This weekend was a fun one and a big one for my sisters and me. I am the oldest of three girls, and about seven months ago my middle sister sent me an URGENT email. She was living in California at the time and hoping for a transfer back home. She must receive Ticketmaster updates to her phone or something and when one caught her eye, she took it as a sign. The New Kids On The Block were joining the Backstreet Boys on a new tour and it was hitting this area. She insisted on buying tickets and that the three of us would go together. She was living clear across the country at the time, but this MONUMENTAL tour was a sign, I guess. She went on faith and purchased the tickets somehow KNOWING she’d make it here in time. Step By Step, things fell into place. Summertime came, she got the transfer, and moved less than a month before the concert date. I’ll bet the girl thinks Jordan is her KNIGHT in shining armor and got this ball rolling for her. Whatever.

So Friday afternoon, I hit the road in my dad’s old pick up truck to stay with my sisters for the night and have some much needed girl time. Here I was rolling down the road in Daddy’s truck which neither suits my style nor my driving capabilities. It’s BIG. Bigger than what I’m used to for sure, but driving his truck is kind of like trying to walk in his shoes. Both are a little big to fill but will get me to where I’m going until I can find my own perfect fit. The rearview mirror was there and talk about time to reflect! It’s been thirteen years and it’s still humming, but on this trip down memory lane it was humming a New Kids song. There are dents in that truck that I put there myself. It was new when he died, but we kept it and used it to move all his girls into new apartments over the years. When the New Kids were indeed ACTUAL new kids on the music scene, Daddy’s girls were screaming, neon wearing, side-ponytail-sporting little girls and pre-teens. Here we are now, all grown up and still screaming decades later. The screaming just comes from OUR kids now and not as often from us. The grandkids are just like Daddy’s kids, really. How could they NOT be. They are loud and fun and smart and maybe a little dramatic, but it’s all entertaining.

As I pull into town, my phone starts exploding with texts and calls. I’m not about to wreck this big ol truck to check my phone, so I leave them be and try to send them my mind vibes: “I’ll be there shortly. Hold your horses.” I think it worked too. My phone quit blowing up, and I was able to quit thinking that I was perhaps missing out on something BIG – like nutty friends and sisters sneaking onto the tour bus BIG. “Keep on truckin’,” I think to myself as I roll off the interstate and check my messages at a stop light. Huh, Whaddayaknow. One of those messages is from my apartment manager and it seems there is a complex issue at hand. The apartment below me has discovered some sort of leak. The ceiling is dripping and buckling and it seems to be coming from MY apartment. Great. Last thing I remember before we scooted out the door to drop off the kids was hearing, “Hey, Sis! Come see what I made!” The call came from the bathroom, so I assumed something gross and never bothered to listen for a flush. I hadn’t bothered to check and see if last night’s waterfall creation had been resurrected or anything. CRAP! Buckle up, get your BUTT in gear, and hit the GAS, Baby! Maybe it’s just a leaky pipe or something. They’ll discover the source and fix the problem without me. One can only hope.

I arrived at my youngest sister, Little’s house and barely made it in the Nick of time. Backstreet’s Back, alright! We had our tickets in hand – actually Middle wanted to print them herself from my Ticketmaster account. She was so nervous I would forget or suffer a last-minute printer malfunction that she didn’t trust me. We headed to dinner and began our photo diary of the evening. The restaurant was packed! It was the ultimate cougar den. Chicks were dressed in 80’s garb and homemade t-shirts. Now I was HACKED. Little should have made us some like I asked. “Look how freakin’ boring we look,” I thought. Oh, well. We’ll make up for it.

My brother-in-law and niece had to drop us off at the concert. We were responsible grown ups and knew that we’d be drinking therefore needed a chauffeur. My poor little Baby Boo wanted to go with us but serenaded us with Gaga songs the entire ride to compensate. We start them young here musically speaking, so her chance will come soon enough. We arrived at the venue and pulled into the drop-off lane. HA! Never in my life have I seen so many husbands driving min-vans filled with kids in car seats and moms decked out in their finest. I think the best were the Pregos though, and there were lots of ’em. Cute little bellies were decorated with all sorts of NKOTBSB sayings and lyrics. It was totally cute, but I was also TOTALLY glad I was not one of them. I’m irritable pregnant, and my view of the scene would’ve described annoying squealy voiced thirty-something fatties all gathered to relive their teenage dream crushes while singing at the top of their lungs completely off-key to a group of guys they’ll never have a chance with. See? I’m much more pleasant without a bump and raging hormones.

