Big, fat birthday

I have big, fat round birthday coming up. My friends love it. You see, there are those who have already past this milestone and feel my time is long overdue. I understand that feeling.

I have a sister who is 4 years younger. I remember once I thought she was turning 30, and she said, "Oh, God, no. I'm not THAT old." I made sure that, the following year, when she did turn 30 that I called her, and do you know what I said?

I said it's about (bleep) time!

That's just part of being a big sister. It's universal. When my good friend, Dee, turned 40, her older sister called her and said, "Welcome to my box!"

"What?" Dee said.

"My box! Now when you are filling out questionnaires, you have to check the 40-50 box!" said her sister giddily.

I imagine I will get an equally giddy welcome wagon call from Dee on my birthday as well.

Aging (man, I hate to use that word) is a funny thing. If it weren't for the fact that my children can almost look me directly in the eye, I don't think I would notice. Well, except for the pain in my hip ...

My dad once said that he feels just like he did when he was in his early 40s until he looks in the mirror and sees how white his hair is. Of course, I'm sure I contributed to many of those gray hairs.

The truth is, I really don't mind turning 40 as long as I don't have to run a half-marathon. While I admire the many, many, many women who do this at this age, I don't wanna. I didn't want to at 20, and I don't want to now.

In fact, I even asked Dee if she thought I had to in order to get into the 40 bracket.

"Nah, you'll still be 40 anyway," she said giggling with pleasure at the thought.

So, in lieu of running, she and I are going to try ziplinning. You can do this in Whitesburg, you know?

My other goals are a little less physical:

Reading more -- I joined a book club six months ago. That was the first step. Now if I would only start reading the books.

Use cruise control -- I don't really have a burning desire to do this, but since my husband can't believe I've never used it, I will give it a try. Plus it might cut down on speeding tickets.

Stay up-to-date on current events -- If they would quit changing everyday, I could do this one.

Above all, I vow to dwell less on age. A friend of mine said 39 really is worse than 40 because of the dread factor, and I believe her. After all, age is just a number. That is until you're filling out questionnaires and have to check the 40-50 box!

Yes or no: a mom's dilemma

“Can I, Mom?” my son asked.

Was this a yes or no moment? I asked myself, searching his eyes for some kind of clue. Did he want me to say no and save him or yes and allow him. Those are the hardest decisions to make, especially for a mama of a boy. I may not be one, but I know being tough is important to them.

We were standing in the midst of 250 acres of woods. Teenage boys and a few grown men were dressed in camouflage, giddily suiting up in chest pads and face masks, loading the barrels of their guns with small balls of paint that looked a little like the bath beads I used to give my mom each year at Christmas. We had only intended to watch.

Yes or no? I thought. That is the question.

On a rainy day a few years back, we went to Andretti’s Indoor Karting and Games. Unbeknownst to me, my son seeing the go-carts zoom around the track at rapid speed told his daddy, “I don’t think Mom would want me to do that!”

As I exited the ladies’ room, he said, “Mom, can I ride the go-carts?”

“Sure!” I said.

“But I don’t want to!” he said.

The point of this story? From then on, I knew how important my decisions were and have been happy to be his scapegoat ever since.

But, in the woods, under the supervision of friends, I said yes to paintball and am so grateful I did. Not to mention, he’d already told me that there was a girl about his age out there doing it. Later, he would tell me, “And she was good, too!”

So, what’s a mama to say?

A friend put a paintball gun in his hand and gave him a quick lesson.

“This is the safety … Are you familiar with guns at all?”

“Sir, yes, sir!”

I rolled my eyes. He’s familiar with every version of Nerf gun there is and has watched WWII movies and asked dozens of questions, so I guess that qualifies as the truth.

He suited up, and the next thing I know my baby went off to battle. It wasn’t long before he came back excited and totally paint-free.

“He did great!” my friend said. “He hung back and watched since this was his first time, which was the right thing to do.”

My son beamed, and so did I. He wasn’t hurt!

About that time, his best friend arrived, and my son was suddenly an expert, giving him advice on where to hide, how to hold his gun and regaling him with the story of his first foray.

