Turtleneck Man, Dalmatian Man, Arm Man...Oh, My!

During college--especially freshman year when we hadn't met many people yet--my new dorm friends and I did that thing where we gave people we continually saw around campus but didn't know nicknames. I remember doing this mostly with hot upper-classmen guys. We had no idea who they were (yet!) but we talked about them so much that we needed identifiers. Let's see, there was Turtleneck Man (my crush--he was very JCrew), Dalmatian Man (my roommate's crush--hippie dude who walked his dalmatian around campus), and Arm Man (lovely, muscley arms, duh), just to name a few.

We later discovered their real names: John, Glenn, and Steve. The nicknames were much more fun. There was a thrilling sense of mystery--who were these guys and what might the future hold?--that you just don't get with a John, Glenn, or Steve.

There were a few girls/women we named, too. We poured over the freshman Facebook (a book with photos of all incoming freshman--yeah, The Facebook was a cool college thing before Zuckerberg and the Internet turned it into a needy housewife thing) and even though names were included with the photos, the wise-asses on our dorm floor sometimes gave nicknames to the odd ducks. The one I remember best was Ugly Susan. I think her name was Eunice in real life and, as I recall, she was quite dorky-looking, and we resembled each other not at all. But one of the guys saw something there, so.... (I was just happy she was Ugly Susan instead of Pretty Susan).

After college, I moved to NYC, and there was no longer any need for these nicknames. There are just too many people in Manhattan--you don't tend to repeatedly run into the same people unless you already know them. Sure, there's Deli-Worker Guy and Creepy Dude from Downstairs; but because these people aren't terribly interesting, you don't talk about them much and therefore only need basic identifiers, rather than cute nicknames.

Abs of Steel has two young kids,
so her abs are extra-impressive!

But once my husband and I moved to the suburbs, nicknames became necessary again. We began to see the same strangers over and over again around town. We needed a quick way to identify these folks: That Blonde Mom With The Two Girls Who We See At The Pool just wasn't cutting it.

What Sven looks like

My husband, who has a seriously awesome way with words, is usually the nicknamer. Pretty soon we were talking about Abs of Steel (a super-fit, bikini-wearing mom we'd see at the pool), Sven (a Nordic-looking, convertible-Beemer-driving dad with long blonde hair), and Robert Plant (who's nickname really should be Schlubby Robert Plant, because I only wish we had a dude who looked like RP in town). It made conversations much easier.

NOT, unfortunately, what our
Robert Plant looks like (except
maybe the hair)

But unlike at college where we didn't usually end up becoming friendly with those hot upperclassmen or nerdy freshman we nicknamed, once you've lived in a small town for five or six years, you tend to start meeting people.

Yup, we now officially know Abs of Steel. And Sven, too. AWK-WARD!

Nice folks, though.

Face Invaders

I've been looking forward to tomorrow night for a while now. The rugby team my husband played for for years is having their annual Awards/Get-Drunk-and-Crazy Dinner in the city. It was a fun event even when we lived in NYC pre-kids and went out all the time, but now that we can count on one hand the number of times we get out each year without the kids, it's downright exciting.

I will be wearing a pretty dress, heels, and mascara for the first time since summer.

So the cold sore that appeared on my upper lip a few days ago was less welcome than usual.

AAAHHHHHH, SUSAN!!! Why, why, why? This is SO YOU, just classic, gross Susan. Oh, there's an important event coming up? BAM! Cold sore!

You should hear me the week leading up to something fun (high-school reunion, Christmas party, tropical vacation, whatever); I begin reciting my pleasedon'tletmegetacoldsore, pleasedon'tletmegetacoldsore mantra. I'm not sure who I'm telling exactly because generally I'm not a prayer, but I figure begging and pleading can't hurt. (Hey, you never know who might be listening, though why they'd listen to me, I don't know.)

This week's cold sore got me thinking about my childhood and the dreaded SCHOOL PICTURE DAY. Because, inevitably, I'd get a cold sore beforehand and ruin the photo.

