It's Guys Like You, Mickey....

There were so many important issues to cover this week – the Oscars (yawn)...the kickoff to the season of abstinence -- Ash Wednesday (on which I ate no meat but didn’t abstain from any of my other naughty behaviors…another year down the tubes only hours in…) -- and, of course, the season finale of the food porn extravaganza, Top Chef (which I will be recapping in detail...particularly my dirty love of Germanic taskmaster, Stefan...). Not to mention that the very first installment in my succession of 34^th birthday (go with me here…) celebrations is taking place this weekend…at Christos Steak House in Astoria…back to the scene. And the celebration is a full week early to accommodate my jet-setting Mom and Dad who are off on a jaunt to Longboat Key. You know, my parents being away on my birthday has been a running theme throughout my life…when I was a kid there was some big giant important trip that Dad made annually in his role as EVP of Anything & Everything at Merrill…Mom always by his side, Gramps in charge of RJ and me for the week. So, I am used to the celebration and honoring of my miraculous birth taking place weeks early or late, with or without cake…one time my Mom forgot to get me a cake and my Dad sang to me over an Oreo instead…I swear to G*d. But one year Murph and Allison made up for my ever-shifting birthday celebration with a ring-and-run style birthday cake ambush on my actual 18^th birthday…singing to me from the bushes obscuring the front door at 766 Butternut…see, we weren’t always Mean Girls…

Anyway…getting off point again…my head was spinning this week with all the activity, and honestly, I was thisclose to taking a break from writing…but that is just way too out of character for me. So, I am beginning where all great stories do….with Mickey Rourke.

My thoughts on Barbara F&%$ing Walters and her safe and boring celeb interviews are well-documented…and you know, even on Oscar night with her big ultra-promoted, in-depth, “groundbreaking” interviews…even then, she bores me to tears (and I think she might actually be segueing into dementia about now, but hell, her Chanel suits are still on point). At any rate, I had to give her props for securing a guaranteed hot mess and ratings grabber with her deep dive into the comeback of Mickey Rourke with The Wrestler. Now, you know that I love nothing more than a gritty comeback story…and you know I saw the movie and that I covered my eyes throughout most of the fight scenes, wincing with phantom sympathy pains. And I cried and cheered and my heart went out to Mickey’s character…and I saw the parallels to Mickey’s own life and career…all that jazz. And I knew it was an amazing performance…but I also knew that I couldn’t possibly be the only one in the audience who was thinking: Wait a minute -- isn’t he just playing himself?

So with that in mind, fast forward to this past Sunday and Babs’ inane Oscar night sit downs – The Jonas Brothers (pride of Wyckoff!); Anne Hathaway (still firmly planted in the closet); and our man Mickey, busted face and all. And the interview hit on all the points I discussed above as well as covering the tragic recent death of Mickey’s 18-year old Chihuahua, Loki (just an aside…what is the deal with all these tough guys and their toy dogs all over the place…if I see another manly man running around with twin Maltese/Pomeranian/Papillon or whatevers skipping behind him, I am going to start questioning all I know to be true…so what if I am the mother of a 12 and a half year-old pug named after a gay cartoon character…). So anyway…Mickey covered all his hard times and how he threw away his promising career by disrespecting the professional process and the other actors; and eschewing authority and direction. And if that wasn’t enough, then his marriage became all twisted and obsessive and possessive and unhappy...yada yada yada.

And Mickey said he was wondering if his life was worth living…upon which Barbara pounced: “So you were suicidal…is that what you’re telling me?” she asked.

And Mickey goes: "I didn't want to be here, but I didn't want to kill myself. I think that was the chickensh*t way out, and also I'm Catholic. I just wanted to push a button and disappear."

I’M CATHOLIC!?!?!?!?! 

Well, well, my friends…another great one to claim as our own…and just in time for Lent. And really, did he even have to identify himself as a Catholic…I mean, despite having a name that makes him sound like some Depression-era street thug, the typical Catholic martyr/stiff upperlip/hide-the-pain themes run rampant throughout his words…

And it occurred to me afterwards that Mickey’s whole public life and career were playing out like the coming of age of some willful, devilish little Catholic school boy gone awry. You know…we all went to school with them…and we know them now…they are in our homes and offices and neighborhoods…and they are always the most fun ever, life of the party (we Catholics love to have fun…nothing wrong with that...). But they are also that guy who will never ever reveal himself to you fully…you know, they kind of hate handing over control…and forget it – he will never open his heart and admit he is loving/sad/scared/vulnerable/needy...and if he does slip and tell you that he loves you, he'll be sure to follow it up by mentioning some astronomical amount of beers he drank prior to saying it (well, maybe that's just the Irish-Catholics...). You know, because we Catholics have a difficult time growing out of that stubborn self-preservatuon and our deep-seeded desire to challenge authority...our need to tell anyone and everyone that you’d rather throw away your life, your love, your career than be told what to do. Frankly, I think it comes from those batty old nuns slapping us with rulers (or in my case, crushing my hand with a huge history textbook…).

And you know...the more I thought about it, the more I realized that this little professional and personal rise and fall and detour and reemergence that Mickey took is not at all unlike the final 40 days of the life of Christ....Ok, I know my parents are reading this and freaking out at my turn as heretic...but I see it more as loosely applied allegorical thinking (Mo Morin would probably sleep with me now, no?)...But you know, Christ's whole journey into Jerusalem and being exhalted...just like Mickey's early promise and skyrocketing career, right? And then Christ's miraculous acts being overshadowed by His harsh criticism of the rabbis and Roman government...just like Mickey's amazing talent and brash outspokenness...you with me still? And then His betrayal, cruxifiction and death...paralleling the fall of Mickey's once bright shining star....And then three days later, He rose again...and so, it only took Mickey 10 years to follow suit...but he got there. So....I guess this can only mean one thing:

Mickey Rourke is quite obviously the Second Coming....

