My Birthday / Orlaith’s Graduation - Part 1

Since I knew I had to spend my birthday in Connecticut on Saturday, I decided to do some New York City-style celebrating on Friday night. It started with Happy Hour at the Galway Hooker. For anyone who was at the indoor Big East track party in February, you’ll recognize the name. I met some friends and the original intent was to celebrate my friend Kristin’s completion of her first year of grad school.

One of my favorite things about New York is the abundance of Irish pubs. They range anywhere from imperial pints and Irish breakfasts on the menu to a bar with an Irish name and a bartender from the south Bronx who’s mother was Italian and whose father was Polish. The Hooker is a happy medium with Irish décor, young professional clientele, and an Irish bartender. My sister and I learned quickly that with a smile and names like Niamh and Orlaith, a free drink is always in order when the man serving them is from ‘home.’ I didn’t realize the bartender was from Ireland until I ordered my Caesar wrap and a Smithwick’s from him. ‘A Smithwick’s is that you said?” he asked as he pulled the pint.

“It is,” I replied, adding that it should go on my tab. I watched him as he went over to the computer to enter the order, and noticed that he looked twice at the name. I knew I had an in. Some might ask why I don’t just ask him where he’s from so I could tell him where I’m from, but I hate asking that question since I still have my American accent. He probably gets it all the time, and it’s more fun my way. Anyway, he arrived back with my wrap, and he put it in front of me with a wink. It wasn’t the best wrap I’ve ever had, but it did the job, and by the time I had finished it, I needed another pint. I looked up and caught his eye. “What would you like now, Miss Cunningham?” he asked. “Cunningham - that’s Italian isn’t it?”

“It is,” I said laughing. “I’d like a Smithwick’s, please,” I said a little too enthusiastically, but he seemed to enjoy it, and I broke my own rule and asked him where he was from. He’s Eamon [pronounced Ay-mon] from Carlow, and I was quick to point out that my cousin went to college in Carlow, so I knew where he was talking about. He asked me where I was from, and I said Sligo. He asked me if I was from Sligo town, and I said, “No. Sligo city.” He knew [thankfully] that I was joking about the scale of my hometown, and we both sang out the lyrics to the U2 song that was playing. It was a busy night at the Hooker, so we couldn’t chat long, but any time he saw that my glass was nearly empty, Eamon was there to refill it.

It eventually came out that it was my birthday at midnight, and I told him that all I wanted at midnight was a good Cosmopolitan. I rarely order them in New York since Sex and the City made it cliché, but I explained to Eamon [who made face at my sudden switch from Smithwick’s] that I really just like the taste of vodka, Triple Sec, and Cranberry juice. He seemed impressed that I actually knew the ingredients, so at midnight, Eamon arrived over with a perfect cosmopolitan and an Irish Car Bomb to wish me a happy birthday, along with a round of shots for my friends, all of which were on the house, as well as my last pint. I guess this is the part where I thank Mom and Dad for giving me a name that’s easily recognizable as Gaelic to Irish Bartenders. Thanks guys!

***

The next day, after I got over the worst of what was one of my worst-ever hangovers [thanks Eamon], I got on a train and went home to Connecticut because my little sister was to graduate from UConn on Sunday. When I got to the train, I called my mom to tell her what time I’d be arriving in New Haven at, and she surprised me with the news that she was going to take me for a manicure/pedicure for my birthday. I love getting my nails done and hadn’t had a manicure in ages, so I was excited that Mom and I could indulge in this ultimate female ritual together.

The manicure felt great, and the woman did a great job at massaging my hands and painting my nails. The pedicure, on the other hand, was a very different experience. I’ve never had one before, and I think that’s because when I was a runner in college, I hated anyone touching my feet. Turns out I still do. As a new client, I got stuck with the new pedicurist. For anyone who has never had one, let me give you a little run-down of how it’s supposed to go. You sit in a big massage chair with your feet in a small tub of water that has jets in it. The pedicurist massages your feet and calves with a scrub and then lotion and then files your nails so they’re evenly shaped. She then paints them and puts top-coat on, and you’re done.