On his second battle, he declared he was not going to hang back any more. The teenagers looked at him and asked, “Are you ready?”

“Yep!” He declared and off he marched.

Later he said the teen told him to stay nearby, but, at the last moment, he took shelter behind a tree, leaving my son out in the open, and he was hit. The teen later apologized, but he didn’t need to. My son was proud of his new “wound.”

“It stung a little bit,” he said.

“Do you still want to come back in two weeks and play some more?” my friend asked.

“Yes, sir!” he said.

That’s my boy.

On the way home, he talked non-stop about their battle plan and how much fun he had, requesting that I count the Christmas money that I’ve been holding in my wallet to see if he had enough to buy his own equipment.

“Thank you for letting me play, Mom,” he said. Inside, I felt warm and fuzzy. Despite my initial fears, I said yes when I should have. “Can I wear my sweatshirt with the splattered paint on it to school, so everyone could see where I got shot?”

This one I didn’t have to think about.

My answer? A resounding no!

Sometimes it just takes a snow day

I rolled my eyes when I heard it was coming. I mean, the kids had only been back in school for two days. They are my darlings, and I love them very much, but two days!

I was in denial, at first, but decided I'd better be prepared, so I did what every other citizen in the county did. I went out and bought -- say it with me -- milk and bread. I couldn't help but wonder if it were the end of the world, would we all run out to Publix for a gallon and a loaf. I can hear it now, "There's a meteor about to strike the Earth ..."

"Honey, quick, run out and buy two gallons of 2 percent and two loaves of Sunbeam!" Which is pretty much how I sounded the minute I heard sleet hit the roof on Sunday night.

"But you just bought some yesterday," my husband said.

"I know, but the weatherman is predicting days of snow and ice. I think we need more!" I insisted, forgetting the fact that I don't even drink milk and more than often our bread turns stale before we can eat it.

My husband obliged, caring less about the food, and more about the adventure. He came back and reported that the grocery employee told him we had bought the last gallon of milk in the county. How he knew this, I know not; but I sure was glad I made my husband go to the store.

Anyway, I knew from our recent snow experience that I would need it to make snow ice cream. My son and I finally perfected the recipe once I learned to use powdered

I know people up North make fun of us, but give us a few more snow days, and we'll have it all figured out. We may be helpless without bread and milk; but when it comes to sledding, we are resourceful. I saw people sledding on cookie sheets, skateboards with the wheels removed, and even a pond liner.

And, it wasn't long before I found myself joining them, just to prove to my kids that I can (or can't). At one point -- as we were sledding down the road in a plastic sled that I bought at Goodwill several summers ago, the one that everyone laughed at me for buying -- I heard my son behind me, yelling, "We're all going to die!" I responded by saying, "At least we have bread and milk!"

He didn't get my joke.

The best part of "the day I dreaded so much" turned out to be my neighbors. I don't know why it takes the coldest, most miserable day of the year to bring everyone outdoors, but it just does. We ended up running into some long-lost friends (It turns out that their son and his young family are our neighbors -- yeah, that made me feel old-ish). Their grandchildren were sledding up and down the hill on a real sled.

"We've had this in our attic for 25 years. It's the first opportunity we've had to use it!"

So, by the time this column publishes, I'm sure I'll be over this pretty mess, but, today, I'm glad I got to meet our new neighbors and watch them use their sled for the first time.

And, amazingly, without being able to run to and fro, I found time to play with my kids, write two articles and a column, watch four movies (thanks, Netflix!), do my exercise DVD (must my family laugh every single time I do it?), chat with some friends and neighbors and simply enjoy life for a while. Sometimes it just takes a snow day, and I am certainly grateful for this one -- despite the wet clothes!

Pot luck

My New Year's dinner was a real battle. In fact, at one point, so overwhelmed with overflowing pots and smoke and timers going off, I almost quit. I realize that I'm taking a big chance by writing this in light of my last column on how I locked my dinner in the oven. You see, despite the fact that it's 2011, women in the South are still judged by their cooking.