So, my friends, grab your sh*t and meet me at the doorway to hell because there is no way I am throwing it all away to start praying at the altar of Rourke...You see....this is precisely why I can't bring myself to participate in those Lenten rituals...Soon enough Christ will return and he will be carrying a Chihuahua/Maltese/Pomeranian/Papillon, cig dangling from his lip, wearing some $1,800 designer eyeglasses and a vest without a shirt underneath...Man, I don't think I could give up enough chocolate and swearing and glasses of wine in a lifetime to atone for my sins nearly enough to make eternity with Rourke a palatable option...so, it's settled then, back to sinning I go...

Go with God my fellow heathens....Suz

Photo 1: My favorite day of the year...you can look like a freak and no one can laugh at your sorry a**....

Photo 2: My mom always knows the right thing to say on my birthday...well, it's better than an Orea at least, right?

Photo 3: I think Mickey needs the number for Babs' evidently fantastic plastic surgeon...

Photo 4: Dog in a dress...only a man would be that sadistic and cruel to a dog...this is TL's 2008 Christmas card photo, by the way...

Photo 5: Ok, now that Rourke I could have considered spending all eternity in worship of...

Photo 6: Mickey Rourke, before the devil got him.... circa 1962...

Photo 7: Precursor to Rourke...Jesus partying all Biblical-style and sh*t...

Photo 8: The Messiah, apparently not giving up the cancer sticks this Lent...accompanied by the Archangel Loki....

Looks Like We Made It? Wait, Did We?

Ok, so...Kathleen and I set forth on our pilgrimage to the mecca that is Nassau County to worship Barry 

Manilow in the little blue Jag with my Garmin GPS 

firmly in place. We were taking no chances...you know, because like I said, though Long Island is about 20 miles from Wyckoff, I am always confounded by its twisted maze of Turnpikes and Parkways, and how all of a sudden you think you are on the Meadowbrook but you are really on the Northern State and then somehow you end up on the Seaford-Oyster Bay Expressway not to mention taking a detour across Glen Cove Road....aaargh!! Seriously, WTF...I have quite a few bones to pick with the urban planner who mapped out this set up, but I'll get to that another time. At any rate, the Garmin of course directed us across the GWB and Throgs Neck and then to the Cross Island...and Kathleen and I were all extra confident because we had traveled these roads before and we were making good time...but then our trusty Garmin sent us past the L.I.E. and the Northern State to some random exit whose number or name meant 

nothing to us...and we ended up on some two laned road with a succession of lights in some place called Floral Park...and as we got our bearings, we realized it was the fabled Jericho Turnpike.

Ok, so....we are depending on Garmin which was actually working on directing us to Franklin Avenue in Garden City so that we could go on a little Valentine's dinner date prior to the show...Mind you, we had no reservation or plan...we were basically going to ask the Garmin to find us a spot once we arrived in the lovely and fabulous GC...and on top of that, we unintentionally wore matching Burberry coats and were carrying our twin pumpkin-colored LG NV phones...just like all the real lipstick lesbians do. So once we crept down Jericho and crossed the GC border, Garmin directed us to Novita, this wine bar with no less than 45 open tables and a big long bar....but it was V-Day, so the pneumatic hostess in her bright red spaghetti strapped swing dress (this is February, right?), looked around at all 45 empty tables, her brow all knit with concentration, and suggested that it might be hard to squeeze us in...I sh*t you not. So we're like, hey, no worries, we actually want to eat at the bar...done and done.

So I won't bore you with the wines and the cheese plates and the prosciutto and the two bartenders (Michele With One L and Jonathan) who became our BFFs. But I will tell you this, as we were winding down our "meal" we began texting our husbands with status updates...and Jonathan goes: "Making plans with your dates?" And I say: "Oh, no...it's just Kathleen and I tonight." And Jonathan goes: "Well, do you have boyfriends?" And we sort of smile and laugh because we are sure he is trying to figure out our deal...two girls out on V-Day with our matching coats and phones...but we nod along anyway and so Jonathan asks: "Well, where are they tonight?" To which I reply: "They're out with their wives." Jonathan and Michele With One L were struck dumb...but Kathleen and I, in absolute hysterics, came clean (moms, wives, in from New Jersey...), paid the check and waved goodbye...and they called out after us: "Happy Valentine's Day, ladies!"

So the dependable little Garmin got us to the Coliseum in no time at all (we have some questions about the zoning laws out there by the way...another time)...and despite some Long Island traffic on Hempstead Turnpike (another Turnpike!!) we parked and entered and took our seats in Section 105, about 7 rows up from the floor. And we took in the scene...all the Long Island Fanilows in rare form...there was Geriatric Barbie, no less than 55 years old with her ultra-dyed, yellowy-blondy tresses, inappropriate skirt length, melon-sized implants and aerobicized a**...and Jabba The Hutt, who in a stroke of luck for me, Kathleen got stuck sitting next to...and there were the romantic couples, one in particular that I was sitting behind with their PDA all over the joint (I think one of them was caressing my leg at one point...or maybe that was Jabba...ick!)...and then there were a smattering of geeks and freaks and a small selection of normal folks throughout. Even so, Kathleen turned to me and said that she felt like she was trapped in a leper colony...you know, she was not that far off base....Yes, we pretty much laughed until we were out of breath the entire night.

