Why Bubbie is always right....

Ello puppets!

This evening Adrian and I embark on our belated honeymoon and jet off to Costa Rica. Luckily I had the day off to finish packing and get our apartment in order. My to-do list included packing the essentials (cookies, gummies, my air plane pillow, ipad, etc.), having a nice relaxing breakfast and potentially getting my nails done.

Well that went to shit.

Nanny Kitty, my 80 year old stunner Bubbie, always lectured me with, "Before you leave the house, put your makeup on, do your hair and make sure you are wearing a bra because you never know who you will meet."For the most part, I listened and primped myself in the morning to look like a lady and make Bubbie proud. However, I have noticed that since being with Adrian my primping has decreased, my clothes are anything made out of elastic and the concept of a bra is foreign to me.

This morning we put our suitcases in the car before Adrian headed to work and I headed back to bed to watch, "What Not to Wear" praying that one of my friends would nominate me and I could get free clothes. As normal, I kissed my hubby goodbye and went my merry way.

While shopping at the grocery store, picking up a few snacks for the flight, I realized I did not have my house keys. I had my car keys and my wallet but that was it. I did not even have my cell phone which was usually glued to my hand.

Panic ensued. Yes the suitcases were in the car but our passports, ipad, cameras, phones, money, Cosmo--those things were in the house.

To relate everything back to my above bubbie comment, I was dressed in PJ bottoms that had holes, an old t-shirt, boy flip-flops and of course no underwear or bra. I also had a mop of hair mess on my head and probably smelled. I left my house a wreck and now my apartment had evicted me due to lack of style and primp. Homeless people were more styling than me at the moment.

I dashed back to our apartment and banged on our super's door, Alec the Polish super, but he was not there. To further add to the problems of the day, Adrian and I don't know any of our neighbors, we only know Alec. So one very lucky neighbor was about to meet me in all my bra-less glory.

I thought about which neighbor to bother. The apartment right next door has a large Korean family living in it who had seen me before but I was pretty sure their English would be a challenge. Down the hall, lived an Indian family but they always gave me dirty looks in the elevator. I settled on the apartment directly across from ours because I knew they had a baby, looked normal, and the husband/father rocked a Man U soccer jersey often. Winners!

I banged on the door to which neighbor told me, "I don't answer for strangers." Good start, I must have looked worse than I thought. I knocked again and said I was her neighbor from 3A to which she said, "I don't care about the ASPCA." Right, she might be deaf. Lastly, I yelped that I was locked outside my apartment, and finally she opened the door.

My lovely neighbor was a pretty young woman who instantly greeted me with a warm smile and a bottle of Poland Spring water. Her baby, a 6 month year old boy, was the cutest baby ever and kept me calm with his smile. She let me use her phone to call Adrian. Ten tries later he did not answer. Next I called my Mom who unfortunately gets these types of frantic calls often, and had her reach out to Adrian to tell him I was on my way and would meet him at his work.

My lovely neighbor let me leave my grocery bag of Frosted Flakes and chips in her apartment while I rescued my keys.

Riding the subway is usually uneventful. Riding the subway while rocking no bra and looking smelly is not something I advise others to do. Somehow I convinced two subway riders to let me use their cells, both gave me the gross 'you stink face', to call Adrian. He did not pick up either.

By the time I got to Adrian's work I was sweating, my boobs hurt from being unsupported and flying about while I sprinted through the NYC streets,  and I had a blister on my foot from my effing flip-flops. The icing on the cake is that Adrian works at a fashion label so the people he works with are very well put together. Their clothes are impeccable, their hair always blown out and beautiful and their makeup natural but flawless. It is like a Covergirl ad in there. And here I was in sweats, boobs hanging to the floor and smelling like a subway. Great impression. At least no lecture from Adrian but I am sure that will come later.

I returned to our apartment and stopped by my lovely neighbor's house in which she not only returned my groceries BUT also gave me a stack of Cosmo and Vogue magazines that she finished; she might be the nicest neighbor ever!!

All in all an annoying morning but I learned my lesson. Even if I think I am just stepping outside for a second, I at least need to fasten a bra and maybe roll on a bit of deodorant. Bubbie was right and I will be sleeping in my bra from now on....bye bye National Geographic boobs and hello support!

How I met my husband--our fairy tale

Greetings and salutations!

Yesterday marked an important day for Adrian and me--we celebrated our first wedding anniversary. It is frightening how quick a year can pass. I would say 5/5 of my "official" followers know our love story but I cannot think of a better time to write it down and save it on the digital space.