Here’s what happened to me. The chair was indeed huge, but the massage function must have been broken, but when I turned it on, all it did was make a god-awful noise. Awesome…no massage for me.

First, the pedicurist started filing and managed to cut my toe, which meant that for the duration of the pedicure, any time she hit that toe, it stung. Then, when she was ‘massaging’ my feet, she went a little hard and I tried not to grimace. I sat there telling myself that I had been through much worse pain in college, and that this was supposed to be relaxing. She went to town on my calves, and then pushed so hard on the sole of my foot that it cramped. Part of her ‘technique’ was to pull on each toe individually, and I tried not to cry out when she did this. Finally, the ‘massage’ was over, but then she pulled out the pumice stone which is used to rub off calluses. She took that thing and she scrubbed and scrubbed, which didn’t make sense to me because I didn’t have any calluses. I also couldn’t tell if it tickled or if it hurt, so I went between annoyance at the tickling and pain from the scrubbing. Then when I thought she’d finally made it to the part where she paints my nails, she took out the acetone-based nail-polish remover to make sure there was no nail polish already on my toes. This, of course, stung like a mother-trucker when she got to the toe she had previously cut with the file.

When she finally started painting, I thought she’d never finish. When she did, I sat at the drying-thingy [a table that blows air out at foot-level to help nail polish dry] for about ten minutes chatting with my mom, and this was by far the best part of the pedicure. Thankfully she witnessed most of my pedicure so she saw the grimaces and the scrubbing, so she wasn’t upset when I told her the best part of my mani/pedi was definitely the mani.

Needless to say, I won’t be indulging in a pedicure again any time soon…

Stay tuned for Part 2 of Birthday/Graduation weekend. My sister will be taking over the reigns for a post to write about her graduation day.

Neever Gonna Get It Right

My parents spent a long time picking names for my sister and me. Their main criteria were that they be traditional Gaelic names and that they couldn’t be shortened or ‘butchered.’ I got Niamh (Neeve), and my sister got Orlaith (Or-la). They didn’t want anyone coming up with lame nicknames for us either, so I went through childhood and most of college without a nickname. I hated it. I remember wishing I could be cool and have one. Even girls named Jennifer got shorted to Jenny, and Matthews and Christophers got Matt and Chris. I was Niamh. Always. Well, at least as long as the person talking to me could pronounce my name.

When we first moved to the US, one of the first things my parents did was look for a school for my sister and me. Being the Irish Catholics they are, they went straight to the parish priest, and Orlaith and I ended up at St. Mary’s Roman Catholic School for the better part of a decade. By the end of 8th Grade, I was all set with that and entered the big bad world of Public School.

Before my first day of First Grade, my mom took me to the school to meet my teacher and tell her how to say my name. That was great until my teacher was sick one day and we had a substitute. I’ll never forget Mrs. Christiansen. She was pretty with blonde hair, blue eyes, and a kind face. But when she called on me to read out loud, instead of calling me ‘Neeve,’ she called me ‘Ni-am-ha.’ I was a mute as a child, so I didn’t correct her, but I’m sure I turned bright red and probably stuttered through the first sentence due to this total embarrassment.

A few years later, I was in the lunch-line waiting for my pizza. My classmate’s dad was volunteering lunch duty that day. Instead of just looking up and checking off my name, he decided to say it out loud. Except he called me Ni-am-i (rhymes with Miami). Everyone heard, I turned bright red, and almost dropped my pizza in my rush to get away.

I hated the first day of school in high school because it meant telling eight different people how to say my name. At least by then I had found my voice, though. One teacher had randomly taken a course in Gaelic at Yale one summer, so she knew how to say it. In college my Irish Lit professor knew how to say it (go figure) as did my Shakespeare professor. He even knew the story behind it (future post. maybe.)

