Diann was the lucky one. She was the lucky Nolan child that was not given a nickname. My other sister's name is an abbreviation of her first and middle names. My parents were creative enough to turn my masculine first name (James) into Jamey, a name that veers sharply to the feminine side of ambiguity. But it's my older brother's nickname that inspires my birthday special blog posting. His given name is Dale, like my dad. However, as a child he did what all little boys do, he dressed up in my dad's Sunday-go-to-meeting clothes. One of dad's friends then loudly exclaimed that he looked just like a little man. And that's just how quickly a nickname sticks. To this day, my brother Dale is referred to as Man.
But this posting isn't about nicknames. It's about the phenomenon of never wishing to be your current age. Man wanted to be a grown up. This, as it turns out, seems to be the natural course of things, no matter your stage of life. I, on this most ho-hum of birthdays, just want my hair back. Not all of it mind you, but just enough to avoid having to varnish my scalp with spf 6000 prior to any long-term outdoor activity, just to make sure I can run a brush through my hair for the next month, without screaming like a child. I digress.
We are surrounded by this notion daily. Every formal wedding in America undoubtedly features a gaggle of 4-7 year olds dressed in teeny tiny tuxedos and dresses. Conversely, you don't have to go much further than your local Wal-Mart to find a granny sporting some interesting combination of hot pants, cowboy boots, and a tube top. These are the poles of this concept. They make sense. Grandparents love seeing little kids dress up, and hot pants Mildred is just trying to hang on by a thread. I believe the really embarrassing ones happen in your twenties.
Your twenties seem to thrust you in to adulthood, with little to no warning. But, you embrace it. You have no idea what it means, but you embrace it. Before you know it you have a job that pays more than tens of dollars, a credit score, pine sol, and maybe even kids. What? Pine sol you say? Yes. Nothing is more adult(y) than purchasing pine sol at a grocery store. No self-respecting adolescent gives a crap about why their kitchen floor doesn't smell like a forest. It's a mothball type product. It's during this time that your chest puffs up a little and you add the slightest of struts to your step. Danger Will Robinson!
Amanda and I are pretty good at marriage, but we SUCK at wedding anniversaries. We both forgot our anniversary five of the first seven years we were married. Well, it became so common that one year we actually planned a romantic anniversary outing. "Hmmm, let's invite some friends!" We poked around and finally came to the conclusion that we should invite our best friends (another couple) to join us for our anniversary dinner and subsequent Ghost Tour through the French Quarter. Forget what those commercials say, NOTHING says I Love You like a trite, overly-dramatic, walking tour through the quarter, in the heat of summer!
So we set off to NOLA, destined for Besh Steak for dinner. Besh Steak is Chef John Besh's steak house inside Harrah's casino on Canal St. Forget the fact that it's mere steps away from player's club pensioners repeatedly slamming one-armed bandits hoping for the big payoff, it's a REALLY nice restaurant. Not the type we generally patronize. Something about my Dad's appreciation for the Burger King value menu usually forces me to scoff at $100+ meals, but this was to be a special night. Plus, they validate the valet. cha-ching!
We are promptly seated by a kind hostess. Then it happens. We meet our waiter. I'm sure there are many avenues I could go down to appropriately describe how smug of a human being our waiter was, but we'll just leave it at smug. Most of the time, I'm a pretty confident person. But, there is just something about dealing with some smug twit with a superiority complex that really turns me in the other direction. I'm so focused on trying to figure out why the person holds themselves in such high regard, that I begin stepping all over myself. This would, no doubt, be one of those occasions.
Growing up in South Mississippi provided me with a very unique experience. What it did not provide me with was fine culture. Most of the time, when I look at the menu of a fancy restaurant, I skip over any word from another language and focus on the staples. Steak blah blah, with a potato blah. Yum, steak and potatoes; I'll have that. Oh, it comes with a blah blah reduction? That sounds great, but can I get it on the side? You get the point. This strategy had worked for years, but tonight I would be exposed as a fraudulent simpleton.
Everything was going great. They brought out these complimentary little slices of toast with a delicious spread to go on it. My first thought: Attack the free food. So I start digging in, as Amanda gazes at me in disgust. "That tastes horrible" she exclaims, as I smile and start round two. Finally, captain smuggo returns and I inquire as to the name of this delicious spread. "Oh that? That's foie gras." Gee, that names sounds really familiar. Oh yay, I just double-fisted pureed goose liver. Suddenly, what was once quite tasty becomes very earthy and too rich to eat. I push it aside, barely able to stand the smell of it. That was the first sign that maybe I was a bit out of my element. I did not have experience with fine dining, and suddenly began to feel like a child in a suit 18 sizes too big.
Then it came time to order the main course. My inner voice was screaming at me to aim for the staples. "Don't Ask Questions!" Too late. Before I knew what I was saying, I asked smuggo "what is a ragout?" Now, for those of you who know that word, and it's proper pronunciation, keep it to yourselves. Without warning, smuggo explodes into laughter. After a few seconds, he composes himself and corrects me, "You mean, what is a Ragout (pronounced ragoo)? Upon hearing of my mistake, and seeing my embarrassment, my lovely wife quickly joins in with our friends and smuggo to have a good laugh at the redneck's expense. Smuggo then dismissed himself to place our order, and apparently tell the remaining staff the story of the rube he had sitting at table 34. The giggles from passing waitstaff were all too obvious. I might as well have kicked off my shoes and chewed on a toothpick.
But, I was not alone in my embarrassment. My best friend would quickly join team rube. I'm not using his real name, to avoid any embarrassment on his part. Let's call him AtrickPa. He decided that since he was having a nice steak, a bottle of wine would be a great accompaniment. He wisely hides the intimidation of the wine list and picks something he recognizes. He should have stopped while he was ahead. As the bottle was delivered, smuggo popped the cork and poured a nice sample for my buddy's approval. Now look, I can handle the fact that he sniffed it. Wine smells great. But, I shivered in uncomfortable delight as he raised the glass to eye level and swished it around to check it's "legs."
So, I'm faced with a moral dilemma. I love AtrickPa. He's a true friend. I also know the shame of being exposed as a fancy pants. I had just lived it. But there was NO WAY I would allow him to carry on this charade. I burst open laughing at this sight and screamed "what in the world are you doing?" Again, smuggo and our wives joined right in with my roaring laughter as AtrickPa took his turn in the barrel. He shrunk three inches.
But a funny thing happened. We relaxed. It was like the realization of who we really were was comforting. I didn't really know fancy food, and he damn sure didn't know anything about wine. We had been trying so hard to be "all growed up" that we weren't enjoying why we showed up in the first place. After that, we had an amazing night. We laughed, mostly at ourselves, and told stories. We ate great food, minus the goose liver, and then hit up the quarter for the ghost tour.
It might be my favorite memory of what being twenty-something was like. Amanda looked beautiful in a flowing gypsy skirt, with a permanent smile, as we soaked in the tongue-in-cheek spookiness of the tour, laughing loudly at all of the inappropriate times.
I don't think I'll ever properly pronounce the word ragout. I now wear it as a badge.
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