Welcome to the Johnsons

There is a bar on the Lower East Side called Welcome to the Johnsons. From what I can remember, it's got faux-wood paneling on the walls, 70s-era couches, and maybe even a Ms. Pac-Man game. It is, of course, a totally ironic homage to the childhood homes of many 30- and 40-something hipsters, with its quintessential middle-America orange and brown 1970s decor, notable for its utter blandness. Hipsters go there to remind themselves of how far they've come since leaving the mid-West and moving to Manhattan. That they do this by hanging out in a bar that looks and feels exactly like the sort of space they killed time in back when they were still in Minnesota and dreaming of being anywhere but there is not an irony lost on anyone; in fact, it is the whole point of going to Welcome to the Johnson. I enjoyed a beer or two there in my day.

So I thought it was pretty darn funny when we got this in the mail today:

[photo to come]

A completely un-ironic welcome to the neighborhood: an envelope emblazoned with "Welcome Johnsons!", stuffed with coupons to places we'll probably never go, it's a reminder of how far we've come since leaving New York City and moving to Maine.

Another sign that you're moving in a different orbit than your younger self? Going to see your friend's babysitter's band. Happened Saturday afternoon, right here in Portland, ME.

Or getting called ma'am in the supermarket checkout line.

And not getting carded anymore. Ever.