Holding On To Eighteen (As Long As I Can)....

I swear to you, I feel like it is 1988 all over again...I have been having so many deja vu moments these past weeks it is incredible. It all started with one of those "Getting to Know Your Friends" questionnaire emails that my friend Kathleen sent over. You know them, they ask things like: "What are your favorite names?" (Elizabeth, Timothy and William, of course) and "Have you ever loved someone so much it made you cry?" (Yes...everyday)...And though I blow off answering important emails on a regular basis, when it comes to silly, inane chatter, well that is my specialty. And who am I kidding, I love seeing what my friends say and gauging their reaction to my snarky answers. So....the one Kathleen sent asked that you answer the questions as you would have as a high school senior...and I couldn't resist for a second. A sampling below:

Its Friday night...where were you? Party at Tom O'Neill's house

Were you a party animal ? Well...I was in that crowd

Were you considered a flirt? Probably

Were you in band, orchestra, or choir? God no

Were you a nerd? Uh...come on...no...

Where did you sit during lunch? At the cool table

If you could go back and do it again, would you? Definitely

Do you still talk to people from school? All the time

Of course my husband made fun of me as soon as he saw my answers...rolling his eyes at my supposed Mean Girl past...Come on, it was the 80's...we modeled ourselves on one-dimensional John Hughes characters. At any rate, I know I am not alone in this bizarre flashback world that we all live in now thanks to...well, many things, I suppose. We can google pretty much any bit of information we desire on anyone or anything...and email makes us feel as though we are 

close intimate friends with people we never see or truly don't have cause to know very well at all...and hell, this blog is out there for the world to see as I recount my memories and share my thoughts....But the biggest culprit of all, for we children of the 80's in particular, is the new addiction...put down the Vicodin, it's all about Facebook.

Over the past few weeks I have been "friended" on Facebook by so many blasts from the past that my head is spinning. The old Franklin Lakes crowd found me month

s ago and then it all ramped up with the Academy of the Holy Angels girls...there are at least 50 of us all connected now by this cyberspace phenomena. And we are commenting everyday on each other's "status" and family photo albums. And it is kind of nice as adults to interact with people who share that common bond from back in the day...getting demerits for slouchy socks...Lyncher jumping into the Math Club yearbook photo every year...the lunch ladies mixing coleslaw with their hands...parking on that patch of grass in the middle of the back parking lot....the guys from Bergen Catholic picking us up at dismissal taking us on joyrides, burning gas....the good old days. And then all of a sudden, I started connecting with the extended group from the Bergen County private school network, our social circle, the regulars on our high school party scene...First it was Cha Cha Muldowney and then it was Annie B. and DPM followed by Tram and Seany and Danielle P....and now the memories are swirling in my brain.

So I found that all of my friends here in town (who are also my Facebook "friends") are experiencing the same thing. ADP told me last week that she found herself running home after drop off to see if any of her Ramapo high school posse had posted vintage photos on their profile in which she is featured. And Sam told me over margaritas and champagne at The Brick House last Friday that at this rate she fully expects to start hearing from her nursery school classmates next...and you know she is right on. So I wondered if possibly there is something else at play here. Is this reconnection really just our last grasp at those days, that feeling...the glimpse back at who we were...almost a championing of our teenaged selves, giving them one last shot at righting all the wrongs and showing our "friends" how much those days meant to us? I'd like to think so.

Or are we just a bunch of overgrown 18 year olds? Yes! Definitely...I have no doubt. That fact is evidenced by the state of the social scene here in Wyckoff where it is no longer ok to just have a party...forget cocktails and cheese puffs out on the deck, if you are going to invite the neighbors over, you better kick it into high gear. Now, my group of friends here have been known to partake in juvenile behavior like drunken cannonball contests (Joe takes it every time...) and late night trampoline-ing (Nancy deftly out-jumping the rest of us every time...), but late this summer we were all treated to an event that could be described as nothing less than the ultimate teenage fantasy kegger at Wendy's house....The backyard was covered with sand, tiki torches lit the yard, there was a barbecue pit, bartenders, frosty drinks, beer everywhere. The best part was the stage and a kickass bar band -- The Flying Mueller Brothers -- with their long platinum blond, 80's hair band tresses and bongo drums and classic rock covers. My friends and I ran around in flip flops, sand in our toes, downing keg beer...singing along to the music at the top of our lungs, Suse and I being snapped relentlessly by the official party photographer while her husband, Scott, jumped around to that House of Pain song Jump Around...jump! jump! jump! And it went all night....I eventually walked home alone, leaving my husband behind boozing it up with his buddies....just like I would have at age 18.

And it's not just me and my friends going at the season like we are starring in some suburban version of Old School (we're streaking!). Everyone I know is going hardcore these days...you know, there are grown men partaking in 12-hour long Boston College football tailgates -- I get a contact hangover just hearing about it...And Suse's Scott, is taking it to a new level -- a loyal Penn Stater, he and his college buddies have rented a house in State College where the debauchery will be in full force 'round-the-clock this weekend as Penn State plays Michigan State (Paterno's last game????)...And then, word came late last week that some kickass party across town featured the neighbor ladies on a stripper pole and late night Jersey-centric hot grilling of Taylor Ham, Egg and Cheese sandwiches. Impressive! Now that's the way to ramp it up, people....

