When are you too old for nicknames? Cause I’m in my mid 30’s and people still call me things like Sheadawg and Smackface. Actually, that’s what I call myself, Smackface.

I’m thinking about doing a cartoon of my dog and myself. She’s a Rhodesian ridgeback. I’m going to call it The Adventures of Ridgeback and Smackface. I’ll be picking up dogshit and a neighbor will walk by and say, “Hi Smackface.” I’ll smile and show off the one tooth I have left and wave hello…with my bag of poo.

You can’t really give yourself a nickname. That’s just sad. You have to earn one. I don’t want to say I was popular but I was given nicknames in high school…friendly, cool ones like Shebbie Dae, which then turned into Shlebrock or Shleb for short. Other variations were Sheb or Sheppa…all equally attractive and feminine. My friends used them with affection but I have to admit I wasn’t too excited about Shlebrock. It was too close to Shleprock, the character from the Flintstones. And while I did a dead on impression of Shleprock, I hoped I wasn’t giving off a “woes me” kind of a vibe. It could’ve been worse. I had a friend who’s last name was Fleming. You can guess how that got shortened. I had such a crush on Flem. He sat behind me in typing. A 10 th grade boy who takes typing is such a turn on. I learned how to type without looking at the keyboard pretty quickly because I was always craning my neck around to flirt with Flem. I don’t think it ever went beyond a few keystrokes and some friendly chat. We may have kissed once in the woods behind the 7-11.

I vividly remember my very first crush. I know I was pretty young at the time because I can remember sitting in my sandbox day dreaming about him. I was really lucky because we had an indoor sandbox…I had to share it with the cat. Anyhow, he was my neighbor across the street, the oldest of the Dimarino boys, nickname – Dimo. I remember dashing across the street on Valentine’s Day in my poncho and slipping a valentine under his door. What an adrenaline rush! Would he find out I was his secret admirer? No, he didn’t seem to even know I was alive. His dad did though. He had a nickname for all the kids in the neighborhood. When he’d see us playing on the street he’d greet us with a friendly shout, Debbie O’Neil! Stacy V! Lowee Lowee (short or long for Lois)! My last name wasn’t O’Neil. I knew he knew that. But it was endearing and I liked being Debbie O’Neil on the streets.

In seventh grade (junior high) I was given a nickname that I didn’t want to earn. Not by a parent or a friend exactly. He was one of my first serious crushes. I wasn’t just day dreaming about this one. I was invested. Any crush I’ve ever had has left me just that…crushed. Because while they’re fun and exciting and give you something to live for temporarily, the only way they ever come to fruition is in my head. Anyway, his name was Dana Aceto and he’d strut down the hall heavy footed in his work boots. He’d be on his way to art (1 st period), which was in my homeroom. So first thing in the morning everyday I’d pass him in the hall and he’d go, “Fla-a-a-a-sh.” I’d return his sentiment with a dirty look and that was our greeting every morning. Incase you don’t know who Flash is; he’s the basset hound from The Dukes of Hazzard. It might not have bothered me so much if there wasn’t a little shit in my homeroom by the name of Andy Biro who also teased me about my eyes. I think my first interaction with Andy was of him asking me with a chuckle, “What do you sleep with weights under your eyes?” Then he’d do an impression of me by putting his fingers under his eyes and pulling them down. My comeback…”Yeah… well… you have oily eyelids.” And he truly did. It used to gross me out. So after my zinger of a comeback I can remember seeing a Picasso poster looming over Andrew’s short frame. Our homeroom belonged to Ms. Tavanis, the art teacher, who wore sandals no matter what the season. Ms. Tavanis taught us that this particular Picasso painting was done during his blue period. Was this homeroom and junior high experience going to be the beginning of my blue period? Because Don McLean’s “Starry, Starry Night” was also playing in the background. Mimeographed copies of the lyrics sat on our desks so we could memorize the beauty and anguish of Van Gogh’s life and death. A severed ear, weights under my eyes helping me to peer into the darkness of Vincent’s soul. Seventh grade was not going to be easy.

Danny McNulty was a positive distraction. He was pretty hot or so I thought at the time. His locker was next to mine and I loved to watch the way he worked his combination lock.

My mother used to tell me that when boys tease you that means they like you. Oh really? What does it mean when they urinate on you during a game of hide and seek? Yes he was slow but that doesn’t make it any less mortifying. Especially since people in the neighborhood picked on the slow kid and then I was the one the slow kid picked on. Despite my first and only golden shower, I half believed what my mother said about boys and their teasing. My romance with Dana blossomed in 10 th grade art class while we were drawing our self-portraits. I distinctly remember he looked at my drawing and said. “Turn it the other way, those eyes are scaring me.” No big deal. After all he was nothing more than a mere crush. I chose to take his comment as a compliment. While I know intellectually the other party in a crush can’t actually hurt me because it’s one sided, crushes always manage to leave me feeling dejected. So when I heard after a high school reunion that Dana was working as a UPS deliveryman, I felt a slight twinge of satisfaction and perhaps even revenge. I had a fl-a-a-a-shback of him strutting down the hall heavy footed in his work boots, this time wearing a brown uniform. Instead of giving him a dirty look I gave him a package and he stamped it “handle with care”.