Category Archives: Confessional

Do I Really Need My Hip Roadster?

22 Thursday Aug 2013

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Eight years later.

Eight years later.

BY JULIE SEYLER

By the time I turned 49, I had acquired a co-op apartment, and a cat, but no kids. So when I turned 50, I decided to buy myself a birthday present: a two-seater car with a convertible top. It was a really cute car, and I assumed that my body, unlike my face, would never change. (My legs would always possess the supple flexibility needed to get in and out of the car. Ha Ha!) After receiving a diagnosis of bone-on-bone arthritis last year, I was humbled. My brand new hip joint is mighty fine, but I am not sure I would have chosen the same automobile if I knew then what I know now – namely that at some point after one’s 5Oth year, the body becomes less obedient. In any event, the total hip replacement restored my mobility, and agility sufficiently enough that I’m back to jauntily tootling about in my pint-sized roadster.

I didn’t really need a car in Manhattan. I bought it to drive back and forth to Allenhurst, New Jersey between Memorial Day and Labor Day. After relying on the North Jersey Coast Line for 17 years, and arranging with my girlfriend to pick me up every Saturday morning, I was ready to take matters into my own hands. I wanted to enjoy the New Jersey Turnpike from behind the wheel of my car.

So the car only gets exercise for about three months of the year. Otherwise, I don’t drive. In fact I don’t really like driving, and I really detest driving in New York City. The atonal symphony of screeching horns, the zig-zagging cab drivers, the lumbering pushiness of tourist buses and MTA buses, the bike riders on testosterone, and maniacal pedestrians that dart out in the middle of the street – all vying for the same sliver of real estate – leaves me sitting clenched at the edge of my seat clutching that steering wheel for dear life. I am never so happy as when I pull into my garage and gleefully turn the valet key over to the parking attendant.

Given my driving routine, it makes complete sense that the odometer reads less than 28,000 miles eight years after the car was purchased. I cannot consider selling it because based on my per annum mileage accumulation, I will only have 112,000 miles on it by 2030. I can then register it as an antique. Of course I’ll be a bit antiquish by then, but who cares especially if 75 is the new 55.

Hats Off to Me: I’m Leaving the Law for Retirement

20 Tuesday Aug 2013

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Bob chair hat

BY BOB SMITH

I began practicing law in 1984, when I was 29. I’m now 58. One week ago today I advised the management of the law firm where I’m a partner that I’m leaving the practice of law as of October 1. I chose that date because it coincides with the close of the firm’s fiscal year, which will make the settling up of my finances neat and clean. But there’s nothing neat and clean about leaving a career you’ve pursued for half your life.

Most people consider a full-time job something that requires you to be at work forty hours a week. But to a lawyer in private practice, “full-time” means all the time. And perhaps because it’s so all-consuming, the prospect of not doing it any more is daunting – how will I fill up my time, I wonder? While practicing law, my time was so full I couldn’t consider any other activities. Life, it seemed, revolved around my work. Everything I did was defined by the demands of the job – and they are many.

Here’s a non-exhaustive, but nonetheless exhausting, list of the things you have to do to succeed as a lawyer in private practice:

  • Think clearly, write well, and verbally advocate your client’s position.
  • Manage expectations, which means having pointed – often heated – discussions with your clients about proposed strategy, potential outcomes, and of course, expected costs.
  • Train, motivate, mentor and supervise younger associates, paralegals, and other support staff.
  • Bill your time, which means writing a detailed narrative of the legal work done for each client and how much time it took – down to the tenth of an hour – to perform each task. To meet your billable targets, you should account for eight or more billable hours every single working day. Like J. Alfred Prufrock, who “measured out [his] life with coffee spoons,” for half my life I’ve measured out mine in six-minute increments.
  • Constantly seek new clients or new legal work from existing clients, which requires you to do things that most people see as recreation: play in golf outings, attend charity dinners, and take clients or prospective clients out to restaurants, concerts, and sporting events. But the fun fades when those activities start to gobble up days and evenings you’d rather spend with your family and friends.
  • Keep abreast of current developments by attending continuing legal education seminars.
  • Speak at legal conferences or other public events.
  • Do pro bono legal work and donate your time and energies to worthy causes that help your community, both because it’s your duty as a citizen and an attorney, and as a way to “get your name out there,” and develop contacts who may refer work to you or the firm.