This past weekend a group of us met for a seemingly adult cocktail party at K & J's...it was a smaller crowd, but a close-knit group of friends (Gwen, by the way, sporting the hottest pair of fantasy shoes this side of Milan...). So in this group we are familiar with one another, no pretenses...sort of like it was back in high school when you and your immediate group of 20 or so would gather and say "it'll just be us tonight". We chatted and laughed as we cracked into the wine selection and sampled the delicious appetizers....and of course Suse broke out the fondue pot (bringing back the 70's....love it!! By the way, we are pretty sure her babysitter is starting to think Suse has a bong hidden in that fondue pot box....) and we discussed the basic tenets of fondue etiquette with Tim, who termed the whole process an "intimate dining experience"...Well, you know, you are supposed to kiss the person to your right if you lose your food in the pot...So it was that comfort level that also allowed us to slip into our high school personas...eventually a few of us girls strayed into the back room and begged Barry to play DJ so that we could dance around in a circle, holding our beers, hugging one another and laughing...the rest of the guys across the room pretending they didn't want in, but we knew they did. Just like the guys back in high school. But then we tired out and had no choice but to wind it down by the time Joanne lost her shoes...that's right...she walked around barefoot without a care in the world, shoes lost...just like a ditzy teen queen. What a great party...such fun...nothing like a bunch of overaged 18 year olds jammed in a room with their best friends to bring it all back.

So this weekend I am turning it down a few notches and hosting a small group for dinner. And we'll try our best to stay civilized...act our age...We'll try really hard to keep our shoes from getting lost...and we'll only listen to soothing dinner music...and I'll try to keep from streaking through the neighborhood. Oh who am I kidding...I am going to encourage my guests to be as immature as possible, disturb the neighbors with our festive partying...maybe for old times' sake we'll go over to my parents' house, raid their liquor cabinet and trash the place...and I'll just pop Excedrin Migraine in between glasses of Prosecco in hopes of warding off a killer hangover. I hope the cops show up! Oh...and make no mistake, the traveling fondue pot will most most definitely make an appearance. 'Tis the Season!

Love to All.... Suz

Photo 1: Murph, me and Pompa-donut in a sea of lace and taffeta on the Senior Prom party bus...that electric blue eyeliner is so timeless!

Photo 2: A selection of boozy little brats...my BFFs circa 1988...Lyncher to the right keeping the beer flowing (as always....)

Photo 3: Al, me, Danielle and Pompa-donut sporting some high hair in the AHA caf...love the retro Diet Pepsi can!

Photo 4: Bridget and me (in white) starring as cats in El Senor Don Gato freshman year...and there we are, surrounded by a whole slew of our Facebook "friends"...

Photo 5: Lyncher, looking all innocent in Sister Catherine's Religion class (Mondee, Tuesdee...) probably pulling Sally Hur's hot 80's rattail...

Photo 6: Allison planting one on Facebook "friend" DPM...Murph and Mike L. (Danielle P's husband!!) in the back...please take note of the picnic table, beers and cigarettes strewn about. We were 17 years old...

Photo 7: Some of the hot private high school posse...Annie B. (Facebook "friend") at top right...love the come hither eyes on Casey and Al...

Photo 8: Chris K., Lawrence (miss you always, buddy...), Danielle and Tom F. pounding Buds the day after AHA junior prom...on the patio behind Danielle's grandma's beach house...

Photo 9: Dil and Chappy funneling on the roof deck at Tim H.'s LBI house, day after Bergen senior prom...

Photo 10: Going diehard "Old School" for Paterno...is that Will Ferrell? Nope...

Photo 11: The shoes our Gwen (yes, Gwen) broke out for cocktails this weekend...the men are all still thinking about them...oh, ok, I am too...

Photo 12: Lyncher, Murph, me, Case, Al and Kerc the day before we left for college, August 1988...

Photo 13: A selection of high school BFFs attempting to appear grown up enough to order drinks at a wedding party in 1987...and we seem more grown up there then we actually do today....

Take Me Back...

In this last week I have I reveled in my new freedom -- gone are the Acai berry juice samplings and Fair Trade chocolates and the menopausal relief products. Praise Jesus! But don't think I wasn't busy, because I was...oh, I worked, went right on to consulting again without missing a beat...but that's not what really kept me busy. No, no...much more important matters at hand...after a spotty performance these past months, I have finally re-entered the social scene and frankly, it's about damn time. So let's see...there were afternoon walks with the girls, coffee breaks, dinners, bridge games, fundraisers and the all important Friday night ladies-only food, booze and gossip fest at my house....And you know, I decided not to reveal much of what my girlfriends and I discussed that night over bacon-wrapped scallops and chocolate fondue, because, well....I think it's best we perserve the fantasy that we are all a bunch of suburban MILFs, always ready for a good time...not that far off base, right? Oh, ok guys, I'll throw you a bone -- we raked every last one of you over the coals...but you know, deep down we love your oblivious preening and your delightfully daft ways...

So anyway, one night last week, I met one of my oldest (in duration, not age...) friends on the Upper East Side where she lives now with her husband and nine month old son. We grew up together in Franklin Lakes, our families very close friends (that old Indian Trail Club tennis group...), we had picnics and pool parties and Fourth of July parades and Game Nights and Christmas Tree trimming parties together for years. So yeah, Jen and I had a lot in common -- youngest daughters in big families (I am the fourth of five and she is the baby of six)...and our moms were, well, sort of over it by the time we were tugging at their skirts. We could pretty much take care of ourselves (and did) by age six. While our older, cooler siblings were probably all sharing a joint on Jen's family's tennis court and swapping dates at the Freshman semi-formal, she and I and my younger brother, RJ, performed in fake toothpaste commercials in the master bathroom, sang songs from Saturday Night Fever, rifled through the hidden Christmas gifts and whined to our parents. So when Jen and I met at Orsay on Lex and 75th (yet again habitually early, I was parked at the bar dowing Prosecco, flirting with the geek-chic Euro bartender, fondling my Blackberry until she showed up), it had been two years since we had last seen each other and we squealed uncontrollably at the sight of one another...like a bunch of sorority sisters. And in a sense that is what we are.