Yep...a sexy lady

Officially, I met Adrian when I visited London to stay with my then fling "J". At the time, Adrian had very long lady-like hair and I was jealous over its honey hue. He was heading off to the states to be a counselor at Camp Towanda (I know all of my Jewish friends know and probably played Towanda in soccer or boccie ball). We chatted about camp, the good ol' U.S.A. and that was about it. I was in Ireland for the summer, wrecking my body with Bulmers and getting my first tattoo, so we would miss each other.

Fast forward a year and I graduated, dated more men with temporary work visas and landed a job in media. I was living on the UWS with my nearest and dearest (five room apt...yes that's a lot of chicks) when my friend from London, Stuart, asked if he could visit and do a road trip. The road trip was from NYC to Canada and included Stuart, Adam (aka Kitten also a friend from my abroad journeys) and Adam's cousin Adrian.

The Awesome Foursome on a
road trip that changed my life

To speed this story along as this is a blog not a novel--initially Adrian was not keen on me...in the least. He thought I was brash, anal, controlling, boisterous, potentially manly and he was right. I thought he might be a bit too short for me as I was rocking the highest of heels those days (note:in these heels every man was too short for me. I made linebackers look like wee-little men). So we were not looking for love in each other.

However, being stuck in a car with two men on the prowl (yes, Stu and Adam) Adrian and I spent way too much time together. I would think that Adrian would claim "Stockholm Syndrome" as to why he fell for me but one night in Montreal magic happened. Magic comes in many forms, this time it was in beer and vodka. While our friends went off to a strip club we drank, shared stories, drank some more and took a cab two blocks to our hotel. Magic for sure happened and by morning I was smitten.

The rest of the trip was normal. I knew I liked Adrian but could not stomach another long distance relationship. He had been through the same tumult with another girlfriend. But we were both sad to see the trip end. I felt my heart tear as their cab drove away but chocked up the tears to something in my non-existent contacts.

I thought that was it...

Exactly 72 hours later my work sent me to London to help with a New Business pitch. I worked for a few days and then had the weekend to my disposal. I messaged Adrian and stayed with him in his tiny room and in his tiny bed. We went on a date to Brighton with Adam and I even rode a mechanical bull. In those few days, I officially fell in love with Adrian Laming.

We sustained our relationship via Skype and had five-hour long conversations almost every night. When you are long distance you have no choice but to just date...maybe have a little fun on camera (sorry roommates for the thin walls) but in the end we just talked and learned about one another.

Over Christmas, I visited Adrian and had the best week of my life. It was my first Christmas so I was unusually excited for an adult when it came to Santa and pressies. I might have pushed over his one-year old niece trying to open my gifts. We went ice skating, I maimed my body twice with tattoos (sorry parents) and spent time with his family...falling further in love with the Lamings as a unit. When I left, I cried so hysterically that a Virgin Air staff member walked me straight through security as I was making other travelers nervous---any time you are late to a flight CRY it works!

Our LURVE faces

We saw each other once more before I made an interesting proposal. Adrian was stuck in a job that did not use his artistic talent so he was pondering going back to camp. At age 26, I imagined he would be the oldest camp counselor and potentially be called "pappy". In truth, I thought this would end the relationship because it meant that Adrian's future was put on hold again and I would only see him during "Parents Weekend" when we would tour the camp in a golf cart and eat Hebrew National hot dogs and watermelon. So I offered that he move in and get a job in fashion--start his career and use his degree. I think I might have sold it with my amazing cooking skills and the fact that I could clean better than a hotel maid---he has since learned the truth.

For months I applied him to every fashion internship possible, redid his resume and pulled an all nighter to complete his portfolio...maybe my best work to date. To escape the apartment full of females, we moved to Queens to start our life in our own place.

About five weeks into his internship, they offered him a full time position because he is unbelievably fabulous (not biased in the least). One slight snag....he was not eligible to work in the states.

I knew this would eventually become an issue as I did my homework and spoke to several immigration lawyers. It was not fair for Adrian to continue an internship, make no money and eventually be deported. So marriage was quickly on the table. I think I shocked him with how cool and calm I was about the whole thing. But I loved him and I was not going to let a little thing like immigration stand in my way. I bet he is happy about my anal, controlling behavior now!!