The list goes on. And the stakes are high: if you don’t do your job right, your clients can lose big money, lose their businesses completely, or be precluded from doing things they want to do. If you make a really terrible mistake, you may be found to have committed malpractice and the firm itself could pay a steep financial price for your misstep, not to mention the personal price you would pay to endure that kind of crisis. In short, you’re under incredible pressure, all the time: to perform, to serve, to produce results.

So why was I so terribly conflicted when I realized I could just get out? There’s comfort in the known, and terror in the unknown. It’s like Hamlet contemplating suicide, and acknowledging that we have no idea what awaits us after death – which ” … makes us rather bear those ills we have, than fly to others that we know not of.” I was afraid to leap from the relative comfort of a demanding, but well-defined career, into the unknown called “retirement.”

bob chair faceBut I’ve done it. I’ve just taken that first leap into the cold pool. And even after only one week, before I’ve fully withdrawn from my life at the firm, I can sense it was the right thing to do. A few months from now I have no doubt I’ll be saying come on in, the water’s just fine.

For now, however, I’m still shivering a bit.

This “Old Lady” Can Be a Mean Girl

14 Wednesday Aug 2013

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meanoldlady

BY MARGO D. BELLER

When I was growing up, and I am sure when you were growing up, too,
there was usually a rundown house in the neighborhood in which lived an
elderly person. In my neighborhood, it was a woman. She lived alone, the
lawn was weedy, and the house needed painting.

We referred to her as “Crazy Mary” or, “the witch.”

I was around 10 years old at the time, and she could’ve been 50 or 60.
Didn’t matter – to us she was old. We’d dare each other to run in her yard,
but ran away when she came out to yell at us. I can’t remember what
happened to her or the house.

Now that I’m in my mid-50s, I know exactly what “the witch” was going
through because there are times I’m the neighborhood’s Mean Old Lady.

My house isn’t rundown, and my lawn hasn’t gone to weeds – quite
the opposite. That is why I get mad when I find children, deer or the
occasional adult, crossing my (unfortunately) un-fenced yard.

I have no children, and until the last few years, my street had few children
on it. But now my neighbors’ kids have kids, and some still live at home.
Three generations live in a house on one side of me, four generations now
live in the house behind, and my last neighbor said the new owner of his
just-sold house has a small child.

In short, I am now surrounded.

Perhaps if I’d had kids I would be more flexible about their random
wildness; the yelling; the running across property lines. After all, I was a kid
myself yelling and climbing over fences, and making messes.

However, I don’t have kids. I know they are capable of wonderful things, but
I rarely see it. To me, they are just noisy at a time when I get more easily
distracted by noise – especially now that I work from home. It has become
harder to concentrate as I’ve aged, and I used to live in some very noisy
neighborhoods in the past. But that was in the past when I was younger.

On occasion I’ve gotten into trouble with kids (and their parents) for
reprimanding them. Embarrassed, I apologize and calmly try to explain
myself. Luckily, we’ve worked things out – at least to the extent that no police
were ever called. I tell myself to leave them alone. As long as they keep
moving, and don’t harm anything, it’s OK. (I think this about deer, too.)

In this era of Facebook, I fear there is a page about a mean old lady with
my picture on it.

My husband and I enjoy the company of our relatives’ children, and when I let down my wariness to speak to some of the local kids, we are friendly to each
other. It doesn’t hurt waving at them, and saying hello.

Still, to them I am “old.” What goes around comes around. When I watch
parents with kids, I wonder about those decisions I made that will come
back to haunt me when I really become old.

My B.Y.O.B.: Bring Your Own Brine

08 Thursday Aug 2013

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Brine

I’m big on brine.

