Saturday Night Fever

You assume a risk surprising anyone approaching retirement age. Heart failure seems a cruel fate, indiscriminately smiting both the marathon runner and the chain smoker. Yet, acquaintance with my mom’s Mardi Gras spirit assured me that if her ticker couldn’t survive the 55th birthday party surprise, at least it would be a great way to go—amid the fêting of family and friends. Plus, she’s really not that old. In truth, she barely even qualifies as an “active adult”- only her dental travails betraying her senior age.



Thus, a surprise soiree was hosted this past Saturday. Suffice to say, both survived the shock- my mom that the party was actually in her honor and Eowyn that it was not strictly in hers. Fortunately, Eowyn’s devotion to her “Nonnie” (and to social revelry in general) made this festive occasion all the more spectacular- sparkler candles notwithstanding. Likewise, the pink champagne, decadent desserts and delectable hors d’oeuvres delighted the appetite of my mother whose (enviable) “non-mom body” belies her love affair with finger foods- those foods expedited by fingers into her mouth. Eulogizing tributes followed a short commemorative film (featuring several suspicious former beaus and equally suspect hair styles). Regretfully, I wish I could conclude by recounting tales of partying into the wee hours of the morning- superfluous furniture being flung aside to accommodate the dancing queens of the night. However considering the “active adult” demographic, the singular remaining guest with “Saturday night fever” was my own diminutive darling who was inquiring about the after party.

Happy 55th to the hottest (and the best) mom I know! We adore you. May your 60th find you with your own teeth, real hair, still doing the "Twist" at wedding receptions under a Reaganite presidency.