Don't believe me? Show up at a church pot luck sometime. Think you just get in line and put food on your plate randomly? Not more than once you won't. Although church is the last place to judge someone, we all want to know who made what. Because while we still love those who can't cook, we want to make sure we avoid their dishes.

"How's your mom doing? Is she out of the hospital yet?" we ask politely as folks walk into the fellowship hall, all the while building up to our most important question: "What did you bring?"

And trust me, at church socials, you want to make sure it's not store bought --unless, of course, your mom is in the hospital. If it is store bought, I'm not saying flat out lie about it, but you should probably do your best to disguise it. It may mean emptying Kroger's pasta salad into a bowl or wrapping Mrs. Winners biscuits in foil -- whatever you have to do. I think Jesus would understand this one. For women in social circles, being able to cook is important.

And, if you can't cook, then, hopefully, you can do something better -- bake. Baking is close to sainthood, especially at church pot lucks. Lemon meringue pie, chocolate cakes, coconut cakes -- talk about a lost art. Those items go fast. So fast, in fact, that people learn to get dessert first. I can recall one Wednesday night supper when everyone made a bee line for the dessert table the minute the preacher said "amen." It seems word had gotten out that Dorothy Smith made her homemade caramel cake.

If you are lucky enough to have kids, then you can avoid the embarrassment of being the first one seen at the dessert table. They (being smart as they are) will ask, "Mom, can I go get dessert before it's all gone?" and you (being slightly smarter) will say, "Sure, and pick me up a piece of the caramel cake," and as they run off, you yell, "Oh, and a piece of pecan pie, too."
Then later when you hear folks complaining about how many desserts they saw kids hauling off from the dessert table, you can shake your head, and say, "Kids these days! Where were their parents?!" (For the record, I have never done this.)

Now, if for some reason, you have had a busy day and can't bake, or slice Publix pound cake and put it on your best crystal serving tray, or if you don't have time to make a homemade casserole, then I suggest you do what we moms call "making something for the kids." I have to confess this is my favorite modus operandi -- macaroni and cheese, hot dogs, chicken nuggets, even a pizza will work. Parents are happy; kids are happy, and I'm happy because I don't have to sit next to a child, or adult, for that matter, and hear them say, "Ewww," and then look down and see my casserole. Just kidding. That hasn't happened, but I have lived in fear of it.

After all, no one wants to be called a bad cook, especially at church. In fact, the biggest compliment someone can pay you at these socials is to ask for your recipe. And, the Christian thing to do in return is share it with them. I know some people don't believe in sharing recipes. Trust me -- it spreads good will, and chances are it won't turn out as good as yours, anyway. At least, not if I'm cooking it.

Flippin' Christmas fun

Love her or hate her, there's one thing I know about Sarah Palin -- she was put on this earth to make me feel like one big wimp. She's also the reason we have a freshly-cut Christmas tree.

You see, each year my family and I go to a local tree farm to cut our own and to take our family photo in the process.

Usually we pile on coats, but get so hot and sweaty from walking the property and taking turns sawing the tree that we take them off. One year, my husband and I left ours on just because we didn't want to carry them. The kids were smart enough to realize it was 65 degrees and left theirs in the truck. I had several people comment that year that they liked our cards, and a few were brave enough to ask, "Why were the kids in short-sleeves?"

More often than not, however, my husband is the one who's not like the others. We have several winter pictures in which he is wearing shorts. It looks like we've photo-shopped him in from Bermuda

But, back to Sarah Palin... My daughter and I watched her reality show for the first time while I did what I do best this time of year -- curl up with a cup of hot chocolate. As Sally on Charlie Brown says, "I'm not made for winter!" even if it is in the South.

So, I enjoyed wrapping up in my snuggie (Yeah, I own one, so what?) and watching Sarah climb mountains, cross ice crevasses, catch salmon amongst the bears, hunt caribou, round up her five kids and get up early to do aerobics, all in the miserable Alaskan weather. I enjoyed it so much that I laughed out loud and turned up the thermostat.

That's when my children remembered our tradition. The problem with traditions is once you start them, you have to continue them forever. Just something to keep in mind, especially when it's snowing, and the wind is whipping and it's freezing, and you have to go cut down a Christmas tree.

