Surefire way to kill a blog: Say you won't.
Funny, but when you're really busy and online all day and blogging isn't a part of your job? Much harder to find the time to do it. Or to want to sit your ass down in front of a computer and do it.
So I'm not promising anything in the way of frequent -- or even remotely frequent -- entries. The blogging monkey is tired.
Ta for now from Jersey Spitty.
C
I will NOT be one of those bloggers.
What kind of blogger?
The one I've been lately -- the one that hardly ever updates. Alas, life and work are getting in the way of blogging lately. I shan't let this be a pattern.
So...what is new?
Well, I finally got a TV. That was exciting. I turned it on once and haven't been able to ogle it since. Every evening, upon entering my apartment, my routine goes something like this:
1. Close the "cage." Yes, nothing like living in your own little prison!
2. Turn on the light and chant three times, "No intruder." And maybe, if I'm feeling particularly creative, craft a phony two-way conversation between a very deep-voiced and presumably huge man and me.
3. Turn the corner and see if my TV is still there.
I did not do this in Portland, but so far, so good.
Besides work, I've been spending a good amount of time at the gym. It's no Bay Club, but it gets the job done. I've seen more than one person working out -- I'm talking cardio, baby -- in jeans. I myself prefer a tshirt and some shorts, but who am I to judge?
There is a boombox there that is always tuned to THE GREATEST HITS OF THE 70S, 80S and TODAY.
There is a man who wears too much body spray (perhaps that awful AXE crap) and plucks his eyebrows such that he always looks surprised. To all the men out there: For the love of all that's good and holy, put down the freaking tweezers. Clean up the unibrow if you must, but know when to say when. Seriously. If you look like my Great Aunt Betty (rest her soul) by the time you're done, you've done something very, very wrong.
There is another man there, a personal trainer and former body-building champion, who makes girls cry in personal boxing sessions. Seriously, I saw it on Sunday. It was kind of awesome. Saturday, I have mine. I do not plan on crying unless he hits me or taunts me for being a Red Sox fan.
Speaking of baseball fandom, I narrowly resisted the urge to snarl at a man in a Yankees jacket today. Wisely, because I'd probably have been stabbed. I did not see a knife. It's just the kind of reaction I'd expect. People don't suffer Red Sox fans gladly here, I tell you. My Patriots tee illicited nary a response at the gym, though. Sort of disappointing, actually. I sort of counted on it to be a conversation starter, good or bad. I'll see if my "Jeter sucks A-Rod" shirt (thanks to you know who) does anything.
Actually, no I won't. That one stays firmly in the "wear only to bed" category. See also: Stabbing.
OH! I had my first Jersey pizza experience last Friday. I have to say, it was pretty damned good. Thin crust, not greasy, tangy sauce, not too much cheese, no drooping when held aloft. I dare say I might try it again.
In fact, I think I'll create a category called "The Slice Report."
Coming soon to a blog near you.
Good night and good luck.
I'm no germophobe; I'm the girl who doesn't think twice about eating something that I've dropped on the floor. But riding the PATH train to and from work regularly has made me a regular user of antibacterial hand gel. I always made fun of those horrible segments on news magazines: "Tonight at 11. How much fecal matter have you eaten WITHOUT EVEN KNOWING IT?" But now every time I enter the station and get on the train, it seems the turnstiles, seats and handles are glowing. I will either come out of this experience with a freakishly strong immune system or tuberculosis.
We shall see.
Related: People's sense of hurriedness increases in direct proportion to the heat level and general funk in the trains and station. At first I wondered what the hurry was all about; I mean, you're really not getting off the train any faster by plastering your face against the door as it approaches the stop.
I guess it's a placebo effect at work.
On Grove Street, by the PATH station, there are two cleaners right across the street from one another. One is "Sanitary Valet Cleaners." The other is "Friendly Cleaners." Which begs the question: Would you rather your clothes be clean, or nice?
Reporting live from bed,
Colleen
Decided to take the PATH into Manhattan yesterday and was at the WTC in six minutes flat and minutes after that, walking amid a sea of people on Broadway. I wasn't even thinking that it was Black Friday and found myself cursing tourists within about two minutes -- as if I'm not one. But hey, at least when I don't know where the hell I'm going, I keep walking. That's my philosophy and it's served me well so far.
After some walking, I found my way to the East Village and to Jules Bistro, this fantastic little slice of France on St. Mark's and First. I'd been there a couple times before and for some reason I always seem to find my way back. Or maybe it finds me. I speak pretty rudimentary French, but I love being around people speaking it, so this place is great. The wine and food aren't bad, either.
I got to talking to the woman sitting next to me -- a transplanted Parisian living in Queens -- and mentioned I'd just moved to the area from Maine.
"What part?" she asked between bites of her salad in heavily accented English. God I DO want to have that accent.
She'd done an exchange at Cape Elizabeth High about 18 years ago. It's a small world after all. We talked about Crescent Beach and the Lobster Shack. I told her she has to go back to see all the restaurants that have popped up in Portland since she's last visited. I almost asked her to get some sea glass for me, but didn't.
I ate Croque Monsieur -- basically the French version of a Monte Cristo -- and didn't protest when Juan, the busboy whom I'd chatted with before his shift, filled my glass with more Tempranillo with a wink.