So of course Barry eventually appeared (oh G*d...after his opening act, some spiky-haired, velvet-coated jazz musician whom we found annoying)...but Barry was great and charming and gracious and sweet. And all his crazy female fans who apparently are not aware of his preferences were crying and singing along and waving their little blue "Ultimate Manilow" glow sticks. Of course he sang all the oldies (although he cracked out "Weekend In New England" a little early in the show in my opinion...) and told his darling little Jewish boy from Brooklyn stories...and Kathleen and I shed a tear or two and giggled when Barry announced to the crowd: "Hey, all you guys out there, if you don't get lucky tonight after all these romantic songs, then you need to just give up..." Such a card, that Barry.

So after the finale (at the Copa, Copacabana...Rico went a bit too far, Tony sailed across the bar...you all know the showgirl/lost love saga...) there was a mass exodus and upon reaching the lobby, we found ourselves literally stuck, body-to-body with thousands of concertgoers trying to depart through the same bank of 8 doors. And we weren't moving...and we weren't going to. And people started pushing and for a second Kathleen and I were separated...and then we found each other again and linked arms (well, we were dates an all....) and Kathleen turns to me and delivered the line of the night:

"Well, now I know how that poor WalMart guard felt...."

To which I replied: "Well, we are on Long Island...you know, so some of these people were probably responsible for that too...."

And just then the crowd dispersed and we were spewed out into the parking lot, again in absolute hysterics. We laughed the whole way to the car clutching our t-shirts (oh, did I tell you Kathleen bought me a Manilow t-shirt...a boxy black XL that I wore to bed that night...sexy, huh?). We hopped in the car and the trusty Garmin directed us home...in under an hour.

So, you think my Long Island adventure ends right there with Barry, right? Not so fast....I was back on that Island a mere 36 hours later...this time without a GPS...and, my friends, it was kind of a sh*t show....

It was President's Day and knowing that I was starting my new consulting gig the next morning, I was kind of taking it easy...making some plans, gearing up for my weeklong 34th (don't laugh) birthday celebration, which is fast approaching. So around lunchtime Ellie and I hatched a plan to go to the City for an early dinner...it seemed she was jonesing for some alone time with mommy as well as some calamari. Either way, after a succession of phone calls, my dear Dad became involved, plans were changed and when we finally met him in the parking lot of Arcola Country Club, I exited the Jag, leaving behind the GPS and we agreed to take Ellie to see the old family stomping grounds of Astoria, Queens. You know, no child should make it past 9 without seeing the first home her mommy lived in (even if it was for three short months as an infant....). And so off we went...and Dad, a latecomer to Queens as he lived on the Upper East Side until he met my mom, narrated the tour. We were cruising the streets showing Ellie the first apartment he and Mom shared, the churches they went to, the schools Cath and Dan and Trish attended, my Grandma's house, Ditmars Boulevard and Steinway Street, and the apartment dad's parents lived in with the limestone statue of the Virgin Mary on the front lawn...Dad said he wished he had taped his father's, my beloved Gramps', reaction when the Italian landlord placed the staute there...not fit to print, in the grand style of Gramps. We cracked up though at the thought of it...Then Dad took us past their succession of houses, slightly bigger each time as the family grew...And finally we even saw the place in which they held their wedding reception almost 50 years ago....and it stood there, unchanged. Like much of the neighborhood....

So it was about this time that Ellie started begging for us to please take her for lunch...and I said: "Just a few more minutes, baby."...yet I had no clue how huge a lie that was until much later. Because, I guess our quick little nostalgia trip inspired Dad, and he suggested we take a "minor" detour out to the beachy area in which he and his family spent their summers in a teeny tiny little bungalow. And I agreed, because I knew it was important to him...and also, he claimed it was only another 30 minutes passed where we were...in some little place called Harbour Isle...which 60 years ago was dunes and reeds and row boats...but now was a full-on Long Island suburb. And that is when my 2 and a half tour of the South Shore began...because, you know, without the trusty Garmin, Dad was relying on decades old memories to get him to Harbour Isle.

So we drove haphazardly...taking the Grand Central and the Belt and the Van Wyck and the Little Neck and guess what...we even ended up in that same damn spot on Jericho Turnpike in Floral Park that my Garmin directed me only a day and a half prior. Holy Mother of J*sus...twice in one year would have been excessive...but twice in less than two days??? Ellie whined in the back seat: "When can I get some calamari?" I continued lying...soon, I promised. So as Dad drove around looking for Long Beach Road or Boulevard or Turnpike or whatever it was, I wracked my brain, deftly listing and identifying my Nassau posse, debating whether I should jump out at a red light and make an SOS call...who would come rescue me from this trip to nowhere? And how? But instead I pulled out my pumpkin-colored phone and began furiously texting Kathleen and my sister Trish and my husband...and each of them laughed at me (via text)...enjoying my wrongful and false imprisonment. And I was biting the inside of my cheek as we continued to drive...Dad making last minute decisions and zipping in and out of intersections as he recognized a turn. And Ellie was pleading with me silently, rubbing her belly and mouthing the words: "I am so hungry." So my neck started to hurt as I clenched my teeth...again Ellie started to ask my Dad when she could eat...and he just kept telling her to hang in there. Soon Dad pulled over at some cruddy Shell station and after a brief moment, returned with a mini box of cereal for Ellie and we continued on our way. And I thought, when this dude is on a mission, even his beloved granddaughter could not stop him...and you know, I decided we should respect that....because this was important to him and I loved him and I should give him that, right?