So the minute I saw her it all came flooding back -- my childhood in the 1970's....the bad clothes, disengaged moms in tennis whites, dads working all the time, every kid in town piling on a bus to go two blocks to school, the "see and be seen" at the 11:15 Mass at Most Blessed Sacrament on Sunday....and the town politics. Oh yes, Franklin Lakes was like a WASPy version of a some Mississippi backwater -- complete with the prominent family who lorded over the town, owned all the land and populated it with their relatives and friends, a boozy band of entitled n'er-do-wells. Those were the days! Jen and I talked all about what it was like for me living back here where we grew up...being surrounded by the things and people of my childhood. A little stifling? Maybe sometimes. Comforting? Yeah, that too... And we talked about how it was back then, growing up in the 70's in Franklin Lakes....only 18 miles west of New York City, but back then, like the pristine countryside, big pretty houses on vast, leafy lots. Our whole worlds revolved around summer barbecues at the Grove and after school ice skating on one of the many lakes of Franklin Lakes. On Halloween we trolled the neighborhood with the other kids, no adults in sight. We used to ride our bikes barefoot to what was Kilroy's Wonder Market then, and is now the famous Market Basket, where we bought family-sized bags of watermelon Jolly Ranchers and hoarded them like we were on a desert island. The old Urban Pharmacy had charge plates on file for every family in town and we would rack up endless bills buying wax bottle candies, Razzles and Charleston Chews. We rode our bikes by ourselves to the Club for summer camp each morning and spent the whole day there. We ate everyday at the Indian Trail Club snack counter...extra salty fries and soft serve ice cream cones. We swam at the lake without any supervision whatsoever, except for the teenaged lifeguards, who were always off making out behind the paddle house. Our parents would eventually show up to check in after a few sets of tennis.....We were all of nine years old.

Jen and I cackled for a full two hours remembering...like, what were our moms thinking? What were all of those 70's moms thinking? I mean, Franklin Lakes was a safe little haven -- and it still is -- but today's moms wouldn't consider allowing their little girls to explore the town, ride bikes along "busy" streets, spend the whole day unsupervised. My first born will be nine on New Year's Day....and some of her friends' moms are appalled that I let her ride her bike around the corner by herself....around the corner, not even 20 yards from our front door. My generation has been conditioned to live constantly in fear of some invisible threat -- I'll be on the playground and lose sight of my jealous and possessive five year old for no more than two minutes when I start to wonder if he's been kidnapped....like, really...in front of 80 people the kid is going to be snatched away? But I admit that deep inside I am fearful that any lapse in proper parental judgement is inexcusable -- on a regular basis I fully expect DYFS to show up at my door for some minor infraction -- like a few weeks ago when Rob told me he left my daughter in charge of the boys for 10 minutes while he ran to CVS. Well...I think my mom and dad had me watching RJ by the time I was seven....right, we laugh now, but it was kind of acceptable then.

When we were kids there was no such thing as an organized playdate, you just rode your bike over to your friends house after school...And we took dance and piano and played rec sports and joined school clubs, but our moms certainly didn't have us in French classes and acting lessons and speed school by the time we were three. They may have been overwhelmed with huge families and no household support from their husbands, our dads, but sometimes I think moms in the 70's kind of had it better than we do in a lot of ways. Things were just sort of more relaxed...they stayed home all day and cooked and cleaned and not one of them worked outside the home. They were rarely expected to sport anything fancier than golf skirts or tennis clothes and their husbands took them out every Friday night. And their kids were allowed to just be kids. So maybe a few of us ended up crawling onto the roof or falling out of windows or getting lost at Sealfon's in Ridgewood...but we ended up ok, right? And the memories are priceless, no?

So I am thinking that maybe we can return to the 70's...I mean, hell, my friends and I are on a mission to singlehandedly bring back fondue parties, which is a good start. You know -- the guys can go back to being the men of the house, never picking up a broom or changing a diaper...and we ladies can spend the entire day making casseroles and phoning up our neighbors with the latest goings on...and no pressure on the kids...no more undying control over their every move, who they befriend, what they think. You know, this might work -- the guys would probably love it if we wives stayed inside and never have another dinner, drink or committee meeting for the rest of our lives. And maybe the kids would flourish in this new freedom. But what about the women? I mean, come to think of it, without a steady stream of Vicodin, I am not quite sure that I could go back to the simpler times...I kind of like having a profession, as willy nilly as it is...and I am totally committed to all the committees I am on, so I don't want to stay inside cleaning all week long...and I'll be damned if I am going to give up those nights out cocktailing and laughing with my friends...And besides, the shoes are much hotter these days than they were back then, so there you go...that settles it right there.

Photo 1: The suburban MILFs...nothing is hotter than a bunch of women clamoring for molten chocolate on banana chunks...

Photo 2: Me, Jen and RJ...most likely playing with matches or knives...our parents most certainly nowhere to be found...Don't you love the snotty sidelong glance she is giving me??

Photo 3: Some of Franklin Lakes' finest, fresh and innocent...on the way to booze up in the back of some cheesy 70's limo...

Photo 4: Scenes from a Key Party??? Looks that way...Jen's mom and dad up front with my mom, sporting her 70's permanent wave...Dad poking his head through...those crazy b*stards in the back were months out from joining some cult (swear to G*d!!)

