A gathering of family

My mother lost one of her cousins recently.

She didn't have that many to begin with. My grandmother was an only child. My grandfather had siblings, but they only had a few children among them. So while I had 13 first cousins, my mom had five.

Janet was one of my mom's favorites. A few years older than my mom, she was tall and regal and elegant. Very proper.  She lived in "The City" of New Orleans, while my mom lived down the bayou. She also taught my mom how to shave her legs and, I believe, to smoke.

Editor's Note: A few minutes after this was posted, my mom messaged me to let me know that she was, actually, five years YOUNGER than Janet. That she shaved Janet's legs AND gave her her first cigarette. Duly noted, Mom. 

I mostly remember her for her "fancy" house in the Uptown area of New Orleans. It was brick. It was two-story. It had a pool. To this country gal who lived in a trailer made of tin and had a bayou and no pool, it was a mansion.

There were occasional visits to "Aunt Janet's" house to swim, and occasional school breaks where I would spend a few days there with my cousin Jule or she would spend a few days with us. I much preferred to go to their house -- what with the pool and all. I was the country cousin come to town.


Jule had an older brother named Hugh. He was roughly my older brother's age. But he didn't talk very much. Not that he had much to say to a couple of giggling little girls acting stupid in his pool.

Aunt Janet lived a wonderful, rich life. She loved, she married, she divorced. She worked. She sang. She danced. She raised her children. She volunteered. She cared for her elderly mother in her old age. She moved to Florida where she knew barely a soul, then to Texas when she could no longer live alone.

She died on March 7 in Texas.

On March 24, she was brought home. Cousin Hugh brought her ashes back to New Orleans, where they were interred in a lovely spot in one of the city's biggest cemeteries. I didn't get to go, but I heard there was an egret there as well.

Afterwards, our little family gathered back at my cousin Jule's house for sandwiches and such. Hugh and his wife, Jule and her husband, my mom, my daughter, me and an old gentleman friend of Aunt Janet's. We're all grown up now.

Jule's young son joined us too. But, being a teenager, he spent most of his time in his room. And Lora Leigh quickly retreated to the room with the TV with her iPod.

But for a while, we all sat at the small table in Jule's small kitchen, eating and telling stories, sharing memories and catching up. We hadn't seen each other in quite some time. They all wanted to know what I was doing now, what I was going to do next, and why the powers that be didn't just let Tom Benson buy the damn paper.  I didn't know Jule's husband had retired from the NOPD. I had never met Hugh's wife. The last time they had seen Lora Leigh she was a tiny tot.  And little Robbie was so grown-up and handsome I couldn't believe it!

It was a lovely afternoon, in spite of the circumstances.  We had been brought together by a death.

And also by birth.

My cousins Jule and Hugh both had been adopted at birth.

So had my daughter Lora Leigh.

So had Jule's son, Robbie.

It was Hugh who acknowledged it, for one brief moment. Pointed it out. Acknowledged it. We marveled at it -- the youngsters especially. Then we let it go.

It didn't matter. It didn't make one bit of difference.

We were all still a family, mourning the loss of one of our own.

No matter how we got there.

Wordless Wednesday -- Workspace

Lessons

In my 12 years as a mom I have had to teach my daughter many life lessons.

Of course I taught her how to walk and how to talk. How to eat properly at the table. How to say "please" and "thank you."  How to comb her beautiful curls without flattening them out. And, since she hates them now,  how to straighten her hair with a flat iron.

I've tried to teach her how to make a bed and fold her clothes. We're still working on those.

But last night, I taught her perhaps one of the most important lessons of her life. How not to get herself raped by her friends.

Sad isn't it?

But the news these days has been filled with the case of the young high school girl in Steubenville, Ohio, who went to a party with her friends, got drunk and was raped by two school mates. Photos and videos were taken of the girl and some of the events, and spread around the school. Her friends and classmates texted each other, laughed about it, made jokes about it.  But, it seems, not one person tried to stop it or did anything to get her out of there safely.

And on Sunday, when the two young men were found guilty in juvenile court, many seemed to lament the fact that the two boys' future --once bright and full of football promise -- had been ruined forever.No one seemed to worry about the girl's future.

But I worry about my girl's future.

So driving home from a trip to buy her some new size 10 sneakers last night, I turned off the radio.

"We need to talk about something," I told her.

And I told her the story.

She listened. She chewed her fingernail, which she does when she is nervous or uncomfortable. But she listened as I told her the basic facts of the case.

But what I wanted her to hear is that, when you give up control of yourself, you give up control of what happens to you. And anything can happen to you. Any time. Any where. Even at a party with your best friends around you.
 
And I told her that I wasn't telling her these things because I was never this stupid. But rather, because I was. And I never could handle my liquor.

I was one of the infamous freshman co-eds at Loyola in the 1980s who drank too much Jungle Juice at a fraternity party and passed out. On the front lawn.  I still have very little recollection of the night, but my friend Leslie had come in for the weekend and, apparently, she watched over me. Eventually a bunch of the frat boys decided I needed to go to the hospital, though. So the drunk girl was loaded into a car with a bunch of drunk boys and driven to the emergency room. I was admitted.