By the time I got to college, I was comfortable with my name. I liked having a different name; it meant people remembered me. They may not remember ‘Neeve,’ but they always remembered ‘Ni-am.’ I guess I still didn’t like not having a nickname, though, because one day during lunch, my friend Will told me I was obsessed with nicknames. All I had talked about for 4 days was the fact that I didn’t have a nickname. I quit talking about nicknames until later that weekend. It was Halloween, and everyone got dressed up for the party. I was a ballerina, Orlaith was the construction worker from the Village People, and Will was a dead transvestite hooker. The next morning, the three of us and our friend Mike were talking about the night, and Will called my sister Whore-la due to the fact that she managed to get caught making out with some guy in the corner. Mike piped up, ‘Hey Niamh, how do you feel about that? Your sister got some this weekend and she got a nickname!’ Mike barely finished his sentence when Will said, ‘No, that’s not true. Niamh got a nickname. It’s Neever, ‘cause she’s Neever Gonna Get Any!’

I turned cherry red, and everyone broke into uncontrollable laughter. I was so pleased with my new nickname that I didn’t bother telling the guys that I also made out with a guy dressed up as Ludacris; I just didn’t get caught. Smiggle.

The nickname stuck, even though most people don’t know where it came from. Still, it didn’t help when trying to tell people my real name. During the summer after college, I spent Friday nights out at bars with friends instead of sleeping the 8+ hours I used to sleep to get ready for races. At first it was fun explaining my name to people, but then it got tedious and annoying…So I started telling people my name was Kate. My middle name is Catherine, so Kate was easy to remember. But then Kate got boring, so each night, I’d tell my friends a different alias. The best one was Gertrude. My friends played along, which made it believable. One night, I managed to convince a guy that my name was Gertrude, that my close friends call me Trudy, and that I tell guys my name is Kate because I hate Gertrude. Later, he asked me for my number. I grabbed his phone and started entering it, but realized I had no idea which name I had given him. ‘Hey Michael,’ I said, smiling as sweetly as I could, ‘What’s my name?’ He thought I was testing him to see if he really remembered my name at all, so he said, ‘It’s Gertrude but you go by Kate because you hate it.’ So I drunkenly entered a fake name and my real phone number into his phone.

He called while I was at work on Monday and left a voicemail:
Hey Kate. It’s Michael from Saturday night. Just calling to see how you are. Give me a call when you get a chance.

What was I supposed to do? I knew I had a confession to make, so I called him on my way home.
Niamh: Hey. So I have small, very small, minute confession to make.
Michael: Umm. Okay. What is it?
Niamh: Well, my name isn’t Kate.
Michael: I know. It’s Gertrude. You let your friends call you Trudy.
Niamh: Well, that’s not true either. It’s Niamh. I hate giving my real name at bars because it’s hard to explain when music is blasting.
Michael: It’s what?
Niamh: It’s Niamh. Like ‘Eve’ with an N at the beginning.
Michael: Oh. Niamh. I get it. So why did you not want to give your real name?
Niamh: Well, how many Niamhs have you met? You could be some psycho-stalker for all I know.
Michael: Ha. That’s hilarious. But wait – you gave me your real number! Promise your real name is Niamh?
Niamh: Yes, I promise.

At least he had a good sense of humor about it. I’ve since given up on telling people fake names, but I didn’t realize that there was a chance people might not believe me when I told them my real name. Take the time I met Chuckblog. We met at this year’s indoor Big East Championships, and my sister was also with me. I told him my name, and then Orlaith told him hers, and Chuckblog goes, ‘Wait, you guys are messing with me.’ It took a little convincing from us and Danny that we were indeed telling the truth and not taking advantage of his hung over state.

With all of that said, I’d like to thank Mom and Dad for making sure my life would always be interesting, my friends for playing along whenever I decided to use an alias, Will for my nickname, Orlaith for making out with that guy on Halloween, and Katie for coming up with the witty title to this blog.