It wasn't long after that we were crossing the causeway and moving through Island Park to Harbour Isle. And Dad was so happy that we made it there...and I was happy that he was happy. We ended up snaking around the little tiny neighborhood to the waterfront and there it was, off in the channel, now obscured by bigger houses on the mainland....the little strip of wetlands upon which the family's bungalow once stood. And it was gone now, but Dad's grandfather's bungalow was there...the lone structure still in tact on this little strip of wetlands. We got out and I took some shots...and Dad told us all about the dunes and the reeds and the row boats...and the uncles and cousins and grandparents who all stayed there together back in the '40's and '50's when it wasn't yet a full-blown suburb of the behemoth that is New York City. And it was so great to hear those stories...so worth hitting every single highway in Queens/Nassau and listening to Ellie beg for food. So worth not making that SOS call...

So we headed back and despite the snails pace on Sunrise Highway (yes, another g*ddamn highway...), we kept going until we made it back to Astoria and stopped at Christos Steak House on 23rd Avenue with its valet parking and giant cuts of meat in display cases along the vestibule. And we went in and ordered up some fried calamari for Ellie and some steaks and fries and all that for dinner...not to mention a giant glass of Cabernet to calm my frazzled nerves.

And after a few bites of calamari, blood sugar fully restored to a healthy level, Ellie said:

"You know, Papa, it was a lot of fun seeing all the places you lived in your life. I had a really good time. Thanks for bringing me."

I beamed because she was so genuine, and I didn't have to prod her at all...Because you know, now that I was safely at Christos sipping Cabernet, I felt the exact same way.... And so we all talked more about the old days and took in the scene...and it was just so nice being there with two people I love so very much. How lucky we were to have such a great day together...to still have time to enjoy silly, fun, nutty and truly unique moments with one another...yet again I find myself marveling at how blessed and lucky I am, really....

Oh, but make no mistake, I don't care how many yummy steaks and glasses of Cabernet are on the other side, next time I get in the car with Dad, I am grabbing the GPS and a list of phone numbers...

xoxo, Suz

Oh and Happy Birthday Alessa! Love you!

Photo 1: There is not one road on that map that I did not travel last weekend...

Photo 2: Long Island - Garmin GPS = Never Again!

Photo 3: Our actual barside Valentine's meal...

Photo 4: Hempstead Turnpike, 7:15 p.m., Saturday the 14th...sea of tailights as seen from the Jag's passenger side...

Photo 5: Barry...total stud...well, maybe that's a stretch...

Photo 6: Kathleen and I...all Fanilow-ed out with our glow sticks...

Photo 7: A little Astoria landscape...

Photo 8: My siblings and cousins, rocking it out Astoria-style circa 1967 (eons before I graced the scene...)

Photo 9: Dad and Gramps...in the '80's...Gramps probably still offended by that tacky Virgin Mary statue...I couldn't agree more. He's looking dapper though...as always...

Photo 10: Reeds, dunes, row boats...ok, not Harbour Isle...but you get the picture, right?

Photo 11: SOS...smoke signals...anything...someone come save me!!!!

Photo 12: Good natured and happy....apparently Ellie was well-fed in this shot...

Photo 13: My great-grandfather's actual bungalow...still standing six decades later...

Photo 14: Finally, calamari! Actual shot as Ellie was scarfing them down...

Photo 15: Ellie and Dad at Christos...exhausted from the journey, but happy to be together...

Photo 16: He's still my best guy...no matter how far out of the way he takes me...

Honey, Love The One You're With...

The best Valentine's Day ever was back when I was a Senior at Stonehill...and not because my doofy college boyfriend showered me with love and affection and roses and a heart-shaped box of those nasty cream-filled and cherry cordial chocolates and all that cheesy crap. No, my friends....if you know anything about me, you know that long ago I imposed a moratorium on celebrating Valentine's Day in the traditional fashion. You know, I think it's kind of an insipid little holiday...and it puts undue pressure on relationships, and who in hell needs more pressure? Yeah, not me. Ok, so, I am not particularly romantic...in fact, I am pretty certain my husband and former beaux would collectively agree that I have been known to be just a teensy, weensy bit jaded and cynical...maybe I am missing a chip or something. I mean, I'll admit to being a total chick when it comes to weeping alone in my car as I play and replay some emotionally draining and mysteriously appropriate song...but that is about as far as it goes. I am German-Irish for crissakes -- two cultures not really known for taking a chance on demonstrative touchy-feely-ness or profusely pouring out our hearts without being about 20 beers in...(oh, make no mistake, I've tried this heart pouring thing and it hurts waaaaay too much...). Also, my birthday is mere weeks past February 14th, and frankly, I would much rather be toasted and feted and celebrated and pampered and showered with gifts on that day (or the whole week...). The other thing is that I have a tough time getting behind a holiday whose sole purpose is to sell cards to guys who need reminding that they love and cherish their mommy/wife/kids/girlfriend/side-slice/f**k buddy and that they should be telling them that on this one special day per year only. Now, that being said, should the desire strike any of you to pick up some shiny and expensive bauble for me this week, I would certainly accept it graciously....you know, I may be jaded and cynical, but I am also quite sensible and well-mannered....and I love me some nice, shiny baubles.

But I am getting off track...back to Stonehill and Valentine's 1992.... It was a week or so earlier, when the school's radio station, WSHL, announced that they would be collecting Valentine's messages on little purple scraps of paper that were on all the tables in the caf and reading them on-air the evening before Valentine's Day. And I think it was Michelle who had the hilarious brainstorm that Friday prior to collect as many of those little sheets as possible, so that we Orleans A girls could create and submit a bevy of false Valentine's to be read for the entire student body to enjoy and ponder...Hey, and so what if we caused some romantic bumps in the road, as long as we were amused...you know, why not make a complete mockery of the process, we were quite

excellent at that. So that night after Brother Mike's Happy Hour, with a nice beer buzz on, we all congregated downstairs in Orleans lobby and Michelle made the rules: she would randomly call on one of us to give a guy's name, the next person was to give a girl's name and the next one would create the "message." And this is what we did....50 times over. What a bunch of b*tches, right?