The scene of our blessed affair.
<3 Queens

We decided to get married on a Sunday and by Friday we were officially hitched in the Queens Courthouse. My parents attended, his parents in spirit and the judge was a Jew from Flushing...how quaint. We spent the day wandering the city and eating at Da Nicos in Little Italy. There might have been a little karaoke jam sesh with a group of lesbians from the south. But it just added to the occasion.

Since we married so quick, he did not have time to propose. So our engagement happened after we got married with 80 candles and 22 sunflowers and a tearful "Will you marry me". It was the most loving memory to date. We had another reception with his family in attendance and exchanged our own vows. Perfect is the word I am looking for.

Maybe our story is not a traditional fairy tale and maybe our marriage doesn't follow the norm. All I know is that I love Adrian with all my heart. There is much more to our story and it will trickle out on this blog slowly and surely. He is the most wonderful husband and one last mushy note....he is my happily ever after.

My prince charming... a blushing british bride

I survived Cannes...barely

Hello five followers!

My apologies for the lack of the blogs being posted but I have just survived the triathlon of advertising...the Cannes International Festival of Creativity. For Corp Comm peers it is a mix of writing, event planning and negotiating your future fetuses to leverage your position against others. Basically, my blood, sweat and tears went into coordinating and executing a robust program for all of our partners and colleagues.

I will not go into my work as that is separate from what I personally experienced AND I am sure my company would not be thrilled with our backstage secrets being revealed.

While I have visited France before, I think the nine days spent in this country put things in perspective.

These are my learnings straight from France...again from my point of view.

Nadim, our French friend who explained
the wonders of olive oil

1) The French either love or hate Americans. There is no middle ground or luke warm feelings, they either laugh with us or laugh at us. The French do not pass judgement until you speak. I believe this is because they are trying to decide if we are American or from another English speaking country that they prefer such as the UK or Canada.

As soon as I spoke I either received, "Ahhh American, hooray!" or I would get a scowl, some cruses in French and then a lecture in French on why I sucked. I obviously preferred the first reaction but it seemed the latter was what I received most often---at least I learned to recognize french curses...what an education!

2) If you do not know the language do not try to speak it. I convinced myself that my minor in Spanish would take me far in France. I am not sure why I believed that because it could not be further from the truth.

The few times I tried to speak French I would get looks of confusion or horror. Even a simple "merci" can offend and ruin the impression. French is probably one of the most beautiful languages, and I managed to make it sound like I was trying to speak with gravel or glass in my mouth.

This was particularly difficult when ordering food. If the waiter did not speak English it was going to be a night of hand puppets. For whatever reason I thought since my mouth could not explain what I wanted, then my hands could. I was waving my hands trying to simulate a steak, omelet or even croissant to a very confused waiter. Many of them smiled to then curse me in the kitchen and spit on my food  resembling an ingredient in the Bearnaise sauce.

3) Stress and rushing do not mix with the south France. I was in Cannes to work and ensure that our events went off without a hitch. That meant running around like a crazy woman.

I might have bee rushing but the
view was fantastic

The first day in Cannes, I was juggling dozens of tasks and interviews and I was literally running up and down the Coisette without a thought of what I looked like. The Americans understood my rush and event supported me like I was in a race. They gave me water, pats on the backs and the occasional high-five. The French scratched their heads and looked for smoke or a fire as if that was the only reason to rush. Several times I was yelled at because it just seemed so odd for a person to run outside, in a dress and there be no natural disaster like a tsunami causing the sprint.

4) Lastly, all of France seemed numb to my jokes. In an attempt to lighten the mood with humor, I was actually causing more tension. When we were having a meeting, I was pooped on by a bird. It was not like a little poop hit me, no, it was like a flock of seagulls had a bad curry and unfortunately my dress looked like a toilet.

I tried to make a joke about this to the three french ladies that worked the concierge desk and I got blank stares. If getting shit on while in a meeting is not going to produce giggles then I am simply not funny in France and I need to give up.

So those are my lessons straight off the plane. The french folk are beautiful people but it seems that Rebecca Laming is much more charming/funny stateside. Next trip to Cannes I will arm myself with funny french one-liners. I will also learn basic words like bread, water, chocolate croissant, pain, stress and anger.

Also stay tuned for more regular blogs as I am slated to be home with the hubby for the summer..yay! Now we can bicker over dinner and whether or not the A/C should stay on throughout the night.

My wonderful husband decorated in my return.
Now was he happy to see me or tapping me out of the apt?

