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.

Good Friends Are Like Stars...

...you don't always see them, but you know they are always there. -- Confucius

We went up to Massachusetts to spend Thanksgiving with my family this year. While there, I decided to help my parents by clearing out some of my old junk--stuff that's been cluttering up their space for the twenty years that they've lived in the house. The two nightstand drawers in my old room were crammed with letters from the late eighties and early nineties--these were my college years when I would go back home over school breaks and summer vacations.

I've been going through the letters slowly, trying to decipher my friends' almost-illegible scrawl. My goal was to throw out most of the letters, but yet keep a representative sample that would sum up the place and time, as well as each friend's individual personality.

A large proportion of the letters were from my freshman year at college. I guess this is because my old high school friends and I had yet to form any close friendships with kids at college, so we were, understandably, clinging to our former lives. 

Summer of '88: Me and a few friends, back together
 after our freshman year of college.

As I read through the letters, I wasn't surprised by all the mentions of cute boys, classes, partying, and roommates (whom ranged from awesome to awful). But what did surprise me, what I wasn't expecting to read, was so much written about our friendships with one another--what we missed, what we meant to each other, how close our bonds were, etc. We were surprisingly introspective young women considering we were just out of high school. 

For example, here's what one friend wrote to me in September, 1987, just after we'd gone our separate ways to different colleges thousands of miles apart:

"My problem is I meet a lot of people but have no close friends. I wish in a way you and our other friends were with me. Though we'd all be trying to break away from each other, we'd still have each other there.... I miss you, Sue! I talk about you a lot. It's so weird to be starting new again! I like it, but there are certain security things I miss, like our group."

That is pretty self-aware for an eighteen year old, if you ask me. 

In another letter, a different friend wrote:

"Sue, I really miss you and I know it sounds dumb but I really wish that you were here because you truly have been so strong for me on so many occasions. You are truly my best friend (a term I no longer use so lightly!) and I don't know how come I deserve you sometimes."

I love you, crazy girls.

Twenty years later, I'm blown away by the level of intimacy in these letters. I'm sure at the time I didn't think much of it; it would've just been how things were, how we felt about one another, and the way we communicated and responded to each other. But because I'm so far away from that time, and my focus is on family rather than friendships, it just seems so, so remarkable that we felt that strongly and deeply about each other.

I still love these ladies, though we remain geographically isolated from one another. I miss having them in my life on a regular basis, but even more, I miss having a gang of cool, smart, interesting, and fun women around to whom I can talk, vent, and bitch, and who also completely have my back. My husband and family are wonderful and supportive of course, but it's not the same.  

So if any of you lovely ladies--my dearest friends from childhood and beyond--are reading this, I just want to thank you for all the love, laughs, hugs, support, and advice you've given me over the years.

I couldn't have made it through without you. And I miss you so much it hurts.

The More Things Change, the More Some A#*holes Stay the Same

Early this past Saturday morning I boarded a Metro-North train to Manhattan, where my old college roommate picked me up, and off we drove to Philadelphia. We were both a bit anxious about leaving our kids in the hands of our (extremely capable) husbands, but excited to reconnect with old friends, see the UPenn campus we loved, and not be "Mommy" for 30 or so hours. It was our 20th College Reunion.

I was a little apprehensive about what the whole scene would be like. During my college years there had been a group of girls who were all popular, classy, prep-school-educated, pretty, and rich (well, richer than me, at least). I was good friends with a couple of these girls, but as a group they were exclusive. Back then, they made me nervous. Twenty years later, however, the exclusionary tactics were basically gone, and I had little reason to feel apprehensive. Overall, I had some nice conversations with some smart, witty women. Turns out two decades can really change a person.

Or not. Late Saturday night, a group of us were walking from the Class of 1991 gala to a brewpub for the after-party. I knew where the place was so I was out in front, leading the way. At some point, I was aware of a guy walking next to me. I didn't remember his name, but his face was certainly familiar--we weren't friends in college but travelled in the same social circles. We chatted a little as we walked. Something about him started nagging at my brain but I couldn't put my finger on it.

As we entered the super-packed brewpub, he did the whole hand-on-your-lower-back-to-help-navigate-you-through-the-crowd thing and asked me, with a creepy glint in his eyes, what I wanted to drink. That's when I realized he was hitting on me. I admit I was flattered (I don't get hit on much these days), but also a bit uncomfortable; I'm a happily married woman, after all.