The next day the doctor told my mother that I was OK, but he thought I was safer there than with the yahoos who drove me in.

I was lucky.

The night of my own sorority initiation, my new sisters indulged me in my love for Kamikaze shots. A little too much. The next day, no one could find me. Phones were ringing all across campus and Uptown as my friends tried to piece together the night and find out where I was. Some folks were pretty scared for me.

Turned out, the nice Tulane undergrad I kind of liked kind of liked me too. He walked me to his apartment nearby, held my head while I threw up all over his bathroom, made sure I was all right. And once I was able to stand up straight again the next day, he walked me back to my dorm.  He didn't let anything bad happen to me. He didn't hurt me, didn't assault me. And he didn't have a cell phone.

I was lucky. (And we dated for a few months after that.)

I don't know if David's father or mother ever sat him down one day and said, "Now, son. If you're ever in a situation where a girl stupidly gets stupid drunk while you're with her, it does not give you permission to take advantage of her. Just because she can't say 'no,' doesn't mean she is saying 'yes.' Got it? OK."

I'm guessing the idea of such a conversation never even occurred to them back in the 20th Century.

But parents need to think about it now. Because this is the 21st Century. And people just don't know how to act. People have always gotten stupid drunk. People have always done stupid things.

But now, when they do, their friends whip out their cell phones to take pictures and videos and post them on the Internet. And, for some reason, friends let friends get stupid. But they don't step in to stop it.

And that's the scary part.


Us moms know that there there are monsters out there that we need to warn our children about.  There are freaky people who snatch children, who hurt them and kill them. There are creepy family members. There are neighbors, acquaintances, priests, scout leaders, teachers.

And there are boys who think it's OK to assault unconscious girls.

 We can't protect our children them from them all, but we can give them lessons to use.

So this mother taught her 21st Century daughter some new lessons last night:

Don't ever let yourself get out of your own control.

If you put your drink down to go dance or to go to the bathroom or leave it for any reason, get a new one.

I will always come get you. No matter where. No matter when. No questions asked.

Watch out for your friends. But don't count on them to watch out for you.













 

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.

Opening Day

We interrupt this marriage for this important message:

Dear Coach,

It's the opening day of the Louisiana prep baseball season. But you knew that already. That's why you were pacing the floor last night like a caged Wildcat, why you were pretty snippy and grumpy, and why you couldn't pay attention to a thing I was saying.

It's also why you were awake at 1 a.m. Well, one reason.

And today you got up out of our bed and left me for your "other love," which, for the next five months will get more of your time, more of your attention and, yes, more of your love than either me or your daughter.

While I stay home with the bills, your snarky tween daughter, the neurotic poodles and your mother.

After nearly 19 years of marriage, I have come to accept the fact that you have this other love. It's actually a love we share. Sometimes, we swing.

I know you always will come home to me, though. Eventually. With the evidence all over you. I have come to accept that too.

So as you head out today for your first game of your 24th season (and the 13th since you made me a baseball widow) I just want to say:

I wish you many wins, fewer losses, dry days, short rain delays, no lightning,  good umpires, wide strike zones, level fields, good hops, wicked curves, solid pitching, comfortable bus rides and happy parents.

I hope this is Next Year. The year. Your year. And that you finally get that golden trophy.

I may not always be there in the stands, eating hot dogs and sunflower seeds and ruining my back even more. But I'll always be rooting for you. Mostly from the pool.

I will cheer for you when you get home, though, and pat your heinie when you lose. And offer you a cold beer and a warm heart.


So go out and do what you do. I'll see you in June, my love.  Don't dawdle.

Your Baseball Widowed Wife,

Lo

The Coach is a keeper

It's Mardi Gras

This has it all. Mardi Gras float, hot chick with big tits and ladders. Only thing missing is the Popeyes.

 
Throughout the land where I live, there is a party going on. A really big, really loud, really long, really good party.

It's Mardi Gras time in New Orleans.  Actually, it's Carnival time. Mardi Gras isn't until Tuesday -- the day officially known as "Fat Tuesday." That's the day before Lent begins,  so it's supposed to be the last day to indulge in all your sins. And some people do. All of them.

But nobody around here calls it "Fat Tuesday." Here we call it Mardi Gras. Prounounced "maw-di-gra." Rhymes with "bawdy bra." Which is rather appropriate when you think about it.

Anyway, the people of my land are in full party mode right now. Everywhere you go, people are dressed in colors that don't really go together, wearing accessories that they would never otherwise wear -- like ugly plastic necklaces -- they're putting on silly costumes, disguising their faces with masks and makeup, and getting ready to dance in the streets and do other things they wouldn't even think about doing in, say, April. Some others will be taking much of their their clothing off.

And we've been doing this for weeks now. Thanks to a little game called THE SUPER BOWL, New Orleans had to split the Carnival season this year into pre-game and post-game, with a little break for The Game in between.  But really, that just meant an extra week of partying. And hangovers.