Some of our little messages were innocuous: To Linda S----- Hi! Love, Dave F---- or Hi Tim Q--- See you in the caf! Love, Carolyn C-----. And then there were a few more intriguing entries like: Dear Kevin B---- I am dying to get to know you better. Love, Aimee B---- or Hey Chris S.---- You are so hot! Love, Elaine B-----. At one point Michelle asked Jeanne for a guy's name and she goes: "the Dobber" and then she turns to me and asks for a girl, to which I replied: "Your Wild Irish Rose"....which my friends found riotous and so stupidly fun, we decided to leave it at that: Dear Dobber, Love, Your Wild Irish Rose...(hello, foreshadowing....). So the whole time we were creating these naughty little false messages, we were hysterically laughing and having so much fun...you know, we were pretty certain no one would really listen to the radio that night anyway, it was all going to be our fun little secret. And with that in mind, before the night was through, I snagged a blank sheet and added my own message to my secret campus love and slid it between the sheets we had concocted and collected. Michelle dropped them in the collection box in the caf that next morning.

So fast forward to that Thursday night, February 13, 1992 at 10 p.m., again, following Brother Mike's Happy Hour...again a little buzzing from the cheap beer...again, the Orleans A girls and a posse of hangers-on whom we had clued in congregated in Orleans lobby with WSHL blasting. And don't you know it....of the 75 or so messages read across the airwarves, all 50 of ours made the cut. Everytime the two DJs (actually, friends of ours as luck would have it...) read one of our false messages a roar rose up from the lobby, hysterical laughter bouncing off the walls.

And as the night came to a close, the DJ, a girl named Kristin who happened to be an English major and in a bunch of my classes says: "I love this next message and am dying to know w

ho wrote it...here goes: 'Dear Professor Morin, I will be your Hester Prynne if you will be my Moby Dick...All my love'..." I saw Michelle shoot me a look, and I knew she knew....we busted out laughing again and she kept saying "I cannot believe you had the balls!" It was kind of surprising, I guess, because I barely looked Professor Morin in the face all year for fear I might jump into his arms should he catch my eye, but still everyone knew my secret....Yeah, Mo Morin was no hottie or anything with his salt and pepper beard, not someone who might rival Brad Pitt, that's for sure...but sorry, I had a thing for him and his Romantic Literature course in which we read and dissected both Scarlet Letter and Moby Dick...and his constant innuendo-ing always got me...you know, those old dirty talkers must do it for me...so I decided to give it right back to him. And best of all, I got it off my chest and was 99.9% certain he would never know anything of it.

So the next morning the campus was abuzz with gossip....people trying to decode the 50 false messages, wondering how they came to be...one of our housemates even heard Dave F. accusing his friends of sending the fake message to Linda S., saying: "You guys are the only ones who know how much I hate her...which one of you did it?" !!!!!!!!!!! How effing funny is that?? So, we kept it to ourselves...kind of giggling at the idiocy of our fellow students...why were we 

the only people on campus who thought to infiltrate the process and stir up some controversy via false Valentine's...didn't take a genius to come up with that plan (although Michelle was and is a bona fide genius...).

And so, Valentine's Day passed, and so did the weekend and the next few weeks...and the false Valentine's were forgotten pretty much, though we would giggle with one another here and there....until....Senior 50 Days celebration Saturday, April 3, 1992. Honestly, I have an awesome memory, but those final weekends at Stonehill are kind of fuzzy except for this one incident....I was at the bar at Brother Mike's and it was early so the place was kind of empty-ish...I think it was just Ali, Michelle and I with Jimmy Brown and his posse of soccer guys...and this football guy Mike Casey was there too, who was someone I knew but didn't talk to that much, except for that night...The place began to fill up around us and Mike and I were a little buzzed and still hanging out when the Dobber appeared at my side....and in my hazy buzziness I remembered the false Valentine's and stupidly I decided it was time to tell Dobber about the secret message...but again, being a few beers in, my thoughts were ahead of my mouth and I grabbed Dobber's hand and said:

"Dobber, I am your Wild Irish Rose."

And I knew what I meant...I meant that it was me who made up that silly, funny, stupid fake message. But based on what I said, would you have figured that out? Of course not...and neither did Dobber. Now let me say this...the Dobber was an awesome guy and I would have been beyond lucky to date him back then. You know, we don't see or talk to each other much these days, but when we do, it is by email and we chat and giggle and get along swimmingly...in fact, I am certain he has blocked out this entire episode. So anyway...after my jumbled admission, Dobber's face denotes his utter surprise and then so sweetly he smiles and says: "That was you?" and again, stupidly drunk, I nod....and he goes: "wow..." and then without a moment's notice Dobber pulls me towards himself and plants his mouth upon mine, arms wrapped around my neck...clearly thinking that then and there I had professed my true love for him. And I was completely stunned....it took me a minute to figure out that he misunderstood (well, of course he did...I made no g*ddamn sense...) and I begin to pull back and kind of protest when the next thing I knew, Mike Casey, defending my honor, is pulling him off of me and tossing my dear old Dobber across the bar like a rag doll...And poor Dobber is totally confused...and I nervously begin to laugh and Mike is saying: "Are you ok?" and I am nodding and looking at Dobber and saying: "No Dobber, that's not what I meant..."...ugh...what a total jacka** I was...Somehow I think Ali got involved and explained the deal...and I looked over at Dobber and smiled meekly...and his feelings were quite apparently hurt. Well, how nice of me to embarrass him like that...ugh. I felt like a jerk so I left Mike's side and went back to Orleans A early that night. I remember telling Jeanne the story when I got back and she just silently shook her head at me...I was ashamed and I totally deserved it....you know, kind of a little like Hester Prynne...

