Tea and crumpets…discussions of Junior League admission requirements and the passing down of Aunt Dottie’s famous flourless, bourbon bundt cake (minus the bourbon).  A typical Mothers / Daughters weekend in the Deep South may include one or all of these activities.  But “typical”…well, typical we are not.

It’s 4:30 on Friday afternoon.  I’m headed south on I-45 to my folk’s bay house in Galveston.  Mrs. Cook and daughter Jeni, Mrs. Farrell, and my own Momma Wynn are already settled in…awaiting my arrival for one VERY. IMPORTANT. REASON.  It is close to 5:00 p.m. - and that means cocktail hour. 

I pull in the drive just before the witching hour, drag my suitcase and iPod docking station up the steep stone steps and announce my arrival to limited fanfare.

“We almost had to start without you.” That’s Mrs. Farrell.  She winks, gives me a hug and makes her way to the kitchen.  To start a delectable dinner?  Ummm…no.  To stir up a tasty cocktail?  Bingo.  And like lemmings to the ledge, we all follow suit.  Let the uninhibited discussions commence.

“Girl’s Weekend” began about a year ago - give or take a year (it’s that bad memory thing again).  On rare occasions - when all busy schedules permit - the whole crew comes together:  all the moms, daughters and daughters-in-law from the Cook, Wynn and Farrell clans.  That’s a potential total of twelve, if you don’t include friends…and we never exclude friends.  It’s hard for me to remember a world without the intertwining of these three families.  It’s a triangular partnership that has stood the test of time, the struggles of raising head-strong teenagers (no wilting flowers in this clan), the joy of weddings and new babies, countless moments of belly-aching laughter (some causing momentary bladder malfunctions), and the resolution of world problems.  Lord o’ Mighty…if only women ruled the world.  Osama bin Laden would have been immediately located (women’s intuition), tossed into time out (without his favorite semi-automatics), guilted into submission, reformed in therapy and - within months - would genuinely apologize for his psychotic ways and open a halfway house for recovering terrorists.  Dust hands.  End of story.  (Sidenote:  This is not an endorsement for Hillary…shady land deals and ill-fitting fashion choices do not fly with this group).

If you’ve got an issue weighing heavily, a problem to be solved or a broken heart that needs coddling - toss it on the table (without spilling the drinks) and let the panel do their job.  You will hear advice from the teacher, the journalist and the stay-at-home mom…the psychotherapist will then weigh in and the lawyer will state her case.  And if the solution is still up for debate, the writer, ad exec, ER nurse and entrepreneur will have their say.  You will not go home empty-handed.   Your cup will fill up and runneth over and you will survive…because you have these ladies pulling you from that hole they refuse to let you wallow in.

After confidence and drive are restored, first love stories have been told and significant others have been respectfully but sufficiently nitpicked…we dance.  We dance to Crystal Gayle and Elvis….Queen, The Beatles, John Mayer, The Foo Fighters and Dolly Parton.  We live, uninhibited for a precious few moments, and go home recharged.  In three to five months…we do it all again.  Why?  Well, we have wedding plans to discuss, a new baby to prepare for and a political race to dissect.  We need to reconnect with those we love…explain why we adore them and soak in their adoration for us.  And then we need to let out the tears and laugh until we pee.  It’s just what we do.  It’s how we work.  No apologies offered. 

And yes, we also exchange recipes…but we add an extra dash (or twenty) of bourbon.  Then we dance.

Image 1: You dance with strangers?  We dance with produce. (Momma Farrell & Momma Wynn)

Image 2:  Momma Wynn and Nikki.  It’s all in the arms…apparently.

More pics of the weekend in My Life In Pictures.

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