Getting back to nature...or being eaten alive in Vermont

Memorial weekend is my favorite holiday because it signals the start of summer and most likely the end of snowstorms (I say most likely because with recent weather phenomenons you never know). With summer knocking at the door, my brother decided to organize a trip to the outdoors, good ol' Vermont.

We set out at 11pm on Friday night, me, Adrian and my brother and his girlfriend to rid ourselves of the city grit and become one with the trees. While leaving at 11pm resulted in no holiday traffic, there is nothing fun about arriving at your destantion at the crack of dawn. By the time we arrived at the wrong house, then arrived at the right house, unpacked the car, identified a dozen unoccupied mouse traps and watched my un-handy brother give instructions on how to turn on the water to my relatively handy husband it was 5:30am. It is painful to try to fall asleep when your body clock is set to wake within two hours.

By the time we woke up the day was gone. My husband was frantically trying to figure out how to connect the TV to the satellite so he could watch the Champions League final. Luckily, it was raining most of the day so I did not mind watching soccer (football) and found myself gorging on hummus and salsa.

Our isolated cabin with "No Service"

Since we were deep within the forest, so deep the GPS was unsure where we were located, our cell phones did not work. Not one or two bars--just "No Service." Between the rain and soccer I was dying for a little YouTube and Facebook. I am also notorious for checking my phone and answering work emails regardless of my location. I answered a work email as my husband and I entered the courthouse for our wedding and I am sure if I was scaling a mountain I would still reply back to my boss. No service felt a bit unnverving. It also felt like the start of a scary movie where no one could call for help. Hello Jason!

We decided to leave our nature cave for dinner and landed at The Garlic. The name was true to its food. Everything was CAKED in garlic from bread to appetizers to entrees. After awhile we could not tell the food apart because it all just tasted like garlic...even the mousse cake. We came in two couples and left as four cloves of garlic.

After our garlic experience...smelling good

On Sunday, we awoke to hundreds of bug bites (why do bugs bite ankles and between the fingers? Are mosquitos just assholes and want to bite you in the most inconvenient areas?). I sustained multiple bites from a variety of bugs. I probably loss over a quart of blood in my sleep from these creepy crawlers.

To take advantage of the outdoors and actually do something other than itch my ankles, we wanted to go hourseback riding. Correction, three of us wanted to go ride horses, my husband was not keen on the idea. Adrian had never been on a horse and said the only thing he ever rode was a Lambretta or a donkey when he was three. We convinced him and ventured off to find some ponies.

Did I mention that my un-handy brother was also directionally challenged? Even after the lady from the grocery store clearly said, "Make a left at the end of the road and you can't miss the stables." He managed to make a right and take us 40 min and many miles out of our way. Once we realized this navigational error we  called the ranch to schedule our trail ride.

The ranch receptionist asked about our level of exptertise. Not to brag, but I was quite the equestrian in my teen days and I wanted to make sure that the ranch receptionist was aware so I obnoxiously screamed in the phone "professional." Not even sure what a professional horse back rider would mean. Then the ranch receptionist made a HUGE error and frankly executed a female "no no". She asked for everyone's height and weight.

Now I was in the company of three very physically fit people and anyone who knows me understands that while I am secure in my personality I am incredibly insecure about my physcial state. But I would imagine being surrounded by my body-building, quasi-vegan brother--his very attractive and slender girlfriend--and my husband who runs marathons--the average physically fit person would not like to declare his/her weight. I am below average just to give a gauge; I am not overweight, I am just overcurvy.

So everyone shouted out their weight as if they were lottery numbers to the cruel, inhumane ranch receptionist and I said, "Are you kidding me? Do we anticipate the horse cannot balance my size that we have to use an oxen? Will everyone be on ponies and I will be in the Oregon Trail cart with my oxen?"

My un-handy, directionally challenged brother sweetly said a weight that was significantly less then what I am. I am sure they had the most dainty horse ready based on those inaccurate measurements.

I would assume that they could gauge which females were pony princesses and which were ready for clydesdale mamonths. But again I am sure the average horse can handle me--I am sure they would prefer my light-weight, marathon runner husband but their beastly backs could deal with me.

Third Reich Cowboy

We ended up going to a different ranch that did not ask for our weight. We enjoyed the ride and my anti-horse husband seemed to enjoy the experience as well. He actually looked like a Aryan cowboy ready to lasso calf or be the poster cowboy for the Third Reich (I am Jewish so I can make those jokes).