"Can't we just go to a lot, pull the truck up and have Dad throw it in the back while I wait inside?" I asked. "I'll let you play Christmas music."

(Growing up, my dad would only let us listen to Christmas songs at noon on Christmas. Now that it starts in October, I'm inclined to agree, though I do allow them a little more time -- say, Christmas Eve.)

"We want to pet the bunnies and feed the ducks and drink hot chocolate and see the waterfall. We want the tree farm," they said.

Had it not been for Sarah Palin's television show, Alaska, I would have insisted that it's too flippin' cold for trees this year, but alas I am competitive enough to at least brave a few flurries.
Fortunately, I did. We soon discovered it was the last day of the season for the tree farm.

"Everyone's already gotten their trees. No one really comes this late," the owner said.

Late? I thought.

Ultimately, not only did we get to pet the bunnies, we cut down a beautiful tree and got it for half-price, proving that the early bird does not always catch the worm.

Oh, and what a family photo! This year's has to be our most memorable. We hiked down Candy Cane Lane to a picturesque waterfall. The kids and I sat on a rock, while my husband positioned the camera to take our picture in 10 seconds. He pushed the button and then hurried to sit down next to our son.

Unfortunately, we didn't leave him enough room, and he missed the rock entirely, and to my children's horror, he tumbled into the water. I would say to my horror, but as the saying goes a picture is worth a thousand words, and in this picture, I am staring directly into the camera and laughing harder than I have laughed since the season's changed. Maybe Sarah Palin is right -- sometimes you do need to get outdoors.

The fine art of Ninja out

I had made it through the introduction of the pep squad team, the girls' volleyball team, including tearful good-byes to their coaches and the entire seventh grade football team, complete with a long lecture on grades at a combined banquet recently when my daughter looked at me and said two words --Ninja out!

She didn't have to explain. Remember James Bond when he received his mission and had 90 seconds to react before it exploded? Well, just call me Bond, James, Bond. I shoved my camera in my bag, slyly slid on my jacket, nimbly lifted my 25-pound purse off the floor and stealthily made my way out the back door of the cafeteria, feeling proud that I timed it just as the applause for the team began. I looked back to smile at my daughter, but she was no where to be found.

Had I left a man, err, girl, behind? Just as I pondered whether to keep moving, she came running up to my side.

"I had to go back," she said.

"What? You went back? You know what we were taught. You don't even look back!"

"But I had to go back for this," she said, holding up her name tag.

"Well, yes," I conceded. "I guess you couldn't leave that behind."

"And I had to tell my friend good-bye," she said quickly.

Sigh. She has a long way to go before she'll be a 007 and me, too, for that matter.

Ninja out, you see, is a fine art. One we aren't taught in the South. I learned it via a friend from Germany who learned it via a friend from Ohio. Now, to be fair, men in the South have, perhaps, been doing it for years. We women, however, just never noticed because we were so busy saying good-bye for 45 minutes.

And that is what Ninja out is all about -- getting out quickly without good-byes, disappearing so that your host or hostess doesn't even realize you are gone. I know, it's against nature, but I have to say, it works.

My first introduction to it came at a party that was gathering steam around the same time as my children's (OK, my) bedtime.

I had just told our hostess that we needed to leave when she said, "Oh, wait right here. You haven't seen the photos from my cruise."

It was then that my friend turned to me and said, "Ninja out!"

"Excuse me?" I said.

"Get your purse, get your things and do not look back. Ninja out!" she said as she grabbed me by the elbow.

"But ... but ... we can't just leave," I cried, every fiber of my being protesting.

"Do you want to be here another hour?"

I looked at my children's pitiful faces and thought about how early we needed to get up the next day.

"Well, noooo."

"Then let's go. Ninja out!" she said in her delightful -- yet forceful -- German accent.

I hesitantly complied.

"But it's not the Southern way."

"We can text her tomorrow," she said as she climbed in her car parked strategically facing the road for a quick getaway.

We, on the other hand, weren't as smart or as quick.

"Wait, wait! Where are you going?" asked our poor hostess and a crowd of my friends at the door.