Photo 5: Our Jolly Rancher stash....looks depleted somewhat...

Photo 6: Over-protecting my jealous and possessive five year old...at least someone out there thinks he can't live without me...

Photo 7: The Fourth Grade Franklin Lakes posse...just coming off a mammoth prank calling session...so very 70's...

Photo 8: Ritteresier siblings circa 1972, pre-RJ....my mom on a Vicodin drip (allegedly....)

A New Day...Yawn...

Ok, I wasn't going to comment on this moment in history because, well, it's sort of like Tom Brokaw handicapping the upcoming season of Top Chef (yum, food porn...mark your calendars -- November 12th premiere)...but also because I was taught early in life that voraciously advertising your political leanings displays poor manners. And I continue to share that perspective instilled in me by my parents....we are not lawn sign, bumper sticker or lapel pin proponents in this house...that is one thing about which we will go on record. And admit it -- there is nothing more pathetic than a beat up old Suburu station wagon with a faded "Gore/Lieberman 2000" sticker peeling off the rear bumper eight years hence....cringe-worthy...

But then this morning while I was out grabbing my iced venti non-fat latte there was some buffoon on line in front of me preening in this computer geek version of a varsity jacket, leather sleeves and all, the logo of a major tech firm printed on the back. But you could barely see it because his entire jacket was covered with Obama stickers...really -- is that the fashion statement you want to make? And the dude was kind of lingering at the coffee shop, waiting for someone to congratulate him or something...like "hey, your candidate won so that must mean you are finally cool." Instead everyone in the place was giving him sidelong glances and rolling their eyes (including me...again, advertising political leanings = bad manners...). It's like this guy was hiding for weeks and now he's empowered, coming out of the liberal closet in some sense...pulling an "in your face" on the cool kids in town. Like a bad Revenge of the Nerds sequel...I was kind of like: Come on buddy, act like you've been there before.

I live in a pretty, little, upper-middle class, suburban community a mere 16 miles west of New York City. The overwhelming majority of Wyckoff citizens are highly educated, well-informed, mostly pro-choice, support gay marriage and are environmentally conscious....that said, I would also say 80% of my friends and neighbors identify themselves as Republicans. But are we? Do we fit anywhere really? Based on this morning's reports, it is this specific suburban demographic that elected our new president. Well I suppose there are many explanations for that aside from all the buzz word reasoning -- the "need for change" -- I think that maybe there was something else to consider that made Obama the overwhelming choice...an all-important undeniable aspect: personality, baby. And when you have it in excess (see Bill Clinton) you can pretty much write your own ticket.

You know how much I dig old guys, I've never denied that, but John McCain...well, I think he would have been an honorable, strong president, but it's been clear from the get-go that in the charisma department, Obama had the edge. And to a lot of people, that makes a difference when all is said and done. As much as I hate to admit it, there were tears in my eyes when he addressed his supporters last night...he's engaging with his whole "Yes We Can" thing. But regardless of which candidate I believe actually has the experience to lead this country, or what goals are attainable and realistic for a president to accomplish, regardless of the state of our nation at home or our image globally, it comes down to this: people are drawn to that X-factor, the power one has to make others follow him and believe his words. And that, my friends, is a major component in how elections are won...Fair enough, right?

Ok...so enough of this newsworthy stuff...let's move on to discussion of more pressing issues....like Mrs. Biden's snappy election night get up -- cute little pixie in chartreuse...And what about NeNe and Kim on The Real Housewives last night...talk about an epic battle....And the Oscar race...has that started yet? Now that's a campaign I can get excited about.....

'Tis Already the Party Season??

Hey, look....I am an intelligent woman, and I have opinions and concerns and three children whose future is what I live for, but frankly...I am continuing to stick my head in the sand on this "global financial crisis" issue, even though all the beloved men in my life (dads, husbands, brothers, friends, gay boyfriends and all) insist on yanking me out of my denial...why is that??? I say we just pretend we have nothing to worry about and all the time in the world to focus on important issues like celebrity sightings (Jen K.T. spotting Barry Gibb getting into a Bentley up on Madison Avenue is a killer....) and shoe shopping and new lipgloss and the yes, the upcoming party season...My favorite!!

Ok, so....even though I am hosting no less than 60 people as the first stop on the neighborhood's Snack-O-Lantern Trick-or-Treat fest this Friday, I am already partially over the Halloween fun and games (yes, I know we are still a day out...but I think a windy, rain-soaked trek through Sleepy Hollow looking for the Headless Horseman last Saturday night may have put the proverbial nail in my coffin...am just waiting it out now....).

So instead, I have moved right into Holiday Planning mode....and if you think I mean that I have started my shopping you are totally off-base....if you have learned one thing about me it is that I work best under pressure....I will be wrapping up a stack of Vineyard Vines ties and Shep Shirts and Chappy trunks for every guy on my list no sooner than Christmas Eve. My poor kids...my jealous and possessive five year old son calls out to me every five minutes with another Christmas gift request for some crappy, useless hunk of plastic he has just seen advertised during breaks from SpongeBob. Oh, and I know that in four weeks I will be frantically searching the internet, trying to recall what toys and games he has mentioned...in fact, as I write he just yelled something about some MegaSaur Power Ranger (WTF???)...please remind me in a few weeks. It's that part of the Christmas season always screws me....