BY LOIS DESOCIO

The younger me has memories of dining with my mom at a restaurant, and her dipping into her purse and spreading two or three Sweet’N Lows on the table for her coffee or tea – just in case the restaurant didn’t carry it. And then there was Mrs. W., who would stealthily drizzle her tupperwared low-cal salad dressing, brought from home, on her salads at the diner. And who among us hasn’t known someone who would order a cup of hot water, and then soak a home-brought tea bag in it?

All behavior that mortified me. How uncouth! Beyond rude! Unladylike!

I’m now them. I would never tote a sweetener, a dressing, nor a tea bag. Never. But when it comes to my dirty martini – after years of imbibing many that are not green enough – I’m considering stashing a bottle of olive brine in my bag, and bringing it to the bar.

Unlike my predecessors in gaucheness, though, this is not about my health, or frugality. It is all about sniff, sip, swallow … and salt. You may recall, that for me, it’s that first mouthing of a martini that counts the most, and can make or break the drink. It’s crucial that, “the lips greet the glass with precognitive delight.” And I need to assure that, “that premiere swig” will “always deliver.” Lately, I’ve come to have too many “first swigs” that don’t “deliver.”

If I sip, and my teeth clench, or if my tongue recedes, or worse – if I sip, shiver and shudder – that means the balance of vodka to brine is off-kilter. Sometimes I just suck it up and begrudgingly drink it anyway. Especially when the barkeep smiles proudly, upon delivery, at his or her perceived success at delivering my requested, “filthy, extra-extra-dirty” martini.

But I’ve decided that I can’t take it anymore. What it’s come down to, is me, with a galvanized stare (not unlike a mother teaching a child), explaining to the uninitiated bartender that, “I like it dirtier than most – like the Hudson River.” It borders on begging. Some get it; most don’t.

So, I’ve begun to take back my martini. I will now meekly (always with an apologetic smile), push my glass away from me, and back towards the bartender, with an Oliver Twist(y), “Please sir, I want some more.” Brine, that is.

To which I’ve been admonished (usually with an astonished smile):

“Ew.”
“This drink is a travesty.”
“Why bother with the vodka?”
“Let me see your ankles – they must be swollen.”
“You took the last of it – and you need more?”

But I’ve only taken one personally:

“Why don’t you just bring a bottle of brine with you, and drink that?”

OK, I will. In the tradition of my mom, Mrs. W., and all the tea-bag toters, I guess the older me has earned the right to have it right. The next step is to bring the brine.

So, I’m imagining once I find a travel-size bottle of brine (maybe I should just tupperware-it?), that I will then begin to send back those puny, pea-sized olives that often garnish martinis these days, and ask that my drink be properly topped with big, fat, juicy (bleu-cheese, please!) robin-egg-sized olives. Or I’ll bring my own.

It’s Only Rock ‘N’ Roll, and I (Don’t) Like It

02 Friday Aug 2013

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the fountain of music copy

BY JULIE SEYLER

When Mick Jagger turned 70 on July 26, it seemed the entire population on the right side of 50 screamed, “Happy Birthday!” In unison. The “King of Rock ‘n’ Roll” remains a compact, sexy ball of youth.

But not only were we toasting him, somehow it became about us. If he is living proof that playing in a rock ‘n’ roll band de-fertilizes the creeping, creepy vine called “Age,” we post-50-year-olds are a testament that being faithful listeners to rock ‘n’ roll keeps us springy in spine, and open in outlook. The message came over loud and clear to my high school class, or at least to those of us who are planning to attend the party commemorating our departure 40 years ago from the hallowed home of the Spartans.

The reunion e-mail chain erupted with anecdotes about the healing and restorative power of rock ‘n’ roll, and the days when it ruled our lives. One women recalled that after seeing Black Sabbath at Convention Hall in Asbury Park, she had no choice but to bring her favorite Black Sabbath record into typing class. Without a whimper from the teacher, it seems the class learned the keyboard listening to “Fairies Wear Boots.” The advice was non-negotiable: revisit the musical landscape of the 1970s, or be doomed to overripe maturity!

I felt despair. I never really cottoned to rock ‘n’ roll. Perhaps my downfall was not taking that typing class. I figured I was about 99 years old on the chronological youth chart. I did not even have one good rock concert up my sleeve. While everyone else was (and still is) drinking from the bottomless pit of the greatest guitar hits of 1973, all I have to rely on are memories of endless hours listening to Billie Holiday sing Gershwin tunes.