Oh, you think I'm exaggerating? Yeah, so did I at first. I thought maybe once I had a cold sore in a school picture and that time had distorted the memory. But then while at my parents' house over Thanksgiving, I decided to peruse some old photo albums.

And that's when I confronted The Horror (not in chronological order):

Super-cute pigtails...super-gross cold sore.

My mom calls this one my "Queen
Victoria" pose. I call it "Ugly Amish
girl with cold sore."

The smile is a hopeful one that says "Gee, I
hope my almost-but-not-quite-gone cold sore
doesn't show up in the picture!" No such
luck, Little Susan.

I loved that APPLE shirt. What I didn't love
was the cold sore that appeared on my face
 every year before Picture Day. (The glare
hides it but trust me it's there, bottom-right).

Mustard-colored 70's turtleneck=ugly
Mustard-colored turtleneck + cold sore=heinous

All five photos are from elementary school. And since I was in elementary school for a total of six years...well, you do the math. Okay, I'll do the math: over 80% of the time I had a cold sore in my school photo. That is craaaazy. And disgusting, painful, and embarrassing.

And humbling...definitely oh-so humbling.

Absolut Crap

While at the liquor store earlier today (replenishing supplies), I saw something Absolut-ly heinous and offensive:

Yes, you are correct: the limited edition Absolut Brooklyn. This offends me on quite a few levels, actually. The first level is the ridiculousness of the vodka's flavor: red apple and ginger. I kinda get the ginger part but my feeling on apple is that, unless you are under the age of ten, you should not be drinking apple-flavored beverages. The very thought of lifting a glass to my lips and getting a strong whiff of red delicious makes me want to barf.

Not that this new flavor combination should surprise me. Gross vodkas have been around for decades, though the first couple Absolut variations--Citron and Kurant--were relatively grown-up, at least. Now however, other wacky flavors are available: Berri Acai (does anyone actually know what acai tastes like?), Wild Tea (are there really people out there who wish their hard liquor tasted more like tea?), and the super-sweet and cloying sounding Absolut Mango.

The second level of offensiveness is, of course, the name.

I have nothing against the regular, old Brooklyn (a sometimes gritty/sometimes lovely place); it's even my second favorite borough. My problem is with the "new" Brooklyn: the one with all the greasy, bearded hipsters, trendy bistros, and just-completed, over-priced condos.

As someone who lived for over a decade in downtown Manhattan back when it was the center of the rock-n-roll universe, I resent Brooklyn for stealing that title from the city I love. Because, despite what it desperately wants to believe, Brooklyn will never be as cool as Manhattan. TRUST ME (because I've been to Brooklyn).

Sure, it's got some cool and funky parts, but they are tiny, hip pockets nestled within a sprawling, usually-dirty, often-dangerous, 99-cent-store borough. Brooklyn as a whole will never have Manhattan's energy. You know how the second you enter the city, its energy zips through you like electricity coursing through your veins? Doesn't happen in Brooklyn.

And the third level of offensiveness is to whom the vodka is marketed. It's certainly not meant to appeal to the bedraggled Brooklyn hipsters (and that's just the chicks), because they can't afford $18 cocktails. And surely Manhattan folks aren't clamoring for hooch named after the borough that stole their precious borough's thunder, right?

Which pretty much leaves Jersey...and/or other areas of the country aspiring to hipster-dom and trendiness.

And I resent any alcoholic beverage that's marketed to Jersey.

Biergarten, Strudel, and Lederhosen: Oktoberfest!

A crazy thing happened last night: my husband and I went to an adult party, with kegs and liquor and music and finger food and everything. It was an Oktoberfest theme, and since grown-up parties are extremely rare around here, we decided to make the most of it by dressing up.