But....Holiday Parties, well that's another thing altogether. I am a calculated planner when it comes to all things celebratory, so of course I have to be certain weeks in advance that my plans are in place so that I may fully enjoy the Thanksgiving to New Years weeks to the fullest extent. So far this year I have made arrangements to host two dinner parties in November (one for girls only so expect a revelatory post after that event...), started planning my Thanksgiving menu (onion walnut muffins...always a hit...), lining up weekend babysitters, picking out outfits (not kidding...) and am filling my Christmas Party calendar (all my standing annual engagements will be in order once Dirk Diggler settles on a date for the Wyckoff Swingers Holiday Swing-A-Thon....hope Scotty arrives in his new Datsun 280 ZX!). Yes....priorities....

This all reminded me of the first Christmas Cocktail Party that Rob and I threw as a married couple....December of 1996. I was already an experienced hostess, we had spent our engagement inviting friends to our tiny apartment on Morton Street for casual dinners and Oscar viewing parties and New Year's kickoff cocktails, but this party was major effort, the follow-up to our big wedding only eight weeks earlier. Instead of jamming everyone we knew into our sixth floor walk-up, we hosted at my parents' pied-a-terre on East End Avenue and 82nd, the absolute opposite end of the City from our scrappy West Village dwelling. The apartment was flawlessly decorated and featured two balconies overlooking the East River...and Mom and Dad never really used it....perfect place to party!

I must have been influenced by the uptown surroundings because I thought I was a mini Martha Stewart...all growed up with my fancy tray of hors d'oeuvres, pates and expensive imported cheeses, white wine and champagne (still love it...). Modeling myself after Martha's ice-blooded WASP aesthetic with crisp, tasteful holiday decorations and classic Christmas carols coming across the speakers. I even remember what I wore -- a Rachel-from-Friends-like tiny black velvet mini-skirt and black fitted sleeveless sweater from Armani Exchange, black tights and 3-inch stacked patent leather pumps. My hair was newly cut after returning from my honeymoon, a sleek, chin-length little bob...so Manhattan in the mid-90's.

What I remember most about that party was that everyone who came was so impressed...they thought it was such a great time and loved my food and appreciated my grasciousness and reveled in the festive Christmasy vibe I had created. Not me though...I was stressing out the entire night...I think I felt all this pressure to be fabulous, but honestly, I kind of felt like a little girl playing dress-up in a fancy apartment while her parents were out of town. It was like it had all just struck me -- I was a married woman, but still a baby at age 26, hosting other adults in a genteel setting and yet no one is calling me out as some pretender...how did I get here??? Suddenly in these grown up surroundings, I was a little out of sorts, and longed to peel off my chic little get-up and curl up on the couch...I know, can you believe it? There was a party happening around me and I wasn't having a good time?? Truly shocking. I think that may have been the last time that phenomena occurred...but it really happened. You know me though....I plowed through, smiling the whole time and kissed the last guest good night well past 1 a.m.

Yeah...we stuck to entertaining in our own home after that night...The only other time I ever hosted an event on East End Avenue it was some kind of clebratory dinner with people from work for my Kratz BFF, Jim (was it a birthday? or was he leaving the firm...now that was cause for celebration back then....). And I had a blast because Jim cracked me up endlessly...but that was nothing out of the ordinary.

So, I have thrown and attended countless gatherings since that first foray in to Christmas Cocktailing and I have found that people just appreciate a place to meet and see one another and toast the season...whatever season it may be...so I don't put so much pressure on myself anymore. I have relaxed ever so slightly...you know, maybe not all the napkins are fanned out perfectly and an occasional shrimp will be out of place on the platter and I will happily look the other way if someone wants to play DJ... because I want to have fun too...I am kind of selfish that way...

Oh, by the way....you can mark my words -- by no later than December 15th, I will become completely bored and overwhelmed with shopping and planning and partying and will be looking beyond Holiday Season towards my Week-long Birthday Extravaganza -- March 8, 2009....so save the date now!!

Photo 1: Sexy 70's falsetto icon and Bentley owner, Barry Gibb...

Photo 2: Some neighborhood kiddies in front of my house posing for Snack-O-Lantern '07....there I am way in the back serving gallons of wine to the spent moms...

Photo 3: Ellie and I kicking off the '07 Party Season rocking some face painting and puff pastry hors d'oeuvres at the Arcola Country Club annual family bash -- our third party that day...

Photo 4: Yes, it's the Wyckoff Swingers....my man Scotty all the way to the right devising a plan to get Dirk into the Datsun...

Photos 5 and 6: Delicious party acoutrements...you can always depend on me to bring it...

Photo 7: Suz as young bride with Dad...my career as hostess extraordinaire a mere glimmer in his proud, adoring eyes. I know...it is a great shot...

Photo 8: Some real swingers...partying on my deck...raspberry mojitos in hand...mmm, raspberry mojitos...

Photo 9: The real Holiday celebration I look forward to...my birthday, chocolate cake and my boos...

Wicked Good Fun...Or Not...

Yes....I did get arrested in Boston.

Well, not quite, but almost...they threatened me with incarceration and fines and all that stuff too. And I only got away because I played the ditzy broad act up to the hilt and batted my lashes at the two totally pissed off officials who approached me on the steps of the Massachusetts Expo & Convention Center as I handed out sticky sweet fruit smoothie crap to anyone who didn't sneer in my direction. You know though...after spending a week entertaining our client who is (no lie) a cross between Jabba the Hutt and Homer Simpson's more enormous, unsightlier, less intelligent brother, being quasi-arrested was a highlight on my trip to Boston. In fact, if it meant escaping the grips of said oafish client, I may have willingly offered my wrists for cuffing...but then I would have had to ditch TL, my Boston BFF and star member of Stonehill Class of '81...and there was no way I was going to miss taking him out for his birthday...Thankfully, I didn't have to sacrafice any further....

