Neighbors, Age Appropriateness, and Gladys Kravitz

I have a friend that is 23 years younger than me. I’m only a few years younger than her mother. Yet I’m not a mother figure at all to her. I’m a good friend. She lives in my neighborhood and we hang out in our neighborhood restaurants, bars, and stores.

We have a lot in common. We both love theatre, funky vintage clothes, Christian Louboutin shoes, Arctic Monkeys, yoga, a good cheese plate for dinner and a fine bottle malbec. The thing is, there is no generational gap. A wisdom gap, sure; generational, not at all. We have fun when we hang out. We don’t think about age. We just like to have a good time in life.

I remember when I was 23. A forty-six year old woman was old. She listened to the easy listening station on the radio which featured overly orchestrated instrumental versions of Beatles and Abba tunes, watched Murder She Wrote, ate at the Picadilly Cafeteria, and bought her shoes at Naturalizer. Me, now at forty-six myself, still have nothing in common with that woman.

My very best friend, (she lives in the neighborhood adjacent to mine) is on the edge of fifty. She wears True Religion jeans with see thru tops, Herve’ Leger dresses, loves yoga, mooches off my cheese plate at our neighborhood restaurant, believes in the healing power of a dirty martini, and cranks up Snoop Dog as high as it will go when she comes over to my house. We have no idea how fifty is supposed to act. We’re just us, hanging with our 23 year old neighbor, enjoying our favorite neighborhood restaurant, socializing, listening to good music and having great conversation.

Last night, I came home with The Ting Tings cranked up on my stereo, blaring as loud as my cheap factory radio would go, as I pulled into my carport at ten o’clock. I had had a good time out with my two girlfriends. I can’t help it if my next door neighbor’s window is adjacent to my carport, five feet away. She should understand my joie de vivre as she is only two months older than I am. Instead, her bedroom light came on, the mini-blinds parted, and I got a stern, “Turn that blasted music down, kiddies” look from her. Woops. I woke her up.

Like me, my next door neighbor is single yet she rarely goes out, thinks an occasional margarita brought home from the daiquiri shop is a wild night on the town, has begun dressing like a spinster, lives for Bunko night once a month, spies on the comings and goings at my house as if she were Gladys Kravitz with nothing to watch on tv, and for the life her can’t imagine why on earth I’d need to jet off to Paris for New Year’s eve when they show it on TV!

I have nothing in common at all with her. I’ve lived next door to her for ten years now. As much as I’ve tried to be a friend and include her in on my life and our other neighbors, it’s never happened. It’s never going to happen. There’s a generational gap there. It’s obvious, in our minds, we’re just not the same age!

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.