I was lamenting my old age dilemma to my friend Lucy “Jagger,” who happens to be on the right side of 60.

She said, “Fear not my friend. I can help you rehash some of the greatest moments in musical history, and thereby start you on the path to reach the fountain of youth.”

She promised me I could borrow her greatest rock ‘n’ roll moments if I promised to watch only Mick Jagger videos on YouTube, and give up Richard Burton. Only kidding. She adores Richard Burton as much as I do, but would never be caught watching a YouTube video. But she did treat me to the vicarious thrill of her:

• Watching Jimi Hendrix play guitar at a Syracuse University frat party circa 1966-67.
• Attending the concert where Bob Dylan played electric guitar for the first time.
• Screaming her head off at the 1965 Beatles’ concert in Shea Stadium.
• Showing up at practically every single Rolling Stones concert that hit the United States in the ’60s.

As a cribber of Lucy’s tales of rock ‘n’ roll, I felt younger already. Whew!

Having My Cake and Wearing it Too

30 Tuesday Jul 2013

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frank belly

Frank Terranella Presents.

BY FRANK TERRANELLA

You may recall, “Alfred Hitchcock Presents,” Alfred Hitchcock’s television show from years ago. It started with a silhouette of a man with a large stomach, and Mr. Hitchcock coming onscreen to fill out the silhouette. Hitch was not ashamed of his girth. He flaunted it. It was his trademark.

sweets

No gym needed. I do enough heavy lifting.

I have come to understand that point of view. It’s sort of like, “I earned this large middle from years of good living. I don’t apologize for enjoying food and hating exercise. That’s just being human.”

Personally, I would prefer to be slim. Clothes fit better, and it’s certainly a lot healthier – or so my cardiologist tells me. But the reality is that I love sweets, and I have not seen the inside of a gym since high school. Years ago, when I was 123 pounds, I was talking with a guy from Georgia who had migrated north. He had a huge gut, and when we kidded him about it he said that when he went home to Georgia, his family was pleased with his size. They would tell him, “You look like you’re doing well up there in Jersey.” His girth was the look of prosperity to his family.

The truth is that I was a skinny kid, and never had to worry about my weight until I hit 40. Then my metabolism slowed down, and my appetite for candy, cake and ice cream did not. Soon I was 20 pounds overweight, and it was up to 30 pounds by the time I had a heart attack when I was 47. That got my attention weight-wise, and I lost 20 pounds. But after a few years, I put it back. I found that all diets were like that. You lost some weight, and you put it back. The whole diet thing seemed unhealthy to me.

So now I have forsaken diets. I have taken to the treadmill to burn off calories, and I have cut back on sweets. Notice that I say cut back, not eliminate. I still enjoy my cake and ice cream occasionally, but it’s now a special occasion. My weight goals are more modest than they used to be. Losing one pound a week is the plan. But I have come to accept the fact that for now I have a stomach to rival a pregnant woman. But I know that someday that will change. For now, I am embracing the Hitchcock look.

Where Are They Now? Check Facebook

23 Tuesday Jul 2013

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Sandpiper%202[1]

Even the high school yearbook has become, “so yesterday. ” Photo by Lois DeSocio.

BY JULIE SEYLER

My, and for that matter Lois’s, 40th high school reunion is coming up in September. Ten years ago, invitations went out by paper, so I walked into the party ignorant of my classmates’ lives. Not this time. While we sped along from 48 to 58, Facebook popped up. Even if I haven’t seen someone since 1973, I will know who is having a ball with the grandbabies. No need to rely on the generic, “What’s new?” Facebook, my hyper-local source for all news good and bad, has clued me into weddings, births and, sadly, deaths.

And then there is e-mail. When we were on the left side of 50, invitations for the reunion arrived by snail mail. These days details of when and where the party begins show up in my inbox, and those responsible for organizing everything (and a thank-you to you if you happen to be reading) can send out a general e-mail blast asking us to “please tell us if you are coming.”

