refuses to wear pink or even dresses anymore. Who fights with me just to comb her hair.

Who hates to go to bed at night almost as much as she hates waking up in the morning.

Who snores like a pirate.

Who has no idea how to fold clothes or put them away, or how to match a pair of socks. Or make a bed.

But who can build her own web site with her eyes closed.

Who has perfected the eye roll.

Who speaks fluent sarcasm -- just like me.

Who loves a wizard named Harry Potter, freaky YouTube videos, Skype, the Annoying Orange, The Beatles, and Adele.

Who can sing like Adele.

Who loves reruns of  "Friends" and "Full House" and "My Little Pony" and anything on Teen Nick.

Who loves to draw, especially little characters with crazy hair and big, wide eyes and cartoons.

Who writes wonderful stories about people and things I never could have imagined, and spells everything correctly.

Who uses words like "inappropriate" -- when talking about my parenting.

Who doesn't let me car dance.

Who has brought more joy and light to my life than I ever could have imagined. Who makes me laugh and makes me cry -- often in the same moment.

Who lets dad wake you up a half an hour early in the morning so you can come cuddle with me, and still lets me cuddle with you at night. Who uses that time to tell me me your hopes and dreams and worries and fears and funny stories about your friends.

Who someday will look me in the eye and tell me you're going to the library to study and expect me to believe it.

Who will always be my little baby girl, no matter how tall you get or how many candles we put on your birthday cakes.

Who is my child, no matter what DNA or blood says.

Because I firmly believe that you were destined to be my child all along -- I just didn't know it, or that I was just waiting my whole life for you to get here.

 And you were so worth the wait.


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Cupcakes and Canvases

First it was enough to just be pink.  And cute.

Then she wanted to be a princess.

Then she wanted to be a mermaid.  A pink one, of course.

Then it was a famous singer like Hannah Montana/Miley Cyrus.

Then it was a wizard.

But in just the last 360-some-odd days, my darling daughter has gone from wanting to be a student at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, to wanting to be an artist. She went from wands to mechanical pencils and erasers, from spell books to a never-ending supply of sketchbooks.

It's tough to keep up.

And it's tough to come up with creative ideas for these annual birthday extravaganzas.

Oh, don't worry. We are never going to be on MTV. I promise. But I do love birthdays. My mother made sure of that. And I do want my daughter to love hers just as much. And I do love throwing parties and coming up with clever celebrations for a baby girl - who isn't quite a baby any more.  So I had to do something special as she is about to turn 11.

ELEVEN???? How did THAT happen??

What to do for a wanna-be artist?

Why, Cupcakes and Canvases -- of course!  I rented the local hall (so I wouldn't have to clean my house -- before or after), bought a bunch of canvases and paint brushes, (I already had a bunch of craft paint), a block of paper towels, some kid-sized aprons and we baked a batch of cupcakes.

Voila! Instant arty party!

I think it turned out great... 

Cupcakes!

          

And Canvases!

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

The Artiste!

My grand-niece Madison, showing off her art work!

The gang, modeling their aprons. They also got a bunch of cupcake swag.

It really turned out great. ... Of course, the best thing was, I didn't have to mop.

Happy birthday, my girl!