TIARAS, KILLER MUTANT FROGS, AND PAT CONROY’S CHECKBOOK

Here I am at my first major event of the year – The Pulpwood Queen’s 10^th annual Tiara Wearin' Girlfriend Weekend in Jefferson, Texas. And what a weekend it is starting out to be!

I’m staying in a cabin down on Caddo Lake, about 15 miles from Jefferson, with my best friend, Otis (see Side Cars are for Bitches) and my dog, Sadie. The cabin is cute and cozy. The cuteness refers to the plethora of charming frogs that decorate the abode. They’re freakin’ everywhere; so much so that Otis (notice I did not say Sadie) is scared to go into the bathroom now because the toilet paper holder in his lavatory is “staring at right at him with beady eyes” when he takes a dump.

“I swear that thing’s gonna fly off the wall and attack me when I…., you know,” Otis tries to express, “…when I… I shit! That thing ain’t right, ya know. Pure evil, I tell you. Evil!”

“You’ve seen way too many Bruce Campbell movies, dude,” I tell him.

“And Attack of the Killer Mutant Frog People from Savoire’s Swamp was one of ‘em!” Otis declares. “Have you looked outside lately?.... SWAMP!”

Great! Now I have to walk both Sadie and Otis outside. Lovely, just lovely. Don’t they know I’ve written a novel I’m trying to promote here and don’t have time for this?! Obviously, not. And needless to say, Otis don’t walk well on a leash.

I finally arrive at the kick-off dinner for Girlfriend Weekend at the beautiful and historic Excelsior Hotel. I am to be an author/waitress for the event this evening. There’s a reason why I am a writer and not a waitress – my skills in that department are a little lacking. If I wanted to be a waitress, I’ve always maintained, then I would have pursued acting instead. But here I am, donning a signed apron by all of us authors and finding myself taking tea and water orders along side such notable authors as Lt. Colonel Karl Lenker (Final Trumpet,) Jenny Gardiner (Winging It,) Karen Harrington (Janeology,) Ad Hudler (Man of the House,) and Pat Conroy (Prince of Tides, South of Broad,) who took to the job of waiter as if he’d been doing it all his life. I said, “Hey Pat, if the book writing business doesn’t work out for you, I think you might have found your calling!”

He laughed at that and entertained everyone with stories about his morally lenient friend,

Bernie. At the end of the night, Pat asked several of us, including me, for a signed copy of our books. The cute part was he had his checkbook in hand ready to write all of us a check for the cost of the book. Of course, we weren’t afraid the check bouncing, mind you. We were simply humbled at the request and more than ready to give him his copy free of charge. Still, he insisted on paying so we let him write one check and donated the money to literacy.

I arrived back at the cabin to find Otis planted on the couch in front of the History Channel, with Sadie by his side, guarding him against the invasion of the frogs that were plaguing our temporary residence. He seemed unphased and happy to be here.

But when I stepped out onto the screened porch to catch a glimpse of the lake in the moonlight and let Sadie outside, I noticed the reason for Otis’ bliss. There, on the backyard lawn, glowing in the soft moonlight through the cypress trees and moss, were each and every frog figurine. Quite frankly, it looked almost biblical. Otis had banished the frogs.

RANKINGS FROM THE NOGOISSEUR

Here in Louisiana we have this thing called the drive-thru daiquiri shack. You can order all kinds of scrumptious frozen concoctions that they will put in a Styrofoam cup that you accept through the window of your car as you drive up! Convenient, huh?

Now I know what you’re thinking – you’ve just received an open alcoholic beverage in your car!!! Isn’t that illegal? Well, technically, no. The thing that makes it “legal” is the thin barrier of Scotch tape restricting the straw from entering the hole on the lid – the so-called daiquiri diaphragm, if you will. And between 4pm and 7pm (2pm and 5pm on Sundays!) they will give you an extra one – FREE!

Well, despite Cajun Daiquiri located only 1 minute from my house, I’m not really a regular daiquiri customer. That is, about 10 months out of the year. But come the day after all-hallows eve, I make up for lost time – EGG NOG DAIQUIRIES FOR A LIMITED TIME ONLY! I can’t help myself. I become a nogaholic & a nogoisseur.

We have 4 locations with different nog recipes to choose from – all dependent upon my mood, taste, lack of hygiene or fuel availability. Price has little to do with it as I am a lazy single woman with a debit card and overdraft protection.

First is THRIFTY LIQUOR. They sell more than just daiquiris at their drive-thru window, so typically the line is wrapped around the building at five minutes after five p.m. Not a good choice if you are in a hurry to erase a case of the Mondays. Also, you can’t get an extra shot in their blend. But theirs are by far the creamiest and made with brandy. A good choice if you are trying to impress without getting snockered.

Next is CAJUN DAIQUIRI – my go-to nog. It’s a simple little obnoxiously painted shack down the street that they obviously acquired from Ted Kaczynki and added a vinyl porte cochere. Like their name says – they are strictly daiquiris and have a very small selection. Their nog is probably akin to Pabst Blue Ribbon but with $1 extra shots of rum or bourbon, who the heck cares. I can leave my house in my robe and slippers during the “House” marathon on USA and be back home with nog in hand before the Shamwow commercial is done.

DAIQUIRI EXPRESS, in the round building, has some really kick-ass nog. They have an unbelievable selection of daiquiris all year round – literally hundreds of combinations with sweet spinning refreshment lining the wall – a beautiful site to behold if you are a daiquiri devotee. And they always seem to give me an extra double shot every time I come in, which is bonus. Downside – they are in the Wal-Mart parking lot (I try to avoid Wal-Mart parking lots like they were the plague) and they don’t have a Baptist window. You gotta really want it and I must admit, they are worth the effort. Plus, on football game day, you can order a daiquiri at their bar next door.