In mid-July, in response to one of these gentle reminders to RSVP, someone e-mailed that she wished she could come, but it would not be possible because she was taking care of an elderly parent. Someone else responded to her with kind words and sympathy, and a brief synopsis of his life over the past 40 years. And someone else chimed in as to how great it was to hear from him, and the e-mail floodgates burst open.

Weigh-ins on the days of yore, and the days of now, and the hellos, and surprises, and the memories of the way we were just kept bouncing like ping pong balls from North Carolina to Texas to California, and back to New Jersey. Far be it from me to divulge the reminisces of our 18-year-old selves, or the fascinating revelations, and fabulous successes of so many people. But I admit to opening my e-mail every day with a tinge of anticipation, because it was fun to read about the past antics and present accomplishments of my high school class.

The flurry of communications has since died down. I guess we are all busy with summer, and sort of wanting to wait until we see each other face to face before more news is exchanged. But it seems this brief trip down memory lane was very healthy.  According to this recent article in The New York Times, which came out exactly when the e-mail chain was at its pinnacle, there are great benefits to indulging in nostalgia.

Research shows that a romp in the past enhances bonhomie and good cheer, and makes “life seem more meaningful and death less frightening … people (whom) speak wistfully of the past … typically become more optimistic and inspired about the future.”

So I guess as the Class of ’73 congregates, schmoozes, slugs a few cocktails, and trades tales of the good-old days, when we knew 58 was really old, we should also be patting ourselves on the back for engaging in such a healthy pastime.

Baseball Hits Home Run for Bridging Gaps, Bonding Males, and Recollecting Past

22 Monday Jul 2013

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arial view of stadium

Photos by Frank Terranella.

BY FRANK TERRANELLA

As we move past the half-century mark, it’s natural to be bit by the nostalgia bug. More and more of our sentences begin with, “Remember when …” and “Years ago …”

It occurred to me recently while at Yankee Stadium that baseball is the nostalgia sport. The lords of baseball go out of their way to try to make us remember that long-ago September when Bucky Dent shocked the Red Sox, or the October when Reggie hit three home runs in one game. In my family, we all remember the April opening day in 1996 when we sat in the cold, and watched Andy Pettitte pitch in a snowstorm. The team went on to win its first World Series in 18 years. Yankee stadium

Because baseball is a sport that worships its past, it’s a great generational gap-bridge. It’s not unusual for three generations of a family to go to the ballpark together. During the Vietnam War, baseball was often the only way that many fathers and sons could have conversations that didn’t end with, “You’re an idiot!” Or “Get a haircut!”

Baseball kept the lines of communication open just long enough for mature and cooler heads to prevail. Back then, fathers could take their families to the ballpark, and the entire day would cost less than $100 – including hot dogs and beers. Today, two tickets will usually put you over $100. Add $12 beers and $7 hot dogs, and a trip to a major league ballpark has been converted from a regular pastime to a special occasion.

family sign

They spelled our name right.

My family recently planned one of those special occasions to Yankee Stadium. We had 22 people with us, so we qualified to buy tickets from group sales. That also qualified us to have our name on the scoreboard for a few seconds as the Yankees welcomed the Terranella family and friends. It was neat. In keeping with baseball’s mission of glorifying its past, Yankee Stadium features a full-blown museum in addition to Monument Park. This is like a mini hall of fame where plaques commemorate the legendary players of Yankee history. Grandfathers walk through, and point to Joe DiMaggio’s plaque and say, “I remember seeing him play in the 1949 World Series when they beat the Dodgers.”

Fathers point to Mickey Mantle’s plaque and say, “There was nobody better. Ever.” Sons look at Don Mattingly’s plaque and say wistfully, “If only he had played a few years later, he’d be in the Hall of Fame today.”