I looked around, and that's when I realized we'd become separated from the rest of our group. I started getting nervous. Then the guy ran into someone he recognized, and over the din of the crowd, I heard him introduce himself. "Hi, I'm Tom," he said.

WHAM-O! went my brain, as the pieces fell together. I suddenly realized that this guy, Tom*, was the worst, grossest, most pathetic scammer back in college. He'd hit on any girl with a pulse. Oh. My. God. I was being macked on by that dude! I started panicking. I grabbed my phone and frantically started texting my friends trying to find where they were in the huge, mobbed bar.

"I wonder where everyone else is?" I said to Tom, my heart pounding. "I want to go find them." I took off fighting my way through the crowd, putting as much distance between me and Tom as possible. I found our group in a private back room, ran over to my friends, and collapsed on the banquette, laughing: "Oh my god, oh my god, oh my god, protect me! I just got scammed on by The Scammer!"

A little while later, this other guy came up to me and my friends as we were reminiscing about old times. He leaned in close--way too close--and said something basically unintelligible, he was so drunk. But his intentions were crystal clear.

Now this guy I remembered. Cameron Cordi was a capital D.I.C.K. back in college. Let's put it this way: If someone had told me he was a date rapist, I'd believe them, no questions asked. I think he was an athlete--lacrosse, maybe?--and he'd always walked around campus with the most privileged air about him. He was cocky and smug and good-looking: a lethal combination. He's definitely less good-looking these days, but just as cocky and smug. And, according to his Facebook page, married with a baby.

As closing time neared, Tom the Scammer slithered over again, trying to chat me up. I answered his question curtly and turned back to my friends. Then Cam Cordi sauntered up, practically falling on me, and this time, I couldn't understand even a single word (though his face was inches from mine). He was totally plastered.

Later on, as I was lying in my hotel room bed, running through the night's events in my head, I got a weird sense of deja vu. It dawned on me that both these men had hit on me back in college (though they were boys back then). It's one thing for an 18- or 19-year-old boy to act so badly, but a 41-year-old man? That's just disgusting and pathetic and offensive. Twenty years of misogynistic, piggish behavior--their moms must be so proud!

Hopefully five years from now, when I'm back on campus for our 25th reunion, I'll remember what happened and steer clear of these guys. Because if they haven't changed in twenty years, another five isn't going to make a difference. They were jerks then, are jerks now, and probably will still be jerks when they're 80.

* All names have been changed to protect the guilty.

It's Called "March Madness" Because the People Who Watch It Are Insane

I just need to rant a little bit about the insanity called "March Madness." Okay, so the "March" part is clear, but "Madness?" The only reason it could be called that is because the people who live and breathe college basketball this month are CRAAAAZY. Cuz if you ask me, it's a colossal snorefest.

The bottom line is that I just don't get it: Why are so many people who were actually last in college during the Ford administration watching a bunch of kids play ball who've probably never even heard of Gerald Ford?

Every year this question occurs to me, but since my husband is not a basketball fan and doesn't force me to watch the tournament, I've not had reason to really ponder it. But this year, we happened to spend a March weekend at my in-laws' house, and because my mother-in-law is a basketball fan and an even bigger March Madness fan, we ended up watching a lot of college b-ball that weekend. (Or, in my case, staring a lot at the wall just above the TV set.)

So I asked my m-i-l, "What is it that you love so much about watching non-professional players who are more than 40 years your junior and who attend colleges you have no affiliation with compete against each other?"

"I like watching good plays."

Really? Is it that simple? No, it can't be...not for most people. I mean, back in the 80s when I was a youngun, I went through a massive basketball phase, watching every Celtics game I could. Back then, NBA basketball was still fast-paced and entertaining--full of good plays!--but despite my love of the game, I didn't watch March Madness. Nor did I watch it when I was actually in college and went to lots of games because I was friends with many of my university team's basketball players.

I guess it just wasn't as big a deal back then? Though according to Wikipedia, the tournament's been happening since 1939.

So, please, can someone explain it to me? Why do so many people suddenly care about colleges they've hardly heard of before, like Butler and Gonzaga and VCU? Why? Why?

School Daze

Ack! I can't believe I'm already stressing my son getting into college...and he hasn't even started Kindergarten yet. It's going to be a nerve-wracking 13 years, that's for sure.

Don't get me wrong, I'm not one of those Tiger Mothers who sign their two-year-olds up for Arabic classes or force piano lessons on 'em at age four. My son is smart but normal: he's five and just starting to read, and he only speaks one language. I want him to have a normal childhood and pursue those activities that truly interest him, regardless of what might look best on his college application.