"Oh, I'm sorry. The kids were getting tired, so we thought we'd leave."

"But, Mama, I'm not tir .." my son started to say before I clamped his mouth.

"I'll call you. We really enjoyed it," I yelled out the door of the truck.

"But, wait, you must take some of these brownies home with you," she said.

"Well, OK," I said, reluctantly climbing out of the vehicle and making my way toward her into the kitchen.

"Oh, and look, I found those pictures. Come sit down one minute, and I'll show them to you."

"Well, the kids and my husband are out in the car."

"Oh, they'll be fine. It will just take a minute."

I turned to glance out the kitchen window and saw one annoyed husband, two tired children and the tail lights of my Ninja out master heading northbound down the road. When I re-emerged an hour and a half later, my son said, "Mama, when you try to Ninja out, you pay the consequences."

I think he had a point.

Freedom of the open road

I’ll never forget my first car. I was so proud the day my daddy plopped down that stack of $100 bills to purchase it for my 16th birthday. I knew I wanted that car the minute I saw it. Why? Because it sure as heck beat the pea-green “old lady” clunker he took me to see first.

“I’ll take it,” I said, the minute the garage opened revealing a well-used black 1980 hatchback Pontiac Sunbird.

“You sure you don’t want to go back and look at the green one again?” he asked.

“No sir, I want this one.”

I can recall him grinning as he told the owner we’d take it. I thought it was because he, too, was beaming from pride. It was only as an adult that I realized he was grinning because I had fallen for it. He had choice number two – the Sunbird - in mind to purchase all along. I have to admit I admire that tactic, though every now and then I wonder what choice number three might have been.

Regardless, I happily drove my new-to-me car home. It had no air condition, no radio, and I needed a cushion to see over the steering wheel, but it was mine. Mine to wash every Saturday, mine to fill up with gas, and mine to scratch and dent, and I did plenty of all three – in that order.

I couldn’t wait to drive my car to school. Soon my days of riding the yellow bus will be gone forever, I thought.

The following Monday, I had my car polished and ready. I timed my exit to coincide with the passing of the bus. I know, rubbing it in that I had a car to the pitiful people with their noses pressed against the school bus window was not nice. But don’t worry, I soon got my comeuppance.

I was running (gasp) late, not to mention I could hear the bus coming up the street, so I hurriedly said goodbye. My parents, my little sister, my grandmother, and, undoubtedly a few nosy neighbors, came out to wave and watch me go. It was February and freezing, and when I started the car, I realized the back window and rearview mirrors were covered in ice. Instead of waiting for my car to warm them up, I thought to myself, “I’ve been up and down this driveway a hundred times. I know this driveway like the back of my hand. Who needs mirrors?”

Yes, this is really – more or less – what I thought as I put it in reverse and hit the gas and … SCREEEEEEEEEEEEEECCCCCHHHHHH …

That’s the sound I made as I ran into the house and threw myself face first on the bed after I scratched my car down to the metal from one end to the other on a very strong bush next to the driveway. Adding to my humiliation was the fact that a busload of my peers had witnessed the entire event, including me wailing.

But, fortunately, I had my sweet mother and grandmother to console me as my car continued to run (at least I put it in park) with the door still wide open. I may have had a license, but I was still just a girl, and I really did love that car.

Ultimately, those scratches proved to be a good thing – all a part of character building, as my dad might say. I sucked it up that morning and got back behind the wheel. It wasn’t until I parked at school that I noticed the few stray branches lodged under my bumper.

That summer, I worked to save up the money for a new paint job. In fact, I even earned enough to install a new radio. And after school that day, I had a few people ask me if I could give them a ride. I was too scared, so I said no, but still, it was nice of them to ask!

Over the years, several other friends’ vehicles were attacked by what we came to know as the “killer bush.” One day, my dad decided it had wreaked enough havoc. Sick of it blocking his view and maiming others, he took a chainsaw to it. The next day when I backed out of the driveway, there was nothing but sawdust.

“That’s great!” I thought. “I no longer had anything to fear. Now I can back up without any worry at all.”

About that time, I heard my daddy shout: “Watch out for the ditch, Leigh!”