American Thighs (22 page)

Then, at least, she could one day die in peace, knowing that her little baby would be well cared for in her absence and he could just dwell in fairyland forever. What a comfort that would be to so many parents whose baby birds have staunchly resisted flying lessons. And this concept would also make for some excellent employment opportunities for aging Boomers—since we created these lazy-ass monsters, who better to hire to serve them? I mean, we already know how they like their eggs and all.

I
am so looking forward to being Born Again Cute. It takes awhile, evidently, but I am seeing it happen all around me more and more every day—I figger sooner or later, it's got to get around to me as well. Once you pass a certain age, and I'm not totally sure of what the magic number is yet, I'll keep you posted—but after that age, anything you do is considered just the cutest thing they ever heard by everybody who hears about it.

How liberating is that? You can say and do anything that you take a mind to and everybody will laugh fit to kill over it—stuff that would have gotten you shunned, banned, and/or arrested just a few short years before now serves only to further endear you to the world at large.

Seven or eight years ago, a bunch of us went on Delbert
McClinton's Sandy Beaches Cruise—yes, there really is a Delbert cruise, and yes, it really is unbelievably fun and fabulous in every way. Go to www.delbert.com and sign yourself up—tell 'em I sent you. Anyway, besides having one of those true time-of-your-life experiences, we also got a really swell souvenir that we kept and treasure to this very day—Ellyn and Frances. Frances is the mom of Ellyn—also the boss of—but, then, Frances is the boss of EVERYBODY, so that's not unusual. Frances is also the mom of one of my favorite singer/songwriters of all time, Jesse Winchester. You would know him from “Mississippi You're On My Mind,” “Twigs and Seeds,” and “Rhumba Man,” but you oughta know him for a whole lot more—trust me on this and give him a listen.

All that is to say that Ellyn and Frances are natural-born music lovers. Now, Frances is also a lover of cruises and she had been nagging Ellyn for quite some time to take her on a trip. Ellyn, devoted daughter though she may be, was not overly thrilled at the prospect of spending a week at sea with her mom, as you might possibly be able to imagine. And then she chanced upon the Delbert cruise. Without even checking with Frances, Ellyn booked them both to sail with Delbert and Friends and then called and said, “Mama, pack your bags, I'm taking you on that cruise you've been wanting!”

If you've ever been on a cruise, you know that sometimes they assign tablemates for meals. Well, there were six in our party—three couples—and when we arrived at dinner that first night at sea, we were presented with Ellyn and Frances. Talk
about your love at first sight. Ellyn, of course, was thrilled to make our acquaintance as well, but that was mostly because she immediately saw in us six able-bodied individuals who could be pressed into service—the service of Frances, naturally, and she do require a whole heap of servicing, Mizz Frances do.

I don't even know how old she was then, but suffice it to say we were pretty sure she was older than any of us, though you'd never know it by the schedule she kept, the dance partners she wore out, and/or the musicians who fell in love with her. I don't think Nick Connolly will ever get over Frances but he's hardly alone in that distinction.

Frances was at every performance of every musician for the EN-tire week, which also meant that Ellyn was in attendance as well, except for the times when she (Frances) had a date with Bruce Browning. Now, Bruce was actually on the cruise with TammyCarol, but occasionally TammyCarol would do boring stuff, like sleep, which left Bruce at loose ends, which is never a good situation to leave your musician boyfriend in for very long, so before retiring for the night, TammyCarol would hand Bruce off to Frances. I still think that was pretty trusting of TammyCarol, but perhaps it was more a case of extreme exhaustion taking precedence over the possibility of losing one's boyfriend permanently to an older but livelier woman. TammyCarol decided the calculated risk was worth just about anything to get a few uninterrupted z's.

Frances does love a good story—she particularly loves to
TELL a good story or twenty. The woman can flat talk, now, I am telling you. Luckily for us all, she is hilarious. On the occasion that Ellyn might dare to chime in and begin to tell a tale of her own, Frances would listen for a time—a very short time usually—and then, Mama-like, she would shush Ellyn and tell her to please “be quiet and let somebody else talk for a change,” meaning, of course, HER. We found this endlessly entertaining—all of us but Ellyn, I guess.

The cruise, like all good things, did come to an end, but the love affair that was born on the high seas (they were higher for some than for others, I suspect) among the six of us and this delightful Mother-Daughter duo has lived on and on. Ellyn is now an O-fficial SPQ-in-Training, which means she has not yet been formally initiated (by making her public Promise to the High Muckety-Muck at the newspaper), but she does get to ride on the float in the Million Queen March the third weekend of every March in Jackson, Mississippi. She also gets to leave her home in Pendleton, Oregon—which is FAR away, no matter where you are—and come to Jackson a week or so BEFORE the Parade and basically be my bitch on float-building detail. She counts herself lucky in this—which is one of her more endearing qualities.