But is playing dinosaurs and making pom-pom animals really putting my son on the Ivy League track?

And that's what it comes down to, folks. I went to an Ivy League university and I'll do everything in my power to give my kids that opportunity as well. Because, unlike the haters out there (you're all just jealous!), I believe that graduating from an Ivy League college opened many doors for me.

I was a driven teenager. I knew from an early age that I wanted to attend a top-notch university, so everything I did from then on was with my eyes on the prize. Sure, I enjoyed playing clarinet, but the only reason I busted my butt learning every single scale--minors included!--was so I'd earn a spot in the selective, award-winning concert band. Why? Because it would look good on my college app.

I was an excellent student--ranked #8 in my graduating class of 270 students--but nowadays even being Valedictorian does not guarantee a kid admittance to an Ivy. And besides my grades, I did everything else quite averagely: average soccer player, average clarinet player, average number of extracurriculars. My SAT scores were above-average but nothing spectacular.

There are high school seniors out there today who, with the same qualifications I had 24 years ago, wouldn't even get into one of my safety schools. So what does that mean for my kid? Things are bound to get even more competitive over the next decade, no?

I'm just afraid that, in order to be a competitive candidate, my son will have to sign up for every single club his school offers, speak multiple languages, be a musical virtuoso, have a .350 batting average on the varsity baseball team, and take five AP classes every semester. Not mention summer internships at the White House. Forget about how the heck my kid is supposed to deal with that workload, let's talk about how his MOTHER's going to hack it. Am I right, people?

Because I know, I JUST KNOW...it's going to be me gently nudging him to amp it up, me suggesting he join the f-ing Mathletes (may he forgive me someday), me helping him study for his APs. Did you know high school kids these days compile something called an Activity Sheet? It's essentially a resume for high-achieving teens without jobs on which they brag about how many Science Fairs they've won. Reading one can make your skin crawl.

I should probably not care what colleges my kids get into. I should probably not push them at all and just let them "follow their bliss" wherever it may lead them. But knowing myself, it's unlikely that will happen. I don't know what the answer is. All I do know is that it's a scary world out there...and it freaks me out that we are willingly sending our kids out into it.

The Natural History of Growing Up

There was another blog-worthy episode of How I Met Your Mother last night (maybe I should turn this into a HIMYM blog!).

As you may or may not know, Marshall and Lily met in college, back when they were anti-establishment idealists bent on making a difference. Marshall became a lawyer, with the intention of working for the NRDC (Natural Resource Defense Council) so he could "save the world" as Lily says. But instead, he ended up a corporate lawyer for Goliath National Bank. He defends his position: "Remember, no one's the same as they were in college." But Lily doesn't like it and she won't accept it.

Later on in the episode, Marshall tells Lily that he's been offered a five-year contract with Goliath; Lily assumes he's not going to accept, because working at a bank was supposed to be just a temporary thing. She still views her husband as the not-for-profit, idealistic guy he was in college. But people change, and he's not that dude anymore. Lily is devastated: "I want you to be the person I fell in love with."

In a brilliant scene, Lily is sadly wandering around the Natural History Museum (the gang is at a formal gala, sponsored by Goliath), pondering the news that Marshall is determined to accept the GNB contract, thereby putting an end to her dream of him saving the world. She enters a room with various animal dioramas. Next to a "DALL'S SHEEP" one is this: "COLLEGE MARSHALL (EXTINCT)." Behind the glass is College Marshall in his dorm room. He has the munchies and is eating a huge sub.

"I want you, as opposed to who you've become," says Lily. "You've changed so much."

"You can't have me," replies Marshall. "Look at the sign; I'm extinct."

It got me thinking about the extinct me: the girl who marched on Washington in a pro-choice rally and stayed up half the night arguing about the latest cause. The girl who dreamed of a career as a documentarian, or maybe a spy. The girl who was going to travel the world...learn to speak Russian...climb the highest mountains...help bring global injustices to light.

Where is this girl now? She's a married woman, living in middle-class suburbia, driving a mini-van, cooking dinner every night, folding laundry, and wiping poopy bums. Sigh....

But yet she's also raising two incredible little people: nurturing, teaching, feeding, clothing, playing, singing, dancing, laughing, tickling, kissing, hugging, and loving, loving, loving, loving.

There is so much more love in my life today than I ever could have imagined. The present-day me has so much more going for her than the college me. I'll take my current life, thank you very much.

It beats climbing Mt. Kilimanjaro any day of the week.