So since most of you read this while you are enjoying your morning coffee and corn flakes (or Fruit Brute a la Gwen, Joe and Lance from Pulp Fiction...prank caller! prank caller!), I will spare you any further physical description of Oafish Client...but I have to tell you what he did and how he acted all week long...I mean, if nothing else, so you start the day feeling kind of good about your job. So at the request of OC, Tappers and I made arrangements to have a casual group dinner at The Boston Sail Loft, a little waterside dive well-known to Bostonians for chowder, fried seafood and beers...can't go wrong, right? And Oafish Client loved it...he was all over the casual vibe and as dinner began he was chatty and friendly and we were looking past his stained and faded golf shirt, making nice and enjoying ourselves as much as possible. He wasn't all that bad-- was he? And then, about two beers in, Oafish Client started to tease the waitress for her pronunciation of the word "chowder" ("Say chowd-ah, Frenchy!"). And I am sitting there thinking: Dude, even the chicks in Boston will crack your skull if you start messing with them...and I was kind of wishing she would just tell him to take his Ohioan condescension (seriously, the nerve!) and shove it up is ample a**. But she put up with him...I smiled meekly at her, communicating non-verbally that her tip would warrant dealing with this fool.

And that's when Oafish Client ordered a round of tequila shots and began pressuring all of us to join him in his misguided attempt at channeling the high school junior that was apparently hidden under his girth. Now you guys all know I am not at all above a low-brow good time -- my affinity for dive bars is well-documented -- but when the waitress delivered the order I pushed my shot back across the table at OC and said "no thanks"...After two rounds the rest of the group bailed as well.... except for Tappers who consistently played the role of Go-er and went shot for shot with Oafish Client...for eight rounds!!!!!!!!!!!! The rest of us sat there in amazement as OC began slurring his words, becoming way louder and just plain grosser by the second. Tappers on the other hand was unfazed...completely clear and in control (she credits her pure WASP gene-pool and a long history of iron-stomached investment banking predecessors...). So soon OC was loudly describing the last intimate experience he and his eight months pregnant wife shared (I sh*t you not...) and then without much of a segue he began declaring to the entire restaurant that John Mellancamp is a better songwriter than Bruce Springsteen. Don't worry, friends, though I am a huge Mellancamp fan I felt it was my duty to get all Jersey on his a** and rep the tri-state area on behalf of Bruce...and you know me -- of course I was the victor in our debate. At that point OC started singing and I began pleading with our patient waitress for the bill...and thankfully, Tappers and I glared at Mackalicious (our boss) until he agreed to give her a 30% tip.

So you would think Oafish Client might be too wasted to continue his mission....hells no! Instead, as his co-workers scattered in different directions like frightened mice, OC insisted we agency folks hop in a cab with him to have a final round of drinks in the cocktail lounge at his fancy downtown hotel, The Langham. And through gritted teeth we agreed -- BIG mistake. After he harrassed the cabbie the whole ride over and then hassled the hotel valet upon arrival, Tappers, Mackalicious and I followed him with our tails between our legs, mortified as we entered the beautiful, posh hotel cocktail lounge and took our spots between the bar and the baby grand on couches under a portrait of President Lincoln. Though OC sat next to me, I practically planted myself on Mackalicious' lap so that no one would make the assumption that OC was my date.

Almost immediately OC got up and stuffed a single dollar bill (big spender, eh?) into the tuxedo-clad pianist's tip jar and went to-to-toe with the dude for 10 minutes telling him he wanted to hear "Chopsticks." Somehow the pianist put up a good enough fight because OC eventually gave up. But he wasn't quite done being a lout because he came back over to our seats and broke the low hum in the lounge (the patrons were focused on the Presidential debate so chatter was minimal at this point) and calls over to our regal cocktail hostess with an order for two shots of tequila. She looks down her nose at him as the rest of us blush, and in a few seconds appears with two highballs filled about a quarter full with gold tequila and very politely and apologetically she says to him:

"Sir, traditionally we do not serve shots at Julien's, so please enjoy these but I cannot bring you any more shots this evening."

Well....you would have thought she spit on him...he was incredulous: "Can you believe her? Is she kidding me? What kind of place doesn't serve shots? She's lying!" Tappers and Mackalicious are staying the hell out of it, playing with their iPhones and cheering on Barack Obama (that's another story....), so I am trying to reason with OC and I say: "Look, there is a time and a place for everything, so maybe we should respect the wishes of the staff." And he's like: "Well screw her, who does she think she's talking to? She's not getting a tip." And when she brings over the bill a few minutes later, Oafish Client snatches it up before Mackalicious can get to it and he signs it to his room. Proudly he snaps the leather folder closed and announces: "I gave her a 6% tip!" I gasp inwardly and glare at Tappers and Mackalicious, silently willing them to get him out of the way so I can add some cash on top of the bill...but OC is just standing there and they can't maneuver him accordingly. So finally I just pick up the bill, whip out $30 and walk over to the waitress and hand her the whole lot, right in front of everyone. And she looks confused at first until she opens the billfold and sees her measly percentage and the extra $30 makes sense...she mouthed the words "Thank you so much" to me. I waved and we were off....

Friends...I am dead serious, not exaggerating an iota...this is who I left my children for 5 days to spend the week with...this big oaf. And I didn't even tell you about the part where he followed us down to the lobby -- audibly passing gas the entire time...no joke! -- and making the bellman call his co-worker's room six times in a row...wisely the co-worker was blowing him off...which is what we should have done. Now is it clear to you why I was so conflicted about keeping this job????