For several years on her trek from Oregon to Mississippi, Ellyn would swing by Memphis and pick up Frances so that she could ride in the Parade with the Queen Mothers and Used-to-Be's. Of course, of all the QMs, Frances was the only one who danced all Friday night at the SPQ™ Ball.

Then, in 2005, Frances moved to a retirement home in Memphis and got herself a new boyfriend. She did not come to the Parade that year because she was too afraid to go off and leave Tommy unattended—she did not trust them ole biddies to keep their mitts off her Tommy, and apparently, there was also not much faith that Tommy would resist any mitts that came his way.

Last year, I was the Honorary Chair for the Susan G. Komen Race for the Cure® in Little Rock, Arkansas—which is, last time I checked, the third largest Komen race in the country. They have more than forty-three thousand runners—and they allow only women to run. The men pay their entry fees to line up on either side of the course and form the Three Miles of Men—in support of the women running—don't you love that? A number of the Queens went with me from Jackson and Ellyn flew down from Oregon. Of course, she went by and got Frances, too.

We were putting on our “travel outfits” to wear to the big party on Friday night before the race. Frances was sitting in our suite, watching all the preparations and primping. Ellyn, wearing a very short sequined and feathered skirt, black fishnets, and assorted other trashy accessories, came and stood quietly by Frances's chair as Frances was holding forth to anybody within earshot about various and sundry subjects of interest to herownself. Out of the corner of her eye, she noticed that someone was standing next to her chair. Glancing up—but apparently not all the way up—she said, “Oh, my, don't you look
darlin'! Look at your cute outfit—why, you could just go out on the town anywhere in that and be the cutest one there!” And then about the time she reached the end of that sentence, she did look all the way up and realized it was, in fact, her own daughter, Ellyn, standing there in that outfit, and without taking another breath, she barked, “MY GOD, YOU LOOK LIKE HELL! I HOPE YOU DON'T THINK YOU'RE GOING OUT—WITH ME—WEARING THAT THING!”

We were all falling down with assorted beverages spewing from our nostrils, helplessly howling at the Two Faces of Frances and the one priceless face on Ellyn as the full fury of Frances the Indignant fell upon her. Really, it was impossible for us to decide which was funnier but we thoroughly enjoyed it all.

Then, as we traveled en masse down the hall toward the elevators—I was to be the Duck Master that evening for the Famous Peabody Ducks (if you don't know what that is, bless your heart—Google “the Peabody” to find out) and I did not want to be late. Those ducks have a schedule to keep, after all. Anyway, Frances was grumbling and mumbling and muttering under her breath in Ellyn's general direction all the way down the hall. As we boarded the elevator, Frances said, to no one in particular, “Hmmph, well, I just believe if I had known that I was gon' be wearin' that, I believe I woulda lost some weight.” We nearly tee-teed in the Peabody elevator. If we had, we would have totally blamed it on those ducks.

Alas, and now we learn that our beloved party-girl Frances
has Alzheimer's, just ever so slightly, and so she's moved to an Alzheimer's care facility in Pendleton, to be near her devoted daughter, Ellyn. She knows everybody in the world, except, of course, for her main caregiver, Ellyn, and Ellyn's husband, Tom. Frances calls him “That Man,” so she at least remembers his face, just not his name. Ellyn's identity and the reasons for her repeated visits are a mystery, but still welcome ones, at least.

We mourn the loss of Frances, as we knew and loved her, but we rejoice at the very strong evidence that she is, in fact, still in there, somewhere. We know this because Frances has yet another boyfriend. Not sure what his name actually is, but she calls him Tommy because she recalls being fond of someone by that name. He seems happy to be Tommy, whether he is or not. New Tommy has a wife—on the Outside—who was somewhat perplexed as to what her appropriate response should be to the budding romance between her husband and Ellyn's mother. Frances has no idea that she is carrying on with a married man. She's been told but she forgets, which is handy because she is quite taken with her new Tommy.

Tommy still sometimes knows that he does, in fact, still have a wife and he often recognizes her when she comes to visit. However, as he tells everyone, SHE no longer likes to kiss him—and Frances DOES—so, duh, Frances wins. Ellyn convinced the wife to get over it and be happy that the two love-birds have found each other since neither possesses the ability to consciously do anything wrong.

Only Frances could find a way to turn Alzheimer's into a Romantic Getaway. Even in death, she will BE the Life of the Party. That's our Frances, God love her.