Now please don’t get me wrong. I know that women love baseball as much as men. My mother has been a fan for as long as I can remember. But I mention fathers and sons because I think that baseball is a key component of male bonding. But more than that, it fosters family bonding. Oh sure, there’s always one contrary family member who refuses on principle to root for the home team, but the ribbing that ensues is all in good fun. Baseball itself takes a lot of ribbing over being so slow. But I prefer to look at it as leisurely. Along with golf, it’s age-appropriate for those of us old enough to remember when there were only 16 teams, and pitchers batted in the American League. But it’s also age-appropriate for a five year old, who comes for the Cracker Jack and cotton candy. Come to think of it, I can’t think of a better way to spend a summer’s day.

My Former Tot, and His First Tattoo

17 Wednesday Jul 2013

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Bob tat

BY BOB SMITH

My older son, 28 years old, got his first tattoo the other day (I say “first” because he’s already talking about the next tattoo.) Now I’m going to sound old, but it’s true – it seems like only months ago he was a chubby, cheerful toddler. Now he’s grown up and tatted up.

His tattoo, he tells me, is the Smith coat of arms. That seems right – it pretty much coats his right arm from approximately mid-bicep to the shoulder. He assures me it’s designed to be fully obscured by a short sleeve shirt in the event he’s in a non-tat friendly crowd someday and wants to keep his ink to himself.

It features in the center a shield with three extended arms – one holding a vertical sword and the other two together grasping what appears to be a torch. At the top of the design, like the crest on a helmet, is yet another arm holding a sword perpendicular to the sword below. It looks as though the bearer of that second sword is buried in the intricate scrollwork and curlicues that adorn the top of the shield, and may be trying to hack his or her way out.

There’s also a banner across the bottom with the Latin words, “Tenebras expellit et hostes,” which means, “He expels the darkness and the enemy.” My son didn’t even like high school Italian, and completely skipped Latin, but now he proudly displays some of that dead language on his very living arm. Go figure.

But I must say that overall it’s an impressive piece of artwork. That’s particularly true considering that it took five painstaking (and pain-giving) hours to etch the lines into my son’s skin, with the artist having to continually wipe away blood and excess ink in order to see where the next line of color should be laid in. Bob Jr. is thrilled with it.

I’m less thrilled, but that has nothing to do with the quality of the tattoo. I think it’s a generational thing. When I was a kid, people with tattoos fell into three general categories: carnival gypsies in movies (think Anthony Quinn with dark makeup and a bandanna on his head), crusty Navy veterans sporting a Popeye-style forearm anchor with the name of some rusty old tub emblazoned on a banner below, or criminals. My earliest memory of prison tats is of the LOVE and HATE tattoos on Robert Mitchum’s fingers in the film “Night of the Hunter.” The tats were simple and crude, yet effective, and we were terrified of Robert Mitchum in that role.

Then there were the “naughty” tattoos: the mermaid inside a scallop shell, with wide saucy hips, folded scaly tail, and large breasts jutting proudly from her chest amidst a cascade of wavy hair. The breasts could be confirmed to be anatomically correct, or not, depending on the placement of the locks of hair. Or the religious tattoos: a pulsing red heart encircled by a crown of thorns, and an inscription such as, “Dear Jesus” across the front. This design also came with an optional vertical dagger through the heart. In that iteration, this tattoo bore the inscription, “Born to Die.” Or sometimes, with roses substitued for the thorns, the heart said, “Mom.”

And then there were the super-religious tattoos where the person’s entire back was covered with an image of Jesus in the repose of death, as if the tattooee had lain on the shroud of Turin, and the image transferred to his back like a newspaper photo onto a piece of Silly Putty. People with this kind of giant mural tattoo seemed to also go for the “narrative” tattoos: pictures that twirl around their arms, torso, and/or legs, and depict the story of the Old Testament, World War I, or the entire Star Wars series – pick your epic tale.

And it was unheard of for women to get tattoos at all.

In part because of the unsavory reputation of tattoos we saw on the older generation, it seems that baby boomers as a whole never really jumped on the tattoo bandwagon. My son’s generation, however, is different. Girls and guys alike get all sorts of tattoos, large and small, to make a permanent fashion or other statement on the canvas of their own bodies. It’s hip and totally acceptable, and I have no problem with it – as long as you don’t try to stencil a picture onto me with a zillion stabs of an ink-covered needle.

