I know I am not alone in this sentiment, but I really love Fridays. Ever since my son went off to college in 2007, Friday has been my standing date night with Peggy. Since the first seven years of Friday occurred when we were living in Texas, those Fridays pretty consistently involved two things, chips and salsa and margaritas.
Now, I know what the non-Texans in the audience are thinking. “That’s three things,” they will say. And the Texans will laugh. Chips and salsa are not two things in Texas, they are one thing, joined in the holiest of matrimony. Perhaps you can have one without the other, but why?
Friday means Mexican food, a frozen margarita (no salt — sorry), and conversation that lasts as long as we want it to. And typically then we go sit on the back porch around the firepit and hang out as long as we want to. Because it’s Friday and we can.
This has been our utopia for the past ten years. Even when we are traveling we try to find a Mexican place that will have the essentials and not screw it up too bad. When we went to Santorini for our twenty-fifth wedding anniversary we found the one place on the island that served Mexican food and made frozen margaritas. It was called Senor Zorba’s, and the name alone would have made us forgive them for any shortcomings. But seriously, if you’re drinking a frozen margarita on a Greek island what possible shortcomings could there be?!
Tonight was no different. The Mexican food in Baton Rouge is not too bad, and the margaritas are excellent. The weather is cool and perfect on the back porch and the firepit looks beautiful.
If this is life at 54 I have no complaints whatsoever. If this is still my life at 74 I will count myself as the luckiest man ever.
Last night was supposed to be the 2017 season opener for LSU baseball. We went to the stadium to host a group in my company’s suite for the evening. Had a hamburger and a hot dog. Lived dangerously.
This being Louisiana in February, what happened should not be thought of as a huge surprise. The game ended up being postponed until today. But not until after I had eaten the hamburger and the hot dog.
So, you know what that means, right?
Another hamburger and hot dog today! Victory!
Actually, LSU and Army played twice today. We hosted the guests at the evening game. It was still a little wet and a little cool, but the season got off to a good start. Because it started.
Every year I get the same dual feelings of excitement and disbelief that this is part of my job. A dirty job, but somebody has to do it.
Actually, I’ve had a secret for almost two months now, after a Christmas conversation that took place as I lay recuperating in my bed. But now I can talk about it.
I’m going to be a grandfather.
My son and his wife are expecting their first child. They came to the house this weekend for us to take pictures of them for their announcement. I did not know such a thing exists, but it was fun.
When Peggy got pregnant with Mike we picked up the phone and told people about it. Well, not immediately, but you know what I mean.
Things have changed. At least we won’t have the indignity of a big gender reveal, since Mike and Caitie do not want to know the gender. I think that is really cool. We did not want to know Mike’s gender in advance, either, but I was watching the ultrasound when it became apparent. That’s my boy…
We have been looking forward to grandparenting for quite some time now. When Mike waited until 26 to get married I joked that he had ruined our opportunity to be the youngest grandparents on the block. He’ll be almost 29 when the baby is born. At least Peggy will still look like the youngest grandparent on the block.
I have to admit, such news promotes reflection.
What kind of grandparent will I be? I’m not going to be strict — that defeats the whole purpose of being a grand — but will I have the opportunity to be involved in the daily life of my grandbaby? They don’t live in Baton Rouge, so are we going to have to be in Kenner (bruh) all the time to spend time with what will certainly be OUR baby?
I’m not too worried about it. I was a good Daddy because I had a good Daddy. I feel confident that it’s genetic. Peggy’s going to be absolutely ridiculous, too.
I don’t know what I was expecting. I just know it wasn’t this.
I was quite excited when I got up this morning. Today is the day of the final cast removal. We’ve gone through two weeks of ankle elevated above the level of the heart, two weeks in a cast with no weight bearing, a week of minimal weight bearing, and a week of increasing the weight bearing while wearing a cast and walking shoe. Six weeks of either incapacitation or very limited mobility coming to an end. Huzzah!
I had already worked out in my mind that I was going to do the William Wallace thing and yell “Freedom!” at the top of my lungs as we left the doctor’s office.
In all of our conversations about follow up and rehab the word “boot” was never mentioned. Until today.
I don’t know why it brought me up short. Surely I did not expect to leave the doctor’s office and sprint to the car — in reality, sprinting has been in fairly short supply since well before the injury — but I had geared myself up for the six week period. And nothing more.
The boot is huge, even larger than the cast. The good news is I can take it off at night, and she wants me to begin walking a little without it while I’m at home (not sure what her thing is with peeing. Her example of when to walk without it was at night when I need to go to the bathroom). The bad news is she wants me to wear it for six MORE weeks.
I’ll get over it, but there is no joy in Mudville tonight.