So needless to say, two days later when I was almost arrested I took it in stride...how much worse could the week have gotten, really? At least it ended on a high note with TL's birthday lunch...big spicy Bloody Marys (only one each...we didn't want to have to call on Dennis for a ride home or anything....), many, many laughs, a chocolatey fudgey dessert concoction and a post-lunch shopping spree at J. Crew...well, TL wisely bailed by then. Rob met me a few hours later and we spent 36 kidless hours in Boston, eating, drinking and being merry, marking our 12th anniversary (wait...how did I get here???) and midday cocktailing with Jeanne and Bob in Marblehead. We even returned to the lounge at The Langham and though the pianist looked at me suspiciously, we did receive a secret drink on the house from my friend the cocktail hostess...So it's good to see that $30 buys you back your reputation in Boston...Thank God, because I would have paid 100 times that much!!!

Love to all....Suz

Photo 1: I think my mug shot might have been slightly less pathetic than Lohan's (Long Island's finest!)...only slightly though...

Photo 2: Lance, the cornerstone of one of film history's greatest scenes...Eric Stoltz -- shamefully robbed by The Academy that year....
Photo 3: I'd rather cuddle up to Homer than have to sit through dinner with Oafish Client again...

Photo 4: Tappers would out-shoot those two lightweights with her hands tied behind her back...

Photo 5: Bruce (Go Jersey!)...I'd say his talents and abilities are indisputable...and don't even start trying to make a case for Billy Joel...

Photo 6: There I am on the couch at Julien's in my gold bikini, if only Harrison Ford could have saved me from OC...

Photo 7: Please tell me there is more than 6% added in...

Photo 8: Me and TL...after far more than one Bloody Mary each...

Trippin'

Ok so I am on my very last glamorous business trip for the fruit smoothie sampling program, and this time I completely lucked out -- instead of fending off gym rats in Cleveland, Parma, Cinci or whatever the hell Midwestern flyover city I happened to stop in, today I landed in Boston...a genuine East Coast metropolis...and, you know, compared to Cinci we feel like we are in Paris....

So, I am again here with Tappers/Annie T., my 5' 11" raven-haired, porcelain-skinned Account Exec who in only a few short weeks will be solely responsible for smiling and winking and passing out Dixie cups filled with Acai Raspberry slop while I skip back into the sunset...You know, I will miss Tappers, frankly, but other than that I am pretty psyched to move on from here.... But you know, I admit it....yesterday was kind of fun because we had to stop at the loading dock at the Boston Expo Center to pick up 600 mini bottles of our fruit smoothie product so that we might attempt guerrilla sampling opportunities all over Boston this week. Yes...guerrilla...in other words, we will be walking the streets of this lovely town handing out bottles and info to unsuspecting citizens wearing our stupid branded golf shirts (mine needs a belt as it is a men's size large and hangs to my ankles...) and praying that we can avoid being arrested for illegally sampling products without a permit...Should be kickass week! But I digress...the fun part was being at the loading dock -- of course, we were the hit if the day in our impractical shoes and big sunglasses....men came out of every corner to see the two NYC princesses skipping through the joint, demurely asking the big-muscled union workers to help us transport cases and cases of product to the back hatch of my Volvo SUV....

So after we were all packed with product, we drove to the Jurys Hotel on Stuart Street and, well, with a stunning lack of conscience, we kind of fibbed to the valet who asked if he could help us...You see, weeks ago the hotel's Food & Beverege Director told us that he might be willing to accept free samples of our fruit smoothie to offer to hotel guests throughout the week. Well, through subsequent follow up, we never reconnected with him, but our client was on our butts about it...and we needed to make it happen. So when the dear valet approached, we told him we had a drop off for said F&B Director, as if it was all set in stone. And the poor naive soul just wheeled one of those hotel transport carts over and took a bunch of cases from us...no questions asked. Yes, my friends, this is what I have been reduced to....When Tappers jumped back in the car, I sped away through the streets of Boston and we cackled like the wicked little witches we are....ugh, you know that is going to bite us in the a**....we are definitely getting arrested now...

So at any rate, Tappers has never been to Boston and we all know that I have spent some time drinking in the local culture. But the thing is, I was a kid then...and to be honest, I wasn't quite sure where to take her other than for burgers at The Black Rose (where we were morbidly intrigued by a group of burnt out suits plying the local barfly with Jameson, her lipstick snudged across her face...ugh...kind of gross). Then we hit those barf bars along Union Street: Purple Shamrock, Daddy O's, Bell & Hand, The Tap...(each bouncer carding me religiously...whatevs)...to drown in the jam band music while standing by as the Red Sox (Go Sawks!!) completely imploded at Fenway (Tappers by the way was pissing off the locals with her snide NYC glee as the score crept up and up and up...and that was the first inning...).

And we had so much fun talking to each other in our fake Boston accents, dropping our "R's" and calling each other by our Boston nicknames (Maaahty and Sully...), befriending the guy who was wearing a jacket embroidered with the words "Everything Is Bigger in Texas" (whatever does that mean? bigger hair? bigger guns? bigger trucks? bigger thighs?...) and soaking up all that boozy, student-centric Boston good time. By the time we were sitting in the cab listening to our toothless cabbie wax poetic about Boston College football as we were heading back to our hotel (where by the way, there is quite an active bar/hook up scene for the 50-plus business traveler...) we were fully planning on a return trip for tomorrow night....well after we hit the North End and stuff our faces with some cannolis over on hanover Street...