The rest of the time we bonded by getting attacked by swarms of nats. I am positive that several have parked in my ear and are setting up permanent camp in the warmth of my brain. Adrian and I even managed to win a few games of  couples beer pong. My strategy was not to drink the beer as beer, especially dirty beer pong beer, tastes like pee pee.

So that was my weekend in Vermont. Other than the six hour trip back and the countless of mosquito bites (some in not PG areas) it was a fun way to spend the holiday. We were extremely happy to find out that while it poured during our weekend away the tri-state area enjoyed ample sunshine and pool perfect weather. The joys of driving several hours to greet the rain.

Being a bear...how I attracted Adrian

Borough-Tudes: Queens is the King

New York City is arguably one of the most amazing cities in the world. I will not say it is the best because there are plenty of contenders vying for the top spot and it would be impossible to choose. I know this city well as I have lived in the tri-state area the majority of my life and as a professional I have always worked in Manhattan.

Manhattan is a fun island...but it has nothing on the boroughs.

Each borough in the NYC area has a specific attitude or borough-tudes. Brooklyn is offbeat and alternative, Bronx is proud and boisterous and Staten Island...well they have the fist pumpers and a ferry. Manhattan is lacking an identity or perhaps it is bland in comparison to these well-defined borough-tudes. (Side note: very much aware of the stereotypes I am calling out....but are they that far from the truth?)

 

Favorite building in Queens: 5ptz

 Queens is the best of the boroughs. Yes, I am completely biased but I have an argument. Queens is the leader because it encompasses all of the other borough-tudes.  It is alternative, offbeat, boisterous, proud and I am pretty sure fist pumpers are somewhere in Flushing. A main reason Queens has all of these characteristics, and many characters for that matter, is due to the fact that Queens is a haven for immigrants.

When Ellis Island closed they made way for Queens to welcome all our international friends and peers. In Sunnyside, my home base, we live next to a family from Korea and across the hall is a family from Ireland. On our floor alone we must have eight different countries represented.

When I was looking to move out of Manhattan, my realtor stated that Queens is the United Nations of the boroughs. Everyone is represented and each culture stands out rather than blends in. Queens Diplomacy 101: Furniture being tossed out will end up in another person's living room.


Taking someone's thrown out Ikea furniture.
Bright side: it was already assembled


My apartment building offers multiple aromas and when the holiday seasons circles around you bet we are representing all cultures and religious practices. I feel bad for my Polish super, Alec, who has to remember all of the holidays like Hanukkah, Kwanzaa, Christmas and several others that I have never seen before.

The restaurants in Queens are not the norm. We have Pete's Diner (legit best BLT) but that is as close you will get to "American food" as the other restaurants range from Turkish to Indian to Peruvian to Spanish to Greek to Lithuanian to Japanese and of course rows of pubs serving true Irish stew and black pudding (not snack-packs my friends).

I formerly lived on the Upper West Side where the only populations I ever found were a hefty gathering of Orthodox Jews and Colombia students. It is a beautiful area, full of bagel and schmears, but it lacked variety. I find that most of Manhattan operates this way. For a city that is dubbed the "melting pot of the world" it seems like plain chicken broth vs. the other boroughs.

No knock to my Manhattaners. Your part of the city offers a lot to do and see but I am happy with Kim Lee my Korean neighbor and the O'Leary family that lives across the hall. Alec the super even sent me a Christmas card this year with "Happy Christmas" in both English and Polish.

Queens simply embodies all borough-tudes and let's face it, a town called Sunnyside cannot be beat. It trumps the Pleasantvilles of the world for happiest name of a neighborhood.

P.S. My dad hates that I live in Queens because 30+ years ago many areas in Queens were a bit rough and tough. My dearest dad, you are nearing your elder 50's and as you have gone soft and sweet so has Queens :)


Adrian and our neighborhood banner



Sleeping with the Enemy...my iPhone

First let me say this--I love Apple products. I think they are god's gift to the ADD riddled Generation X,Y and even Z folks. Now we can focus on a piece of technology that allows us to not-focus...brilliant! I also own so many of their products I am pretty sure the Apple icon should be plastered on my apartment door. Apple is not the enemy.

However, the reason this entry is entitled, "Sleeping with the Enemy," is due to the fact that I sleep with my iPhone. I, like many others, use my iPhone as my alarm clock. Why spend money on another piece of technology when I have an alarm setting on my iPhone? Frugal...yes. Healthy...no.