But even with that one little glitch, Valentine's Day 1992 is still my very favorite ever....because it was later that final semester when I learned that the Valentine's message DJ, Kristin the English major, also had a crush on Mo Morin...and as an excuse to talk to him, she brought him the sheet on which I wrote my secret love note to him. She told me later that she had no idea it was me who wrote it until much later, and that she wished she had thought to do the same thing because when she brought him the note he blushed (I made the dirty talker blush...can you imagine??) and kind of laughed and said: "Well now that is very creative." !!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! I absolutely swooned...could there be a better compliment from an English professor? Even though I was still an anonymous admirer, I felt totally satisfied with his reaction...that was all I wanted, for Mo Morin to think I was something special. Well, apparently he never realized it was me...or if he did, it didn't sway his opinion of my final papers...I ended the year with a B- in Romantic Literature...so much for being his Hester Prynne....

This year my Valentine's Day will most definitely rival and possibly trump that day in 1992...My friend Kathleen and I are crossing two whole bridges (yeah, we're not afraid...) and embarking on a trek through that crowded foreign land called Long Island. Why ever would we do that, you ask? Barry Effing Manilow at the Nassau Coliseum, baby!!!!!!!! Can you think of a more fitting way to spend a husband-less Valentine's evening? Of course, even though the show is at 8 p.m. and Long Island is no more than 20 miles away, we will leave New Jersey by 3 o'clock just in case we get mired in that legendary Long Island Expressway traffic...going one mile in 3 hours is a daily occurrance....Yes, we will brave the ridiculousness for 

our man Barry...I mean, who doesn't love Barry? (I beg of you to click that link, by the way...)  Maybe we can even snag a little dinner out there...even though it is Valentine's Day and we fully expect our concert-going and dinner table neighbors to assume we are a lesbian couple celebrating our love of cheesy music and sappy songwriting...Well let them! Who cares, really? Maybe we'll even play it up...isn't Barry worth the entire Island of Length thinking that Kathleen and I are two hot Jersey lesbians out for a good time on V-Day? I mean, at least the pressure is off our beloveds...no need to rush out for a stack of Hallmark cards and heart shaped boxes of creamy cherry-ish chocolates or something...

Much love this Valentine's to all you Mobys out there....

Your girl,

Hester Prynne

Photo 1: Just a little caricature of my Valentine's Day hotness circa '92...it's quite an accurate depiction, no?

Photo 2: Hey, I am more than happy to accept glittery gifts...even on V-Day...

Photo 3: Kickass college radio, WSHL of Easton, MA...Time Warp Top 40 anyone???

Photo 4: The Women of Orleans A...pre-false Valentine-ing...

Photo 5: Me and Jeanne on way back from Brother Mike's for V-Day shenanigans...a little roadie is never a problem, right?

Photo 6: That vision of dirty talking literary deliciousness, Mo Morin...I know, I have such issues...

Photo 7: A sampling of the Class of '92 partaking in a little Brother Mike's down time....you know, pretty sure I couldn't name a one of them...must have been their first visit...

Photo 8: That little Wild Irish Rose....the real one....

Photo 9: What Dobber looked like after Mike Casey got his hands on him...

Photo 10: I so would have dressed up in that naughty Puritanical slut garb if Mo Morin had said the word...

Photo 11: Looks like a light traffic day on The L.I.E....must have been a Sunday morning or something...

Photo 12: Kathleen and I picked out this cake topper for our first Valentine's Day celebration as a couple...hope she gets me some nasty cream-filled chocolates!!

Trysting With The Boss...

Hmmm...what do you know...this will be the second week in a row in which I will proudly ramble on with a Jersey-centric post...but I guess you can take the girl out....

After the big Super Bowl halftime show, featuring the brightest shining mega star of the Garden State (well, next to Jill Biden, of course....), Bruce Springsteen, I remembered that I forgot to tell you all about my brush with Springsteen greatness. I know, I know...everyone who has ever even crossed a bridge and traveled down the Turnpike has a story...you know, they hung out with Bruce at the Stone Pony...bought drinks for the E Street Band at some Jersey Shore dive where they performed an unannounced set...send their kids to the same elite day school at which The Boss' own brood is schooled...they are the inspiration for "Rosalita"...Bruce's road manager fathered their baby...you know, run of the mill stuff....But my story isn't quite so romantic or dramatic....but it is true and, well, kind of cool.

Let me just back track and explain that on Super Bowl night, my husband and his buddies, six of my closest friends' husbands (missing was Suse's Scott, who as a son and super fan of Pittsburgh, could not bear to watch the game with any distractions...) congregated in our downstairs entertainment paradise in front of that giant television. I spent the day in the kitchen perfecting the delicious array of man-tastic, beefy, juicy football-appropriate treats, each one of them from scratch....I made sticky honey soy chicken wings (my boyfriend Tyler Florence's recipe, by the way...), maple-glazed barbecue spare ribs, little sliders with my secret chipotle sauce, corn pudding (a sad attempt on my part to work in a "vegetable"...shockingly, this dish was the hit of the night...) and gooey, fudgey brownies....not to mention vats of my yummy-delicious fresh guacamole and that cheesy sausagey dippy thing that everyone stands over like a bunch of cows at a trough whenever I crack it out...that recipe courtesy of Suse's sister, my girl, Lisa H. At any rate...I know I have told you all countless times that I love to cook...even more than I love to fondue. So this exercise in cookery was a complete joy to me...and the best kind of party in my eyes, I got all the fun of cooking and taking the accolades while not really having the pressure of socializing...those guys didn't want me hanging with them, and I was perfectly happy to knock around with my boos upstairs anyway...we watched Hannah Montana or some other crap Disney Channel marathon.

