Ho Ho Ho

(Photo courtesy: The Valley Ho’s)

I was about to turn fifty—December baby. Always a drag because no one wants to travel, and everyone wants to give you a Christmas-themed gift. Divorce was imminent.

As if that weren’t enough, I was starting a new job and throwing in the towel on an online meal planning business I’d been working on for months. Things were coming together with my Eat In Not Out book launch and wellness blog. But I had to keep a roof over my son’s head and mine—not an ideal time for entrepreneurial expression.

I needed my friends. Bad.

So I invited them to Scottsdale for a long weekend to celebrate my birthday and decades of friendship before the “year of bat shit crazy.”

The only problem? Not everyone knew each other. I’ve lived all over the country, after all.

I picked Scottsdale as our destination because of reported balmy December weather—a welcome change to Boise’s cold temps. However, as luck would have it, we endured record-cold temperatures. We stayed at the Valley Ho, an apt name for a bunch of ladies uniting for a weekend of fun.

Everyone dribbled into town gradually. I don’t remember how many trips I made from the Valley Ho to the airport. (Well worth it, I might add). The first guests to arrive were Cam, Nancy (in her neck brace), and Jennifer—my friends from the South.

After checking into our digs, our first adventure was hiking Camelback Mountain. We took our time on the ascent, taking in the scenery and snapping photos on our way to the summit. Some ladies preferred a faster pace than others, but we made it to the top together as one. Greeted by a Christmas tree.

On the way down, however, we realized Marcia was arriving soon from Boston, and we were running behind schedule. Cam and I started running down the mountain while the more sensible ladies trekked at a slower cadence. A few “almost tumbles?” You betcha! But we made it to the car in one piece and to the airport on time.

Frances arrived last, driving up from her home in Arizona (which is why she’s absent from some of the photos).

The cold weather didn’t stop us from hitting the outdoor hot tub.

We had some fabulous meals. (I still have that Cowboy salad recipe).

Shopped for cowboy boots. Tried to snow ski.

Drank some tequila shots like the good old days.

Danced to live music. And felt a little rough the morning after.

Did we get along? Swimmingly.

(This photo says it all).

Maybe my marriage didn’t last, but these friends have stood by me, for better or worse. Richer and poorer (literally).

Here’s the tribe (in order of when we met).

Frances. She moved from Memphis to Jackson in the seventh grade. She was nice enough to talk to the nerdy girl who studied all the time. We used to ride go-carts down her driveway and swim in her pool. We laughed on the bench during high school basketball games (since we spent a lot of time in that spot). She inspired me to go to UNC. She still texts me every week about Carolina basketball players, and she’s one of my biggest advocates for chasing my dream of writing. It’s hard to write about her without welling up in tears.

Nancy. One of my college roommates my senior year at UNC. She called me PB (short for Perfect Boobs) back when I still had them. We gave each other back rubs in the Chi O house that year. I talked her into so many mischievous acts, against her will, yet she complied. Despite those circumstances, she still talks to me. She’s my inspiration for kindness, because she embodies every ounce of the word. She’s coming to visit in a few weeks, though the agenda is still forthcoming…

Cam. She knocked on my door when I bought my condo on Dartmouth Place (in Charlotte) at the age of twenty-five. She said I wasn’t very nice at the time, but I like to think it’s because she can talk to a wall and I’m a bit more reserved. Cam has since visited me in Philly, Boston, Seattle, and Nashville. She’s road-tripped with me to Bar Harbor, Aspen, Whistler, Telluride, and Crested Butte (yep, she witnessed the double black diamond cliff fall). When I need someone to make me laugh, she is the one I call. And whenever she comes to visit, Cam insists we return to our youth.

Jennifer. We met working at Welch’s in Concord, MA, then later moved into our slummy apartment in Harvard Square together. We lived through old beaus that didn’t last, many a beer at the Plough and Stars, and basement bedrooms that froze my appendages. More importantly, she put up with my dog Shelby (who she termed the Shelbola Virus). We felt like the only two Southerners in Boston at times (which had its advantages), and though we braved the cold weather and sharp tongues, we never lost our roots. She marches to her own beat, a quality I deeply respect.

(Marcia to the left, Jennifer to the right. We’re still a happy threesome).

Marcia. Marcia lived on the same block as Jennifer and me in Harvard Square. I was introduced to her through a man I met on a blind date. The romance didn’t blossom, but our friendship did. She’s a therapist, and I got plenty of advice while training for the Boston Marathon with her, all those cold winter nights after work. I was a wild child on the loose. She reined me in. Still does, in fact. She’s also one of the few Duke grads I actually like.

That Scottsdale weekend was one of the funnest of my life. It also served as inspiration for my first novel, coming out next February. For simplicity, I had to cut the friend network down to two. And no, neither Sam nor Karen is a replica of these ladies. Jennifer and I just visited Marcia in Nantucket, and they helped me retitle my novel to Dirt Before Dessert. They also told me I need to change the name of Karen to something else (suggestions welcome in the comments. Brooke is currently the frontrunner).

I turned fifty a while ago. I still see these ladies all the time.

It never gets old. Even if we are.