Finally, there’s TONY’S LIQUOR, which proclaims that they have “THE” World Famous Eggnog Daiquiri. They, too, have no drive-thru and are a little out of the way. This Saturday, I decided to see just how worth the effort what is supposed to be the best nog in town was. Sadly, it was the most expensive and the worst. I wanted to cry. It was supposed to be the coop de grace to my holiday nog-a-thon. Angels were supposed to sing on high as the spicy and sweet mélange hit my finely tuned taste buds. Just one sip of it was supposed to bring peace on earth and goodwill to all men. Unfortunately their nog is the reason we’ve got crazy men trying to stuff explosives in their underwear and count-down calendars to December 21, 2012. Oh, yeah, their nog has brought on the end of days.

But come January 3^rd or 4^th, when the last of the nog runs out, I will be sucking them down as fast as I can drink them. Only then, when the nog finally runs out, will I gain the courage to call 1-800-NOG-ANON.

ON THE OCCASION OF MY 46TH BIRTHDAY, DO I LOOK LIKE I WILL USE THOSE DEPENDS COUPONS I FOUND IN THE MAIL TODAY?

"You can only perceive real beauty in a person as they get older." -- Anouk Aimee

I’m not sure when it happened, how it happened, or why it happened. But it snuck up on me the same way my Uncle Hyram used to do when I was little. In 1971, at the ripe old age of 85 years old, Uncle Hyram, I believe, was the first man on planet Earth to exhibit stealth capability. He would creep up on us kids at the annual Carnes family barbeque, hiding behind a live oak tree, a picnic table, or Cousin Bubba’s souped up Chevy truck to gain his advantage. Then, using his own portly wife, Aunt Vesta, as a human shield, he would shadow behind her as she was going for the cake and pie table for a third helping, and sneak up and goose me from behind, causing me to drop my ice-cream cone and pee in my Saturday-labeled panties. This is what the age of forty-six has done to me. It has goosed me unexpectedly from behind and caused me to evaluate the possibility that I might now be the target demographic for Depends advertisements.

I never thought I’d see the age of forty-six. Even worse, I (ok, and my mother, too) never thought I’d find myself single, childless, and husbandless at the age of forty-six. I grew up in the 70’s. The era of the Brady Bunch. It was just sort of expected of us to be like our moms – housewives taking care of our families. But I guess I was never one to conform. And Carol Brady was just plain boring to me. I admired Gloria Steinem growing up, instead.

So here I am – single AND childless at forty-six. Does this mean my life is over? Is there something wrong with me? Is someone going to suddenly show up at my doorstep to cart me off to some Old Maid Colony on an island in South Louisiana where they’ll put a sign on my chest labeling me “Spinster” instead of Leper? Will I stand in the street with a tin cup, begging perky, twenty-something upstarts, to give “ohms to the has-been. Ohms to the Old Maid.” Will they toss me a quarter, then consider my life kicked to the curb?

Funny, but I don’t feel like giving up the fight just yet. While I admit there is a brochure for Botox treatments sitting on my desk and Collagen injections appear more and more appealing every day, I hardly believe that my dating and social life should be over merely because I’ve now rocketed past that magical age barrier known as “Lordy, Lordy, Look Who’s in their Forties!”

As an alternative to Carol Brady, I’ve lived up to the ideal that Betty Friedan & Mary Tyler Moore envisioned for me. Instead of pushing a Hoover upright around the house, playing den mother to a pack full of webelos, and shaking chicken in a plastic bag then baking it for my husband’s feast after a long day’s work at the office; I have found myself slogging my way through a forty-hour a week career, getting paid a man’s wage, so that I can afford to pay for my two bed-room cottage, really hot sports car, and yearly subscription to More Magazine all by myself. I didn’t have to break the glass ceiling. I simply took the roof access staircase to overcome it. I’m an independent woman living on her own means. Kind of like the Destiny’s Child song - sure I paid for the ring and watch I wear, but only because on one dateless Friday night, I was feeling sorry for myself and bought the entire Joan River’s collection on QVC.

So I guess the question that I ask myself is simply, am I a has-been at forty-six? God, I hope not. I would like to believe that I have aged well, like a fine Chateauneuf de Paup; that I am full bodied, subtle, and mature. I want to believe that I go well with anything, and that I am timeless and beautiful. That I can run with any crowd, be sophisticated on one side, yet playful and childlike on the other, after all, I am caught between the ages.

While I do happen to remember The Lawrence Welk Show, Kings of Leon, Modest Mouse, and Pop Levi dominate the stereo on my Honda S2000, interlaced with the occasional Ramones or Iggy Pop classic. I loath easy listening music; although I will confess that some of the tunes on The Weather Channel are quite catchy. I am taking yoga, high intensity aerobics, and cycling on a regular basis, keeping my body young. In rebellion, I find myself meandering through the junior's section at the department store but as usual, get freaked out when the extra-large skirt won't fit over my thigh! I panic, throw the hissy-fit, upon which I am then escorted back to the department they have deemed suitable for my demographic - elastic band & pastel print hell - The Alfred Dunner Collection. (insert primordial scream & Edvard Munch face here.) I had pink hair in college for cryin' out loud. Blue hair is not an option!

I am beautiful, forty-six, and growing old gracefully & naturally. I am relevant, sensual, hip, humorous, and wise. I'm better than I've ever been. Being anything else, well, that alternative is unthinkable – to be like a used Depend Undergarment, balled up and tossed in the trash can. That ain't me!