Still, I can’t help but wonder if the trend will skip generations again. When my children and their friends start to have babies, will those kids growing up look at the “older” generation (our kids) and generally shun the idea simply because it’s too status quo?

I can hear them taunting their parents now:
“Tattoos? That’s so millennial. So yesterday. Get with it, Dad.”

Enjoy the tats, kids, but don’t count on passing on a tradition.

A “Bennie” Now Comes, Instead of Goes, Home

12 Friday Jul 2013

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The Bennies are here. Photocollage by Julie Seyler.

The Bennies are here. Photocollage by Julie Seyler.

BY BOB SMITH

My wife and I are about to move into our house at the Jersey Shore on a full-time basis. We bought it 23 years ago, and during that time we’ve expanded it from a single story unheated shack with two bedrooms and one bath to a year-round house with three floors, five bedrooms, four baths, and a garage apartment in back. We like our space.

Despite our ever-expanding beach house, however, we’ve only spent weekends and summer vacation weeks there. Our primary home for 28 years has been in Nutley. So, in other words, until now, we’ve been what the locals call bennies – tourists who visit the area only during the summer season.

I thought benny (or bennie), referred to the fact that seasonal visitors are only interested in taking advantage of the “benefits” of the shore during the warm weather. Others say it’s short for “benefactors” because these perennial tourists collectively spend so much money in Jersey Shore towns. Another theory, according to Wikipedia, is it’s an acronym derived from the fact that most such tourists come from in or around Bayonne, Elizabeth, Newark, and New York.

Since Nutley is a suburb of Newark, that makes us bennies.

We haven’t even moved in yet, but lately we’ve been spending a lot more time in Bradley Beach, and suddenly I realize why locals historically hate the bennies. For instance, in April and May there was always a parking space in the street right in front of my house. If I had to make a quick run to the supermarket, I could hop in my car, and make the mile and a half drive in three minutes flat. No problem.

No more. After the unofficial kickoff of the season on Memorial Day, weekend parking spaces on the street (at least on sunny weekends) are nonexistent. That’s really not a problem for us, because we’re fortunate enough to have a driveway. But pulling out is a total crapshoot. Because the bennies‘ cars are parked bumper to bumper without a millimeter to spare right up to both edges of our driveway, it’s impossible to see oncoming traffic as you pull out. To get any sight line down the street, you have to extend the front (or back) of your car past the parked cars, directly into the lane of travel.

Twice last weekend, as I inched out of my driveway, I had to jam on the brakes to avoid being slammed by benny-full vehicles barreling down the street without a clue or a care in the world. They didn’t even beep – just swerved and kept rolling. Both had New York plates.

At the supermarket on Saturday morning I was sixth in line at the checkout counter, and each customer ahead of me wore a Yankees cap, or a sleeveless t-shirt with loud boxer bathing trunks, or sneakers with black socks, or all of the above. Their carts were full of chips, cold cuts, salsa, and soda. Bennies, all.

We went out to dinner, and had to wait an hour for a table at a restaurant that in May had been begging for our business. A stop at the ice cream shop for dessert afterwards featured squalling babies, squabbling siblings, and their weary sunburned parents hoping to anesthetize the kids with fat and sugar for the long ride home. Bennies, again.

There’s no doubt that the Jersey Shore is a great place to be during the summer. But during the off season, when it’s unclogged by bennies, it’s a virtual paradise. Once you spend even a portion of the off-season at the Jersey Shore, you get spoiled by the convenience of unfettered access to parking, shopping, restaurants, movies, and more.

When I was a benny, I scoffed at the locals’ proprietary attitude toward their parking spaces, and dismissed as selfish their sense of entitlement to immediate service at restaurants and retail stores. Come on, I thought – people like us are pumping cash by the millions into your local economy! You should be thankful, not scornful, that I’m here at all.

Now that I’m becoming a local, however, I’ve wised up. The bennies are only fair-weather friends, here to enjoy the amenities while the sun shines. But the locals – now me – are here for the long haul, through the rain, wind, snow, ice and whatever other nasty weather nature may throw our way during the long off-season. For that, I’m entitled to my own parking space.

But only until the end of May.