I
wish I could tell you that once you get past the initial shock and awe of puberty and the emotional holocaust of adolescence—you survive all that and pass into young adulthood—you find that, well, stuff still seems pretty much every bit as dramatic and traumatic as it did in junior high school but you slog on, thinking perhaps cruising altitude is just on the other side of maybe just a couple more bumpy layers—and you emerge, bloodied but unbowed, well, maybe a little bowed but still mostly on your feet, to find yourself in full-blown middle age and you think, well, okay fine, NOW—things are gonna get easier—just like in that old song, you know, “Whoo-ooh, chi-i-ild, things are gonna get easier”—I WISH I could tell you that is what's waiting round the bend, my huckleberry friend, but guess what—whoo-oooh—chi-i-ild—it ain't. Things are gonna get more the same.

I know it's not the news you wanted to hear—I wish I had something better to report from over here in Geezerville. I mean, you WOULD THINK that, sooner or later, we would sorta have all our Life Lessons more or less down and could just coast for our downhill slides, but no. Not only are we ON the downhill slide but it's not even a smooth slide—it's full of splinters and a bunch of big rocks and there's hardly any water to ease our way. Yes, it's not so much like whooshing with smooth, slick speed down a playground slide as it is like being shoved down the side of a very craggy mountain.

I had my own set of false assumptions about the naturally easy self-reliance and competency that would be mine just by virtue of reaching adulthood and nobody I can recall ever contradicted any of them or offered any evidence to the contrary, so all this came as an utter shock to me, and perhaps you will fare better for at least having the benefit of this warning. I also assumed that relationships would somehow magically become uncomplicated and simple and that dating would be easier and more fun.

When none of that manifested itself in my own personal life, I thought for a time that perhaps it was just me. Perhaps everybody else in the world was in a comfy sail through life, with all the work and money issues long since resolved; they were just laid-back, having rational, intelligent, drama-free relationships with their friends and lovers, and that it was some
how just me and my chosen ones that were wallowing in a mire that seemed more than vaguely reminiscent of all the ones we'd wallowed in since the seventh grade.

It made me feel a bit better—and perhaps it will help you as well—to learn that nothing really ever gets better for anybody. Ever. So, even though there is NO HOPE—at least there is parity. We take our comfort where we can, I suppose.

Queen Susan—of one of the Georgia branches of the Turnip Green Queens—assures me that dating after fifty is every bit as much fun as watching golf on TV while sitting on an ant bed in the sun, drinking warm, curdly milk. So, if there's no golf on and you're fresh out of sour milk and ant beds on a cloudy day—just go ahead on that date from Matchmewithaperfectnightmare.com—you'll hardly notice the difference.

Now, I do know of a few people who've had some swell dates from those online services—even know a few who married folks they met that way—but whoo, boy, you talk about a slim minority. Most of the folks I talk to are like my friend Shar, who met a guy who was a for-real plumber online. Now, in my opinion, a plumber ranks way up on the Desirability Scale—I'd put him below a plastic surgeon (naturally, at my age, in my condition) but well above an attorney (I rarely break any significant laws) and certainly higher than a stockbroker (too suicidal). An able-bodied, WORKING plumber—CAN YOU EVEN IMAGINE THE LUXURY of having your own PER
SONAL plumber? Well, that's a fantasy for us all, isn't it? So Shar was pretty tickled to find him and naturally felt a twinge of “he could be The One” from their first conversation.

For their first date, he took her to an extremely nice restaurant and she was greatly encouraged by the fact that he was willing and able to pay for this excursion and that he also seemed well acquainted with silverware and acceptable tableside behavior.

Then “Ralph” invited her to a home-cooked meal at his place for their second date and they spoke on the phone many times during the week, planning the entire menu, start to finish. And so, imagine Shar's surprise when she arrived at Chez Ralph at the appointed time and it was apparent that there had been no preparation for the much-discussed dinner—whatsoever. Ralph's mind was clearly Elsewhere—and WHERE was the evening's Big Surprise.

Ralph's house was not far from a local carnival-type establishment that featured games of all kinds, and the oh-so-lucky winners of all those games would take home PRIZES, the likes of which I don't believe are available for mere purchase anywhere in the world. If you can't win it, you just can't have it. But the more Shar looked around, as she was listening to the explanation for the no-dinner situation she currently found herself in, the more she realized she had found herself a real Winner—in the LOSER department.

