Happy birthday to me?

I used to love the fact that my birthday was in the summertime because I never had to go to school that day. Now that I have kids that are home with me all summer, I'm getting payback. So far, I've had to referee fights today regarding the existence of zombies, the meaning of the second amendment and how the Supreme Court's recent ruling affects it, and who is responsible for chewing on one of the Wii remotes.



I did get a lovely flower arrangement from Neal and several e-cards and phone calls. That's about all it takes for me these days. Remember when birthdays were hotly and eagerly anticipated (prior to approximately your 25th birthday)? As children, it was the opportunity to wield considerable power in determining who was fit enough to have the privilege of attending your party, usually at a skating rink or a McDonalds (if you were born in the early 70s). Or, as a young adult, it was a money-hemorrhaging contest among your friends to see who could buy you the most drinks.

As cliche as it sounds, my 21st birthday was the most memorable. My mother was kind enough (and apparently crazy enough) to send myself, Neal, my college roommate (to protect her anonymity, we'll call her "D"), and her boyfriend (subsequently, "J") to New Orleans for a long weekend. It started off quite dicey on Friday night as we were lost in a bad neighborhood due to taking a wrong exit off the highway. (I shudder to think back to the days before GPS or even Mapquest!) At every turn, there were folks who appeared to be "working" the streets. In a panic, we pulled over and started trying to consult a map when an ambulance pulled up behind us. One of the EMTs, in a voice that completely mimicked Harry Connick Jr.'s, said "What the h*** are y'all doing in this neighborhood?" Could we have looked any more out of place after dark in D's shiny Toyota Camry, Texas license plates, and interior car light illuminating our vulnerable faces as we wrestled with a map? Luckily, this guy correctly sensed we were in big trouble and offered to guide us out. Good save. We checked into our hotel moments later without incident.

The next day, we did the obligatory touristy stuff like the Aquarium and the N.O. version of the Riverwalk, but obviously, the bulk of our Saturday was spent on Bourbon Street where we bar-hopped with reckless abandon. There was one bar in particular where Neal and J were targets for the affections of a pre-op "lady". As soon as D and I excused ourselves to the bathroom, this person made "her" move on our guys. Before we knew it, J was pounding on the bathroom door, demanding that we reclaim him and Neal from the amorous admirer. So what did D and I do? We came out and took a picture of the three of them, arms interlocked. I even scrapbooked it years later with delight.

Next, the four of us appeared onstage at The Kats Meow, performing our rendition of "You Never Even Called Me By My Name" by David Allan Coe. We were like a 90s redneck version of Abba except intoxicated and donning Aggie t-shirts and shorts instead of sequined vests and bell-bottoms.

Our final stop was Pat O's. We waited for over an hour to get into the piano bar and as usual, it was well worth it. Eddie was in full force that night (those of you who have been to Pat O's know exactly who Eddie is...those of you who don't....I pity you. I wonder if he's still alive and performing?) Anyway, D had split from us by then. She retired to the hotel room to study (yes, I said "study") for a big Monday exam and to get some rest to drive us back to Texas the next day. Neal, J, and I brought the house down at Pat O's, let me assure you. (As I said, I have photographic proof. Exhibit "A" would be the photos of us with straws sticking out of our ears, noses, and mouths. Really dumb stuff that seemed hilarious at the time.) Finally, the management kicked us out at 4:45 am. We were the last ones there, still fully engaged in our own merriment. I believe the guy's words were "You gotta go now. We have to clean up and get ready to re-open in a few hours."

We trudged out and walked back to the hotel. It must have been a lengthy walk because I remember the sun was starting to peek out as we stepped into the lobby. I know we paused to take pictures along the way -- mainly photos where statues were prominently featured as accessories to our buffoonery.

After napping for a few hours, we arose to consume massive amounts of beignets at Cafe DuMonde and we were ready to hit the road back to College Station. For some reason, Neal was all hopped up and volunteered to drive. As I was sleeping in the passenger seat, I distinctly remember being awakened by a series of thuds. I squinted and told Neal to get the car off the shoulder and back onto the smooth part of the road. As he calmly ignored my demands and brought the car to a halt, he diagnosed it as a flat tire.

So picture this little scenario: D and I had pulled all the suitcases out of the trunk and onto the shoulder of I-10 where we had converted them into furniture. We sat and observed as Neal and J were practically sprawled out on the hot asphalt in 100 degree temperatures, inches away from 18-wheelers whooshing past. I felt bad for the boys but part of me was wondering how rude it would be if I just decided to get back into the car, crank up the A/C, and recline the seat until they were done installing the spare tire. After all, I was the birthday girl here...shouldn't I get a pass from the suffering?

I concluded that dismissing their lack of safety and comfort for my own selfish purposes was just bad form. Besides, if a trucker coming off his No-Doz were to veer off to the side and clip them, someone would need to be available to scream "Watch out!"