But....I told Rob to call me when it was halftime, so as a proud Garden Stater, I could cheer on the one act that night that I had any interest in: Bruce. Needless to say, when the time came, no one called my name and it was by sheer luck that I passed the doorway and heard music coming up the stairs....and I yelled "Rob is it half time?" and he's says, kind of sheepishly, "Uh, yeah, you want me to rewind the TiVo?" Ugh, whatever....I ran down and took the empty seat next to Freddy...and almost immediately proceeded to watch Bruce do a cr*tch dive into the camera...quite a welcome...I mean he's cute and all, but I am not sure I needed to see that. At any rate...so, I watched the performance and the guys and I all talked Bruce and how awesome he is and how someone's sister's best friend had a friend in his entourage and she told her the Super Bowl set list...you know, all that Jersey/Bruce/Six Degrees of Separation....and I told my story...and I am pretty sure only Freddy listened (because he is the nice one....), and that is when I realized that I always forget to tell this story....so here goes:

It was September of 1992 and I was a brandy-new Stonehill graduate...that lazy, jobless summer by Mom and Dad's pool had come to a close...my tan was rocking and my long hair was all streaky blond....So my mom was able to score two tickets to the Bruce Springsteen World Tour 1992 -1993...which, I recently learned is now known as: The Other Band Tour...yeah, not Bruce's best moment...anyway, the show was at the then Brendan Byrne Arena. My big sister, Cath, is a diehard Bruce fan...and in a gracious act I have yet to see her duplicate, even for her beloved nephews, she surrendered her claim on the ticket so I, her baby sis, could go see Bruce for the first time. My date was our middle sister, Trish, who happened to be seven months pregnant with her second child, my niece who is now 16 and just got her learner's permit...so even though my mental age is 19, I do have a niece that is pushing adulthood...But I digress...So, Trish was never a big partier or anything, and she was all preggers, so we didn't partake of any tailgating and entered the arena upon arrival, probably a good 45 minutes before the show was set to begin. I remember fully that I wore faded cut off jean shorts, a fitted pink and blue striped Ralph Lauren top and white bucks without socks...such post-collegiate cuteness... So anyway, we had great seats, in section 110, only a few rows up, just to the right of the stage...we took our seats in the barely filled in arena and began to settle in.....

Then, this dude with an official looking lariat around his next and a laminated ID tag dangling from it hopped the divider between section 110 and the floor, making his way directly for us. I was thinking he must know my sister or something when he reached us and got right to the point:

"Would you girls be willing to switch your seats for seats on the flloor next to the stage?"

Dumbfounded, we just kind of gaped at him....But he was impatient...

"Well?" he said...

"What's the catch?"

Again, impatient, he says: "Bruce hates it when they seat corporate guests and industry people next to the stage because he likes to have fans up front, so we are asking people with good seats to switch. Are you in?"

Trish and I look at each other and shrug -- "What the hell...."

We hand the dude our tickets and he hands us our new ones, leading us down the same path he took to reach us, my sister 7 months pregnant, jumping the divider. We took our seats in the front row, on Bruce's lefthand side. There were a slew of dorky girls already seated there, totally wigging out...we chatted and learned they too were invited to switch seats for these...Their dork leader was this bespectacled redhead who kept saying: "I hope he plays 'Dancing In the Dark'!"....to the eyerolls of my sister and I. Poor Cath, was all I could think...she is going to be so pissed she gave me her ticket....

So the show began...and what can I say, of course it was amazing...even though it was The Other Band Tour and there were these three black background singers and a bunch of nameless studio musicians backing him...Whatever, it was still so unbelievable to see all that up close action...Bruce talking to his band members, telling them what song was next...throwing changes at them, the three background singers just shaking their heads and going along with it. So...he sang his classics and then launched into a set filled with songs from his then "new" album....and that is when it happened.....

Bruce is walking the perimeter of the stage, he's got these foam car mirror dice in his hands and he is singing one of the new album gems "Roll of the Dice"....yeah, that one was really memorable, right? Well, it is burned on my brain because as my man approached our edge of the stage he slowed down...the dorks and their leader squealed like a bunch of pigs to slaughter...and that is when his eyes locked on mine and...I sh*t you not...he gestured towards me with his chin and reached out his hand and grabbed mine, pulling me closer to the stage as he sang...eyes locked (maybe Rocco learned that move from Bruce, now that I think about it...)...and all the dorks and my sister were screaming: "Oh my g*d! Oh my g*d!" and I hear Trish going: "Suz...he's singing to you!" And what did I do, Bruce's hand in mine, eyes locked? I mouthed the words "I love you" and he smiled and mouthed back "Thank you"...so, thinking I needed to drive the point home, I said it out loud...and he smiled again, still singing...so dumba** over here still doesn't shut up and I say it again, this time, loudly...I go: "Bruce, I said I love you!"....and he laughed out loud and shook his head, missing a whole line of words right in the middle of the song...then he winked, squeezed my hand, waved goodbye. And I stood there...stunned.

