Elvis is IN the building

The news was jarring n simultaneously hopeful and depressing.

“Face it, Shell, you’re about to have an empty nest,” the voice on the other end of the line said.

It was a harsh reality. And just moments earlier I’d been preoccupied with the day’s biggest news: I’m 51.

All year, the threat of 50 had been looming in the crevices of my mind. Luckily, age delivers a gift of its own n short-term memory loss. You know … where you find yourself standing in the dining room holding a house slipper, scissors and a frying pan and can’t for the life of you remember why.

Memory loss made 50 ho hum. Until I pulled out my driver’s license and discovered 50 had passed!

Where was I, you may wonder? How can a woman slam into that number and not realize it?

One word: Katrina. I lived in Slidell in August 2005, right in the storm’s path. By Nov. 10, 2005, the newspaper I worked for had enfolded into a sister publication; leaving many of the staff scurrying for work elsewhere. My final day came on my birthday.

No house, no job, family temporarily relocated to Oklahoma and friends scattered across America. Let’s just say there was no cake that day. It was, graciously, forgotten and was never counted.

Flash forward five years, and birthdays still get little play. Sure, my 17-year-old relishes the let’s-try-to-guess-mom’s-age-in-public game, but I don’t bite.

For some reason, this year I glanced at the license to see if it needed renewing. And that’s when I did the math. “51? What the …? I’m 51?”

Add to it, my 17-year-old is college shopping. She doesn’t have my short-term memory issues or math phobia. She’ll do well.

But she’ll leave me alone and forgetful next year, I realized during my “phone-a-friend” session. Something had to be done … fast. Something big.

And that’s when Elvis came calling.

He stands about 8 inches in his bare feet, weighs approximately 8 pounds and is a one-dog wrecking crew. At five months old, my Terrier/Schnauzer pound pooch has two speeds: hyper and asleep. Shoes, clothes, homework … everything’s fair game. If he can’t eat it, tear it, throw it or hide it, he stacks it in the entryway. Item by item, he’s preparing to move me out.

It is safe to say, however, turning 51 and having my teen spread her wings and fly away are no longer the most pressing issues in my household. And I no longer have to change the channel out of guilt as the heartbreakingly faces of abandoned animals stare back at me from behind kennel bars as Sarah McLachlan’s “Angel” plays softly in the background during pet adoption commercials. “I gave at the office!” I proudly tell myself.

Yes, Elvis is IN the house. Question is, will he let me and the 17-year-old stay, too.