I swear we stood in line for an hour to get our drinks. It killed the mood, and I’m not even kidding. Middle and I waited in line while Little stood off to the side like a princess just waiting for her order. We didn’t even talk after a few minutes. We couldn’t. All we could do was SWEAT and curse under our breaths at the liquored up ladies in front of us. Every now and then, we’d look at each other and the sweat pouring off our carefully coiffed heads and beautifully made-up faces. By the time we got to the front of the line, the decision was made and we ordered. I was NOT about to get back into THIS line, so I ordered a double. Actually, I ordered a double double. TWO doubles should last us each a little while, right? So the three of us and our 6 pink double drinks headed off to find our seats. FLOOR SEATS I might add!

OK. So here is where the story gets good and may live on in infamy and be disputed forever. Somewhere in the middle of the concert, Middle spies a stage hand pushing a large box down the side of the arena and just past her. Here’s how she thinks: “OMG! I bet one of the Backstreet Boys is actually in that box! Like a Jack-in-the-Box! I bet he’s gonna pop up under a spotlight and if I’m standing right next to him, then I can be the one to grab him first, right??” So she waits. And scopes out the scene. And she waits some more. If there is indeed a boy of some kind in that box, then he is dead by now. And if she runs up and opens the box and embarrasses me, then she is dead to ME. Alas, the time comes and spotlight hits the floor RIGHT BY US. But the box is actually a speaker apparently. WHO do you think does indeed pop out of nowhere and surprises everyone BUT these three sly sisters? Yep. Uh-huh. Jordan himself. Our Knight.

It took only half a nanosecond for us to pounce. Little was the first I saw out of the gates because by the time I looked, Middle was nowhere to be seen. I think they both may have taken out a couple of Pregos in their mad dash. I was a bit more suave and arrived at The Kid a few seconds behind. The rest was total chaos so all I could do was document the scene with my trusty iPhone by holding it into the air and thinking maybe I’ll get some decent shots this way. We watched our boy sing directly to us (and maybe some other thousands of fans as well, but they are not important here) and headed starry-eyed by to our seats. THAT is when the dispute began. You remember the Movie, JFK? Yeah, well the conspiracy theorists could have a field day with this one, and I have grainy documented proof from the grassy knoll that supports my version of events here. Little arrived back at her seat BRAGGING (which is a mortal sin in our house) that JORDAN had grabbed HER hand and refused to let go until security ushered him along. Oh, REALLY? Allow me to submit my evidence for the record.

The first picture shows the Little hand to the right with the stylish black beaded bracelet.

The second shows the head of security. (Well, I don’t know if he was actually the HEAD in CHARGE of security, but it is indeed his HEAD and he has Little in his sights.)

The third frame in the sequence finally shows Security pushing HER away. Back, and to the left. Back, and to the left. BACK… and to the LEFT. It looks like he’s actually looking for assistance there, too. Hallelujah! Hands in the air! I rest my case.

She claims this was after her hand was gripped and “caressed,” but I will let the solid evidence speak for itself and allow you to make your own judgement here. The concert ended with confetti dropping from the ceiling, a hitched ride home in a friend’s Honda Odyssey and stories to tell of our memorable Knight.

We stayed up late talking, laughing, and dancing like fun sisters frequently do. At some point I realized that while I believe I came home with ALL of my dignity, I did manage to lose my credit card. That’s the price I paid for the fun, I guess. There may have been a little more wine involved as well, but I don’t really remember. Maybe that’s evidence enough that more wine was present for the late night whining session. I do know though that I went to bed sometime around THREE A.M. When I awoke to my little niece’s voice and one of my sisters in my bedroom, I asked how late they stayed up. The answer: “HA! We didn’t go to sleep, Loser!” Awesome. Just great. I slacked and they continued to Hang Tough til the sun came up. I wonder if they talked about me. I wonder what they said. I am NOT a loser! But they know that. And they pick on me anyway just as I pick on them. It’s how we work, and we work together well. Truth is, their little world doesn’t revolve around me and even when I have all KINDS of things going on here, they have their own lives to lead as well. They don’t require Big Sister advice on EVERYTHING either. (Actually, let’s call me Elder. I don’t like what BIG implies, and OLDER makes me sound like I have wrinkles already, OK?)

I thanked them for the stay by buying them breakfast – kolaches and donuts. My favorite little donut shop there sells Boudin Kolaches as well as dozens of varieties of donuts. Boudin is like a Cajun Sausage made with rice, meat & various spices. The girls in my family can be sweet like the donuts and a little spicy like the kolaches. You know that saying about making sausage? It ain’t pretty to watch it being made but it sure tastes good. It’s like my little life here. It’s not always pretty, but I like it and our cajun seasoning makes it even better. WE must be like the Cajun Spice Girls, huh? How’s THAT for another blast from the past band? Bang!

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