More soon....assuming of course I am not in the slammer by noon....(TL -- expect a call if so...)
Miss you all...

xoxo, Suz

Photos: Am late for a meeting with client....these speak for themselves, no???

'Cause I Want It That Way...???

You are most definitely going to lose a small modicum of respect for me today...and I am prepared really...I mean, apparently I am embracing the possibility...Ok, so...here goes....

I rock out every single morning to the Backstreet Boys.

There. I said it....and now, as is my way, I will backtrack and explain what has possessed me to put the words "rock out" and "Backstreet Boys" in the same sentence when I am not quite sure they even belong on the same page.

I am a Rittereiser to the core, short attention span and all (for those of you without intimate knowledge of what that means, my patience is nil and being kept waiting only diverts my attention to the next best thing...on the plus side, we Ritts are a dynamic lot...), and long-ago I became bored with commuting on the train each morning to and from Lafayette Street. Instead, I have been driving myself to the office and parking in a little outdoor lot where the Salvadoran attendants take special care to lord over my vehicle while I am toiling away across the street. At any rate, my dear Dad has kindly lent me his extra car -- a little blue Jaguar -- while Rob and I are between leases. Though the car is a Westside Highway guy-magnet (a nice boost to the ego though most of my suitors tend to be of the 50-plus/ginormous SUV-driving/outer-boroughs variety who no doubt have pegged me as some jaded Jersey trophy wife), the CD collection is sorely lacking. So, when I get tired of listening to Opie and Anthony and their band of misogynistic (but undeniably hilarious) merrymakers, I pop-in a mixed CD I found in the glove compartment and bathe in the sounds of the guiltiest of guilty pleasures...crappy boy band music. I cannot resist the sappily sincere opening guitar chords...gets me every time...and I start the dancing behind the steering wheel...right there on the GWB.

You are my fire
The one desire

Believe when I say
I want it that way

But we are two worlds apart
Can't reach to your heart

When you say that I want it that way

Tell me why
Ain't nothin' but a heartache

Tell me why
Ain't nothin' but a mistake

Tell me why
I never wanna hear you say

I want it that way

But it gets better, because I am a full-on car singer...even when I am with other people, which I know is so completely dorky that I expect a few of you will never speak to me again. When I was driving our Volvo SUV I could go full-on Mariah, virtually unnoticed by fellow drivers due to the shaded windows and the height of the car. Thing is, I keep forgetting that in the Jaguar everything I do can be viewed in full by other drivers. Needless to say, almost every morning one of my Westside Highway admirers waves to me while I am getting my boy band on. Yeah, so it's kind of embarrassing...but, come on...those big lung belt-outs are deeply satisfying as well.

I know some (most?) of you are with me in this...I just got back from a Girls Weekend and openly made fun of my darling ADP who stacked her iPod shuffle with so many American Idol contestants and show tunes I was starting to wonder if I had gone away with the Golden Girls by mistake (I think I might be the Blanche Devereaux, by the way....). But secretly I was loving it. And the other day Suse and I were driving home from our big Apple Fest at ADP's and Erasure's "A Little Respect" came on, and believe it or not, the two of us who together could talk a dog off a meat truck finally shut up long enough to sing:

I'm so in love with you
I'll be forever blue

That you give me no reason
Why you're making me work so hard

What is it though about those badly written, saccharine, goppy, totally unthreatening pop tunes that make us feel so damn good? Even the ones masquerading as "rock" songs do it for me...you know the type: Journey's "Separate Ways"...Styx with "Lady"...we all know those dudes are one step away from Lance Bass and are basically just boy bands with hangovers, bad fashion sense and signature white trash mullets. So make fun of me all you want...because I know I am not alone....Who hasn't cranked up "Sister Christian" with a little air-guitar thrown in...or sang the ba-ba-ba-ba's along with David Cassidy in "I Think I Love You"...and I personally think you are kind of a traitor to the female gender if you haven't tried to reach the 5 octave spread that alien-freak-goddess Celine Dion cranks in "Power of Love"....even Gwen, by far my coolest friend of all, will have to admit she is guilty of that indiscretion. It feels good to come clean, no?

Speaking of Gwen....she knows me so damn well...she had no clue whatsoever what I was writing about this week, but she called me at 9:00 a.m. on the button this past Sunday morning to make sure I knew that the greatest guilty pleasure movie in history (no guys, not Roadhouse with Patrick Swayze) was being shown on TNT as we spoke -- Selena starring the marginally talented Miracle Mile diva, Jennifer Lopez. Frankly...I need a whole week to document the sheepish joy and dependable sob-fest that film provides, not to mention how Selena's Tejano tunes bring a little bit of sunshine to a rainy day. Speaking of which, I am so burning a CD of the soundtrack as we speak so I can rock out to a little "Bidi-Bidi-Bom-Bom" tomorrow on the Westside Highway....look for me!

xoxo, Suz


Photo 1: Oh good lord...they are just too cheesy to even make fun of....but boy they sing some catchy tunes...
Photo 2: A selection of Rittereisers totally ready to throw because we have been asked pose for more than 30 seconds...
Photo 3: My ride...sleek, peppy...a suburban dude magnet...
Photo 4: The O&A virus....
Photo 5: There I am...getting down to some craptastic '80's pop classic while an admirer looks on...just another morning on the Westside highway...
Photo 6: Blanche Devereaux: slutty and 60-plus...still bringing it...
Photo 7: Ooooh...tough guy rockers...
Photo 8: J.Lo as Selena: Yummy delicious guilty pleasure...love that ghetto red lipstick!