Date Night, Senior Citizen Style
As promised to those who follow me on Facebook (or as the crew I partied with last night refer to it "the Facebook"), here is the highly anticipated "Jen parties with senior citizens" explanation blog.
Life with the wild boys, it sometimes necessitates a break from children in order to maintain one's sanity. Hence the institution of "date night." This blog deals very minimally with the wild boys. More about Mommy this time around. So I apologize to those of you who need more Gav and Gabe antics. There will be plenty to come.
A little history. For those of you who don't know me that well, I am a total music junkie. It is ALWAYS playing around me, and my tastes are really all inclusive (with the exception of anything involving accordion...I just can't do it, I've tried.) The cop is stunned constantly by how quickly I can switch from a Vivaldi mood to The Jackson 5 to Kesha. And the wild boys have been totally brainwashed by me. It's musical Stockholm syndrome. It's fantastic.
The cop gradually accepted the fact that there would never be true silence. Why in God's name would he expect it, I ask you? We have FIVE kids! FIVE! I can't even remember what quiet feels like, and I'm pretty sure if it were to occur I'd be confused and think I lost my hearing. And as if the children and my music weren't enough I at one point adopted a coon hound and brought him home here, smack in the middle of raccoon country. I personally find the baying of a dog somewhat comforting. The cop? Not so much apparently.
The cop next adjusted to going to concerts with me. At least, I think he did. It may be more appropriate to say that the cop has now figured out how many drinks he needs to have before my exuberance at a live music event can be endearing (it's not a small amount, and I'm checking to see if our blood types match and I can donate a lobe of my liver when his fails...). Eventually, he even started surprising me with concert tickets. What a trooper, right?
A few months ago I got tickets to go see Fun in Tahoe. We worried we'd be the oldest people there. We weren't, and it was an amazing concert. Then the cop surprised me with tickets to see The Moody Blues last night. For any of you not familiar, I don't even know you. Go look them up. I'll wait. For those of you that don't like them, just go. Don't come back.
Seriously, The Moody Blues. I am a HUGE fan, despite the fact they were founded a full decade and a half before my birth. Somehow, despite worrying about our age at the Fun concert, we didn't even THINK about age at this one. And when we showed up and saw the group I immediately thought "oh Lord, we're going to be the YOUNGEST people at this one." Not true. As it turns out, some of the fans have issues with their medication and eyesight necessitating a driver at night, so they brought their grandchildren (who were about my age). My heart filled with dread. I am NOT a quiet concert person. There's yelling. There's really loud singing. There's dancing. And this crowd, they did not look like the crew to appreciate my exuberance as much as I've convinced myself the cop does.
Suddenly, a man in his 70's with a beard down to his waist but very little hair on the top of his head, came staggering down the aisle and took a seat a few rows in front of us. Jealous murmurs went up from the row behind me about "See how thick HIS beard is? It's so much THICKER than mine! That's what you need to be a really GOOD Santa." No, I'm not kidding. I stifled laughter, and watched as Mr. Good Santa Beard tossed back what could not have been any less than his fourth or fifth drink and start trying to lead the crowd in a rendition of Nights in White Satin. With his cell phone held above his head instead of a lighter at one point. Lecturing the crowd there on how everyone, well, almost everyone (pointed glances at me and the grandchildren chauffeurs), should be dead now, and since they weren't they should be living it up at this concert.
So help me, loyal readers, it worked. A crowd of other wild seniors, many sporting tie dyed Moody Blues shirts from before I was born, edged up to hang next to Mr. Good Santa Beard, and thus me and the cop (we had kick ass seats, by the way, but I'm kind enough to make room for anyone as wild as me...it makes me less obvious when I start actually jumping with a drink in my hand). When the band hit the stage they went CRAZY. Literally, it was insanity. I was waiting for giant granny panties to be launched at the stage. And the band? They can sing like you cannot believe, STILL. The show was fantastic, the seniors ladies rushed the stage to touch the singers guitar at one point, and the drummer commented on how times change since he used to be able to smell grass from the stage but now can't smell anything but the Ben Gay on his knees. As it turned out that may have been seen as a challenge, because suddenly the room lit up (c'mon, these people are OLD. They ALL have medical recommendations for their damn glaucoma) and the cop and I were in a fog of marijuana smoke I've never before seen the likes of.
The concert eventually wound down, and me and the seniors (who I attempted to keep pace with in terms of drinks, and just stared at stunned when the weed came out), filtered out.
This morning I saw several of them at breakfast. They'd obviously been up longer than me. They were dressed well, enjoying a nice quiet meal. I was staggering along with a raging headache wishing there was ANY reason to justify sunglasses in a casino. I have a lot to learn from these seniors. But it's given me hope for the condition of the cop's liver. They drank WAY more than both of us, and clearly have for decades.
Back home to the wild boys, who had spent the night with the grandparents, and regaled us with (what seem like VERY LOUD) stories about how grandpa locked Gavin outside after dark and told him he saw a bear coming. So I've got THAT therapy bill to look forward to.