In our Oktoberfest garb

The party was fun but it was much more sedate than ones we'd attended in pre-kids, city-livin' days. That was to be expected--after all, most of the guests were expecting 7 a.m. wake-up calls from their kiddies the following morning. I knew a bunch of people there--moms I see around--so it didn't matter that everyone else was from Priusville (the much cooler town next to ours, where the party was held). This party was also different in that people were friendly enough so that relying on excessive amounts of alcohol as a social lubricant was unnecessary. Besides, we drove and hadn't decided beforehand who would be the designated driver.

Here's another way this get-together was different: Back in my single days, I'd go to a party and get a crush on a guy there. After I became serious with my husband-to-be, I stopped looking at other men that way and instead, sometimes I'd leave a party with a little crush on a woman. (I didn't have romantic feelings, rather I was drawn to these women because they all had qualities I envied. The crushes were more admiration than anything else.) But last night, it dawned on me: now I get crushes on couples.

It's tough to find a couple where both members are equally nice, funny, and cool. Usually, this is what happens: you meet another mom with whom you hit it off, but then then all four of you get together and find out the husband is a total dud. It's a bummer because that friendship can never get to the next level.

Last night I left the party crushing a bit on a couple we met there, Ryan and Maggie. We met Ryan first: he was very impressed with our Oktoberfest garb and told us his wife would be envious when she saw us. Points scored for complimenting us right off the bat! Then we found out that both he and his wife were/still are actors and had recently moved to Westchester from Brooklyn. It's funny because when I lived in Manhattan, Brooklyn people annoyed me with their self-righteousness, but now that our entire town seems to be from the Bronx or Yonkers, Brooklyn sounds like Shangri-La.

We met Maggie later on, and just as her husband promised, she went ape-s#*t for our costumes. Both she and Ryan were very bubbly and engaging so the conversation flowed and there was lots of laughter. They both also happen to be adorable and even have two little girls named Alice and Hazel. I mean, really, Hazel? I could just die with the cuteness of it all.

So here I am, thinking about the fun evening and wondering if I'll ever see Ryan and Maggie again. I really hope so. I'll be looking everywhere for them now: library, playgrounds, grocery store. Hope I don't turn into a stalker. We sure could use friends like them. <Sigh>

Rock-n-Roll...Suburban Style

I don't see live music too often anymore--my last big show was U2 a year ago--for these reasons:
1. Tickets and babysitters are expensive.
2. We no longer live in Manhattan and therefore have to drive.
3. The cool shows run late, and my kids wake up early.

But when I lived in the city, seeing live music was one of my favorite things to do. Bowery Ballroom, Mercury Lounge, Roseland Ballroom...I'm practically tearing up just thinking about the awesome times I've had at these (and other) venues.

Nowadays, when I do get to see live music, the experience is...shall we say...different. Take last night, for example. I went to a local bar/restaurant, Victor's, to see my neighbor's band play. Victor's is a total dive--there's really no other way to describe it. The place was even recently overhauled but a fresh coat of paint can't mask its divey-ness. Manhattan dives often have sexy histories: maybe Bob Dylan strummed guitar there or Dylan Thomas croaked there or Sid Vicious shot up there. But a local dive has just seen the same sad sacks year after year. And you won't find any cute bartenders at Victor's, just the same surly dude who's been working there for years (decades?).

Another big difference between last night and seeing a band in NYC was the crowd. There wasn't a hipster to be found at Victor's. The closest was a Joey Ramone look-alike. But he wasn't a hipster, he was just a weird dude who was stuck in the past and obviously hadn't cut his hair in years. And the women were all decked out--tight jeans, sparkly tank-tops, and stilettos (in a dive bar!)--with very big hair. They were also sorta old. It was totally Real Housewives of Westchester (but with less money).

In Manhattan, chicks at rock shows do not ever let on that they're trying to look hot. The goal is to look disheveled and little dirty--as if you couldn't care less about your appearance--but then somehow achieve the effect of being smokin' hot. It's not easy, folks.

Oh, and there were at least ten obvious alcoholics in the crowd last night.

But the music was loud, the band rocked, the crowd sang along, and the beer was cold. Not too different, after all.