On my iPhone I have fused my personal and professional life. I originally thought this would make my day easier; one phone for my entire world. Very wrong. And what makes matters worse is that my phone is literally next to my head when I sleep. Actually my iPhone cuddles me more than my husband at night.

Again this has nothing to do with Apple or the iPhone but more so mobile phones acting as an alarm clocks.



Public Enemy #1

 I have noticed that since I employed my phone as more than a communication device, I have been sleeping really poorly. The bags under my eyes are starting to droop so low they are creating pockets to store things. Bloomingdale's "Big Brown Bags" are actually referring to my under eye appearance.

You see, I believe since my mobile phone is never turned off (how could it be I would never wake up) I am never turned off. I hear it buzz, light up and basically move all throughout the night. I may not check my phone until the morning but I am oddly aware of its nighttime activities.

When morning breaks and my alarm annoyingly goes off after several plus snoozes, the first thing I do is check my email. Anyone in the corporate world will say that checking your emails immediately after waking up is a sure fire way of ruining your morning. Now I have 1,001 things to do and technically I am not awake...at least my head is still on the pillow.

Not only am I loosing sleep from my 'all dancing, all singing' phone(a term my mother-in-law penned when seeing my iPhone) but my morning is less than peaceful because I know what awaits me in my cubicle. And trust me, it is rarely rainbows, butterflies or cupcakes.

Basically, my mobile phone is the enemy. It holds me a prisoner at night and it slaps me in the morning with mounds of information and ! emails (I hate when my emails have the ! symbol...it basically says this email is more important than your life so read it now or suffer a cruel demise!!!).

I have created my worst-enemy and can easily fix it, but I cannot get myself to pop to Target and pickup a nifty alarm clock. It just seems silly when the function exists on my mobile phone. Or I am suffering from Stockholm Syndrome in which I have fell in love with my captor, my iPhone, and do not want to rid it from my bedside??! Probably not.

The only extramarital relationship my husband should be worried about is the every-night affair I have with my iPhone. We might not always sync up, but my iPhone keeps me up all night long. #sleepy.



mi amor



What is a 'Lemon Chin'?

So it turns out I survived our pending Rapture. I turned 24 and so far no fiery hailstorms or Jesus sightings. But now that the end of the world seems to be taking a breather I guess I should forge on this literary mission.

What is a Lemon Chin? My family and friends were surprised by the name of my blog. They had no idea what a Lemon Chin was or looked like. My husband penned the nickname after seeing the photo on my work ID. A Lemon Chin is when someone, male or female, has plump cheeks but a pointy chin--similar to a lemon.

I will say this is one of the nicknames I prefer as my husband has many for me most of which focus on my messy, klutzy and emotional tendencies. Some of these names include, though not limited to: Mucky Pup, Silly Cow (referring to the fact that I cry during America's Got Talent or Teen Mom), Fanny Anne, Shrek (yes ogre) and of course Lemon Chin.



Mine were bushier



Being dubbed Lemon Chin when there are far worse nicknames in the world seems like a nice trade off. I remember when I was in middle school, my eyebrows had a growth spurt and rapidly increased their bushiness. Being called 'Unibrow' or having people put their finger to eyebrow to simulate a thick brow (note the singular of brow) was a bit depressing. It also was an odd spin to the Hitler mustache...so I guess think of that mustache pasted to a young girl's forehead.

Turns out it is not exotic or sexy to have a Frida Kahlo look at the age of 13. My mother was against tweezing my bushman brows in my early teens but they started to blend in my hairline at the sides. Yes, thick eyebrows are attractive but caterpillar eyebrows are not.

I used to think the nicknames that my parents gave me were embarrassing enough. My dad called me Shoshe and my mother called me Beckarini. They were reasonably fair about not calling me these nicknames in public and reserving them for birthday cards only.

When I was in Ireland and at an apartment party or 'flat rave' a guy labeled me as "fertile hips". This was more a pickup-line-gone-wrong rather than nickname but then all of my Irish friends started to call me 'Fertile Myrtle'. This was not a favorite nickname as everyone who heard it would look at my womb expecting me to be expecting.

So I guess Lemon Chin is not so bad after all. Nicknames can be cruel, sweet and everything between. But I figure if the nickname is awarded to me by the man I married then it is a term of endearment rather than a term of annoyance.



Lemon Chin Puppies?



P.S. I love that when I search for Lemon Chin only photos of these odd looking puppies come up. These puppies remsemble old men...kind of like my Papa Jerry who lives in Florida with all of the other elderly Jews.