Until next time, party like a senior!
Life with the wild boys, it sometimes necessitates a break from children in order to maintain one's sanity. Hence the institution of "date night." This blog deals very minimally with the wild boys. More about Mommy this time around. So I apologize to those of you who need more Gav and Gabe antics. There will be plenty to come.
A little history. For those of you who don't know me that well, I am a total music junkie. It is ALWAYS playing around me, and my tastes are really all inclusive (with the exception of anything involving accordion...I just can't do it, I've tried.) The cop is stunned constantly by how quickly I can switch from a Vivaldi mood to The Jackson 5 to Kesha. And the wild boys have been totally brainwashed by me. It's musical Stockholm syndrome. It's fantastic.
The cop gradually accepted the fact that there would never be true silence. Why in God's name would he expect it, I ask you? We have FIVE kids! FIVE! I can't even remember what quiet feels like, and I'm pretty sure if it were to occur I'd be confused and think I lost my hearing. And as if the children and my music weren't enough I at one point adopted a coon hound and brought him home here, smack in the middle of raccoon country. I personally find the baying of a dog somewhat comforting. The cop? Not so much apparently.
The cop next adjusted to going to concerts with me. At least, I think he did. It may be more appropriate to say that the cop has now figured out how many drinks he needs to have before my exuberance at a live music event can be endearing (it's not a small amount, and I'm checking to see if our blood types match and I can donate a lobe of my liver when his fails...). Eventually, he even started surprising me with concert tickets. What a trooper, right?
A few months ago I got tickets to go see Fun in Tahoe. We worried we'd be the oldest people there. We weren't, and it was an amazing concert. Then the cop surprised me with tickets to see The Moody Blues last night. For any of you not familiar, I don't even know you. Go look them up. I'll wait. For those of you that don't like them, just go. Don't come back.
Seriously, The Moody Blues. I am a HUGE fan, despite the fact they were founded a full decade and a half before my birth. Somehow, despite worrying about our age at the Fun concert, we didn't even THINK about age at this one. And when we showed up and saw the group I immediately thought "oh Lord, we're going to be the YOUNGEST people at this one." Not true. As it turns out, some of the fans have issues with their medication and eyesight necessitating a driver at night, so they brought their grandchildren (who were about my age). My heart filled with dread. I am NOT a quiet concert person. There's yelling. There's really loud singing. There's dancing. And this crowd, they did not look like the crew to appreciate my exuberance as much as I've convinced myself the cop does.
Suddenly, a man in his 70's with a beard down to his waist but very little hair on the top of his head, came staggering down the aisle and took a seat a few rows in front of us. Jealous murmurs went up from the row behind me about "See how thick HIS beard is? It's so much THICKER than mine! That's what you need to be a really GOOD Santa." No, I'm not kidding. I stifled laughter, and watched as Mr. Good Santa Beard tossed back what could not have been any less than his fourth or fifth drink and start trying to lead the crowd in a rendition of Nights in White Satin. With his cell phone held above his head instead of a lighter at one point. Lecturing the crowd there on how everyone, well, almost everyone (pointed glances at me and the grandchildren chauffeurs), should be dead now, and since they weren't they should be living it up at this concert.
So help me, loyal readers, it worked. A crowd of other wild seniors, many sporting tie dyed Moody Blues shirts from before I was born, edged up to hang next to Mr. Good Santa Beard, and thus me and the cop (we had kick ass seats, by the way, but I'm kind enough to make room for anyone as wild as me...it makes me less obvious when I start actually jumping with a drink in my hand). When the band hit the stage they went CRAZY. Literally, it was insanity. I was waiting for giant granny panties to be launched at the stage. And the band? They can sing like you cannot believe, STILL. The show was fantastic, the seniors ladies rushed the stage to touch the singers guitar at one point, and the drummer commented on how times change since he used to be able to smell grass from the stage but now can't smell anything but the Ben Gay on his knees. As it turned out that may have been seen as a challenge, because suddenly the room lit up (c'mon, these people are OLD. They ALL have medical recommendations for their damn glaucoma) and the cop and I were in a fog of marijuana smoke I've never before seen the likes of.
The concert eventually wound down, and me and the seniors (who I attempted to keep pace with in terms of drinks, and just stared at stunned when the weed came out), filtered out.
This morning I saw several of them at breakfast. They'd obviously been up longer than me. They were dressed well, enjoying a nice quiet meal. I was staggering along with a raging headache wishing there was ANY reason to justify sunglasses in a casino. I have a lot to learn from these seniors. But it's given me hope for the condition of the cop's liver. They drank WAY more than both of us, and clearly have for decades.
Back home to the wild boys, who had spent the night with the grandparents, and regaled us with (what seem like VERY LOUD) stories about how grandpa locked Gavin outside after dark and told him he saw a bear coming. So I've got THAT therapy bill to look forward to.
Until next time, party like a senior!
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