Ralph's entire abode was decorated in carnival crap—
Tweety-Bird throws, Harley-Davidson memorabilia, Elvis throw pillows, stuffed EVERYTHING, fiber-optic angels. NASCAR was well represented, as were all the major breweries—Shar was certain there was a thousand-gallon tank of goldfish somewhere—any prize you've ever seen at any carnival ever was in his house, in spades.

The REASON why Ralph had been unable to perform—in the kitchen—was that he had been completely distracted by a phone call he'd received shortly before Shar arrived. It seems that the carnival operator guy had CALLED him—personally, on the telephone—Ralph was on a first-name, exchanged-phone-numbers basis with the CARNY MAN—and alerted him to the fact that the carnival had just received a new shipment of LAVA LAMPS—and included in that shipment was at least one PURPLE one—and he knew that Ralph had not yet won a PURPLE lava lamp.

Okay, so far we've got no dinner, a house full of hideous cheap crap, and a guy (albeit a plumber) who is on the speed-dial of the carny man—who KNOWS what color lava lamps the guy has NOT YET won and furthermore knows that the man will NOT REST until he has won them in all colors currently available on planet Earth. And we have Shar—receiving all this most unwelcome information and it is truly disheartening—nearly disemboweling—and then Ralph asks her would she mind forgoing dinner for a frozen burrito so they could get on down to the carnival place—as he opened a desk drawer and
took out a three-inch-thick roll of tickets, indicating that he had only about HALF of what he would NEED in order to win that PURPLE lava lamp—but he oughta be done in about four hours, give or take.

The neighbors still marvel at the length of the tire marks she left on the street that evening as she peeled off in her escape.

I'm sure you are joining me in asking that most troublesome yet universal question: WHERE DO THESE GUYS COME FROM? I'm sure I don't know—and neither does Shar—but she guesses that the Pez-collecting attorney she went out with next is from the same place. Picture it, a Pez house—towels, sheets, pillowcases, throw rugs—everything that could carry the Pez image was doing so—PLUS, shelf after shelf, in every single room, with thousands and thousands of PEZ dispensers—a-a-a-l-l-l lined up, nice and neat. Millions of little Pezzy eyes, just looking at you—a-a-a-l-l-l the time.

Shar needs new tires now.

How to Get More If You're a Guy

Okay, in all seven of my previous writings, I have either directly or indirectly schooled you guys on this subject. My own personal precious husband, The Cutest Boy in the World, is constantly exhorting men to read my books, touting them as
“Manuals on How to Get Laid,” due to the high volume of content addressing the manifold sins of the male population that lead to their being Denied or Cut Off from Opportunities of a Carnal Nature with us, the Sinned Against.

But this is one subject I have never before even touched on and so y'all need to PAY REAL GOOD ATTENTION, OKAY? This is every bit as important as The Six Magic Words that I gave you in
God Save the Sweet Potato Queens
—remember them? Six TINY little words that, when said together and with sincerity, are guaranteed to melt the heart of any living woman. Just in case you forgot, here they are—one more time—“OH, NO—let ME handle THAT!”

Okay, so this information I am about to share with you has been gleaned from countless girl-type discussions over an even higher number of cocktails and it is 100 percent reliable. More than one woman has, in fact, BEGGED me to disseminate this fact in hopes that their guys will be educated by it.

This information is intended for those men who are in long-term relationships with a woman they still adore and who seems to still feel reciprocal adoration but who, for some reason, is no longer quite as forthcoming with the Goods as she once so eagerly was.

It's still happening—and when it does, it's still swell and all—but the spontaneity, the spark, the gotta-have-it-NOW seems to have wandered off. Here's where it went:

It went to wherever THE KISSING went. Every sex article
you read goes on and on about the importance of foreplay and blah blah blah—but what MEN fail to understand—and what we have so far been incapable of COMMUNICATING to them—is that BEFORE the FORE-play commences, there needs to be a substantial amount of KISSING.

Every woman I know, regardless of age, who is in a relationship that has lasted long enough for the jets to have cooled down a bit, says that she is happy with her partner. They're glad they are no longer “looking,” but they ALL miss “making out.” Their faces all become wistful at its mere mention. “O-O-O-O-OHHH…” they sigh, and you can tell the memories are fond, if not fresh.

Ever wonder why women will watch the movie
Bull Durham
every single time it airs on any network, at any time of the day or night? Google Kevin Costner's “I believe in” speech from that movie and pay particular attention to the line regarding long, slow, deep, soft, wet kisses that last three days. And then note, with interest, Susan Sarandon's response. Her eyes are glazed over, her jaw has dropped, and all she can say is a very breathless “Oh, my.”

Oh, my, indeed. This is what is known as a Word to the Wise—and it SHOULD be, as they say, Sufficient.

You're welcome.