This weekend the real fun kicks in, with five straight days of Carnival shenanigans leading up to Mardi Gras Day on Tuesday.

And my people are are ready.

But first they have to stake their claim to unoccupied patches of grass, or a few square feet of sidewalk. Some will pitch tents, bring out barbeque pits and pretend to be homeless for a couple of days. Some will take their precious children from their state of the art car seats and perch them atop rickety ladders 10 feet high in the air on top of concrete, feed them cotton candy and caramel corn all day and let complete strangers throw things at them. Hard things.

Over the next few days millions of people will drink massive amounts of alcohol from stupid looking cups, only to puke it up later. And millions of chickens will be sacrificed.

 And everybody will be peeing in the bushes.

That's what we do here in Louisiana.

Well, that's what some people do. Not me. Not us. When God finally took pity on me and sent me my chosen child via the little town of Dulac, Louisiana, he sent me the one kid who abhors Mardi Gras parades, has no desire whatsoever to go.

Me: "Do you want to go to a parade tonight?"

Her: "NO!"

Me: "Are you sure? It will be fun."

Her: "NO!"

My mama: "I can't believe you haven't dragged your child  kicking and screaming to a parade. You're missing everything. You never missed anything."

She's right. I didn't miss a thing. I've done Mardi Gras in Houma, Thibodaux, Metarie, Luling and the big city of New Orleans.  I've marched in them and waited for them. I've done Bourbon Street, St. Charles Avenue, Mid-City and Canal Street. Once I walked from Carrollton Avenue to Bourbon Street. In a day.

I've shared sidewalk and beads with the Hell's Angels. I've camped out on the neutral ground. (Well, we tried. We ended up sleeping in my car.) I've had a rider give me champagne off the float. I've caught beads off of balconies and been asked to flash -- to which I replied, "Uh uh, hon. You want to see these, you've got to buy me dinner."

I bumped into Don Johnson on Bourbon Street, saw Dan Akroyd at the Camilia Grill and got drunk at Pat O'Brien's with some judge from Boston. I spent one whole Mardi Gras with a friend who had great fun flashing her "As" all over Bourbon Street, then watched her as she filled my bathtub with all her loot to take a Treasure Bath. I've made out with strangers, fell in love with a Buzzard, peed in the bushes and thrown up in them. And I've caught more beads than I ever knew what to do with.

And I've taken my child to some of the above. She has been to many parades in several different places. She has eaten her share of Popeye's fried chicken in the street and caught her share of beer soaked teddy bears. She has been to Bourbon Street (but not on Mardi Gras Day). So, yes, she knows what she is missing. 

Sigh.

But the fact is, Mardi Gras isn't for everybody. Sure it's fun if you're a little kid whose parents perch you atop one of those rickety ladders, and feeds you cotton candy and caramel corn all day, and buys you a light up feather boa and a half a dozen cans of silly string, and screams and yells until strangers pick you out of the crowd and toss you a beer soaked teddy bear that your parents are going to throw away as soon as you get home.

Or if you're a young, hot, chick with DDs who strangers will pick out of the crowd and toss you a beer soaked teddy bear -- if you promise to show him your tits. Or you have a friend who will show hers.

Or if you're a teenager with a posse and your parents trust you enough to let you run up and down the streets with them so you can go find the dudes with the fake IDs who can buy you beer, and he's standing right next to the hot chick who is flashing her tits at the guys on the float.

Or you're a tourist buried in snow in Boston, who sees snippets of all the R-rated fun on TV and you're enthralled and keep promising yourself, "Someday I'm going to go to the Mardi Gras."

Or if you're one of those guys on the float who paid three months' mortgage to join the club and buy the costume and the beads and the plastic swords and the spears and the teddy bears and the beer to soak it all in.

Or if he's your brother-in-law.

Or Mardi Gras happens to fall on your  birthday.

But if you're a grown-up person who worked all day (or takes care of your mother-in-law all day), it's kind of a pain to load up the car with jackets and ladders and a cooler full of beer for you and soft drinks for the kids and the big box of Popeye's fried chicken, red beans and rice and onion rings and the wagon to put it all in.

And then you have to fight the bumper to bumper traffic into town, then find a place to park. And then  you have to find a place to stand that's NOT next to the hot chick who's flashing her tits. And then  a safe place to pee because you're going to be out there for two hours freezing your ass off  waiting for the parade because one of the tractors is going to break down or one of the drunks is going to fall off the float. And then you have to carry all your loot back to where you parked -- if you can remember where you parked -- and maybe your car will still be there.

But  if you're just a tween who has outgrown the cute factor, who has to stay with your very uncool parents, and who doesn't pay enough attention to duck when a five-pound bag of bead sails towards your  face, and who doesn't really have tits yet,  Mardi Gras can be pretty scary.

I also know that one day a carload full of kids is going to pull up to my house with Big Chief blaring on the stereo  and  an oversize ice chest hanging out of the trunk. And she'll want me to let her get in and go off with these hooligans to who knows where to do who knows what.

And I probably will.

It's Mardi Gras. Everywhere else, it's just another Tuesday.