Well, of course my sister and all the dorks and their redheaded, bespectacled leader squealed and fawned all over me, telling me how lucky I was and all that...and it was kind of fun and cool, but honestly, all I could think was, well, of course he chose to sing to me...the one time in my life I stood out as the most appealing choice, all of 22 with my tan and cut-off jean shorts and streaky blond hair in a sea of dorks and cute but unavailable pregnant women. Well, who cares why I became the de facto Courteney Cox of New Jersey -- I mean, take it where you can get it, right? And it was Bruce Springsteen...The Boss...now, I admit it, at that point in my life, if some guy who was his twin in the leather vest and worn jeans and scruffy three-days-in beard growth approached me at a bar, I would give him the cold shoulder or blantantly sneer...but Bruce was a mega star...a legend. Not only was he Jersey royalty and the inspiration to countless pretenders (that damn Jon Bon-effing-Jovi....just wait, until you hear the story I have aboout that meanspirited glory hog...)...Bruce was a national treasure...and he sang to me, and I told him I loved him...three times.

The next day, I called my doofy then soon-to-be-ex-college-boyfriend up in Boston and every one of my college friends and retold the story....and you will be shocked by the reaction....so many of them couldn't care less (those Bostonians just don't get Bruce, man...well, except maybe for TL...). I had one friend actually say: "Yeah, I don't really like Bruce Springsteen..." What??? Who cares if you like him, it is still a cool story, g*ddammit! My other friend refused to believe my story...and I was all like: "I swear, it's true...ask my sister." And even my Jersey posse was you know, only marginally impressed...It was bizarre...and so, I just kind of let the tingly excitement fade away, and the memory was fun to look back on...a little silly giggle with my sisters...even Cathleen, who eventually got over surrendering her ticket to me, who in turn had this once-in-a-lifetime moment as a result....I told the story here and there over the years, and usually I receive polite awe and comments like "Wow, how cool...." And then....

Flash forward...Summer, 2001: I was pregnant with Tim, my middle child...my sister, Trish, and I sitting at my kitchen table, little 17 month old Ellie playing with my now 8 1/2 year old niece, Andie...the one who was there with us that night for our moment with Bruce. My mom shows up and joins us for a chat, and out of nowhere says to us: "What year was it that you two went to see Bruce Springsteen and got your seats switched?" And we think for a minute or two and confirm, yes, that was 1992, because I had just graduated. And without a word, Mom hops up and runs out of the house...and Trish and I are perplexed, but we just sort of shrug...A minute later Mom returns and has a section of The New York Times in her hand. She drops it on the table in front of us and says: "Is that you two?"

So we look at the photo to which she is referring....it is Bruce Springsteen, in concert, singing onstage....the caption identifying the shot as: "Bruce Springsteen in concert, Brendan Byrne Arena, East Rutherford, NJ, September 1992." And in the background of the shot, off to the left of the stage very faintly you see the crowd in the seats...and there we are!!!! My sister more visible and me in the shadows....and right in the center, fully hogging all the light is that bespectacled redhead, leader of dorks, clapping and smiling away...I guess Bruce must have been singing "Dancing In The Dark" or something because she looked giddy....We almost died...how cool that this random moment was caught on film...we had no idea. And I couldn't help thinking: See!..I wasn't making it up...here is proof, here in the Grey Lady, The New York Effing Times has my picture right there, an arm's length from Bruce Springsteen....I told you!

So a few weeks later, just before the end of the summer, before Tim was born and before the world changed forever, my mom showed up at my door and handed me an 8.5 x 11 manila envelope and inside it was a glossy black and white photo...that same shot from The New York Times, Trish and I visible in the background....she had ordered two copies of the shot from the newspaper archives -- one for me and one for Trish. So cool. You know, so it is years later now...I think my copy is still in the envelope, upstairs with all the photos of me with the Duchess of York...but Trish framed hers and placed it right on the shelf in her family room, just beneath her kids' school pictures....well, Bruce is practically a family member, right? Either way....it is fun for me to see whenever I do a little stopover...you know, how many of us can say that our brush with Springsteen greatness lives forever on film? Well, except of course for that lucky Super Bowl cameraman, recipient of that fierce cr*tch shot last weekend....I bet his friends are totally unimpressed....

Photo 1: Jersey cool quotient, courtesy of The Boss...

Photo 2: You know some old relic down in The Amboys is telling his drinking buddies about the time he took this shot at the Stone Pony and then hit a diner on Route 35 with Clarence Clemmons...

Photo 3: Not my sticky honey soy ribs...mine were much prettier...

Photo 4: This is however, an actual shot of my yummy-delicious guacamole in the making...

Photo 5: Bruce, post-cr*tch dive at the Super Bowl...he may actually be limping there, not sure...

Photo 6: Me at Stonehill graduation, May 17, 1992....all innocent and idealistic...mere months out from my moment with Springsteen...

Photo 7: With each generation, the species improves...my gorgeous niece, 16 years out from that first Springsteen show in utero...

Photo 8: One of these can get you anywhere in life....

Photo 9: There she is, Andrea Zuckerman...that bespectacled redhead and queen of dorks...I told you it was 1992...

Photo 10: The Other Band and their leader...apparently a brief moment of insanity led to that partnership...or maybe a little too much herb...

Photo 11: Well, Courteney Cox is not quite as cute as I was, but it is a generally accurate depiction of my moment with Bruce...

Photo 12: At Guido Murphy's, Senior week, 1992...with some blase, Bruce-hating Bostonians...Murph and Heidi...

Photo 13: The actual shot...redheaded bespectacled dork leader to the right and Trish and I to the left...squint hard to see Trish the the right of that weird bearded guy...