Thus fortified, I walked in the direction of 14th Street to catch the PATH back home and stopped along the way to check out the arch at Washington Square Park, take pity on some puppies and kittens in a pet store (I oh so narrowly resisted rescuing one) and gawk at some of the brownstones and the rich people that are lucky enough to live in them in Greenwich Village.
Someday, someday.
After about a ten-minute train ride, I was across the river and hoofing it the five minutes or so back to my place.
Not bad, not bad at all.
My friend/coworker John and his wife Tracey invited me to their place in South Orange for Thanksgiving. At first I was a little hesitant because the thought of hassling with trains and walking to the station in the pouring rain wasn't very enticing.
Also, I had a jar of gravy and a can of cranberry sauce, circa 2000, in the cabinets somewhere. If that doesn't say "fall harvest," what does?
But I decided to go because as much as I said I didn't really mind, being alone on Thanksgiving sort of sucks. And I don't yet have a TV to keep me company.
The train ride from Hoboken to South Orange alone made it worth it. People piled on with flowers, pies and cakes, preparing their kids for what to say when they got to wherever they were going. Please, thank you, don't be rude.
Across the aisle, a woman sat reading some sort of celebrity mag ("The secrets to Jessica Simpson's and Jessica Alba's great hair color!") while her son, about 8, stared out the window. She had a pretty strong Brooklyn accent and he had a smaller one to match. As the train crossed over one of the rivers (maybe the Hackensack), he remarked on how he didn't know how to swim.
"You should take lessons this summer. To get over your fear. It's a shame you don't know how to swim. I'll have money for it this summer."
"It's not a shame, Mom. Some adults don't know how to swim."
"I want to play baseball."
"Well, maybe you could do both. We'd have to look into that."
I saw her doing the math in her head. The celeb mag had probably been a bit of a splurge for herself. The boy, older than his years, picked up on it quickly.
"Nah, it's expensive. You hafta travel all over the place."
"No you don't."
"Yeah, if there's championships."
"Well, that's IF there's championships."
Then, a few minutes later:
"Let's have a not breathing contest."
Silence, and then she giggled.
"Like you're not breathing through your nose."
"Man, you know all the tricks!"
And as Newark slipped away in the dark and cold rain, I thought of my mom and teared up.
First of all, I'm going to disappoint all the naysayers and come right out with it: I do love me Jersey City. The move went pretty smoothly and my big couch even made it in, though it required heaving it over a wall. (Thank you to the guy working on the condos next door who ran over to help. You didn't speak much English, but I'm pretty sure you understood my gratitude.)
Now that I've gotten that out of the way, let me tell you some of the interesting things about the place. As I was unpacking Sunday, Paul summoned me out to the courtyard because there was "something I had to see." His eyes were wide and he was pointing toward an eave on the adjacent building. Was it a crack head? A ninja?
"What?" I squinted and didn't see anything right away.
"Look."
And then I saw them. Two cats, staring intently at us from above.
And then another.
And another.
There's a freaking feral cat colony living next door. And I swear that whenever they stare at me, they do this thing where they suck a little bit of my soul out. Seriously, music started playing and everything.
At least we won't have a mouse problem.
But there are problems.
The next time you think you are in a bad rental situation, ask yourself the following questions and you'll probably convince yourself otherwise:
Have you met your landlord?
Do you have to go through a real estate agent, a self-professed "buffer," when you have a problem with your apartment?
Do all your windows close and lock?
When confronted with the fact that there are broken panes of glass in the French doors inside, does aforementioned buffer try to assuage you by saying that she "knocked all the loose glass out"? (Thanks! Now I'll just get splinters instead of lacerations!)
When buffer is asked if she intends to have the landlord replace the toilet tank cover that is missing, does she tell you to paint the piece of wood that's in its place?
When buffer is asked if she intends to have the landlord repair the grate that you have to walk over in order to enter your apartment (which leads to a six-foot drop to the nasty basement, which is an appliance graveyard) which is threatening to fall in, does she respond by putting a piece of plywood over it?
When told that a piece of plywood is not a proper fix, does she ask you what you think "we" should do?
Have you had to drop the word "lawsuit" regularly in order to get anything done?
Did you have to buy a mailbox and bungee cord the thing to the metal gate that leads to your apartment because apparently even a mailbox is too much to ask for?
I think you get the point.
I get the sense that telling people I moved from Maine makes some people think that maybe I lived in a shack with an outhouse. As you as my witnesses, dear readers, I will work hard to make sure everyone knows that all Mainers do not use outhouses at home.
What else?
Taking the PATH train to Target is a somewhat surreal experience. Only in Jersey.
Not having a car (Paul has it in Maine for the next couple weeks) is a liberating and debilitating experience. Liberating because I don't have to worry about finding parking. Debilitating because lugging 30 pounds of stuff from Target back home from the PATH stop sort of sucks. Note to self: Bring expedition pack next time. And I thought I wouldn't be using that again soon.
First, Mt. Washington. Next, the mall! I think the Newport Mall is something like a 4,000-footer. If I don't take the escalator, maybe I can say I bagged a peak here.
I found a gym nearby. It's run by a former power-lifter named Carmine. He's a hoot. There are posters of AHNOLD from his lifting heyday on the walls. I'm so going to fit right in.
Queen Latifah apparently frequents an Indian restaurant by me. It's my mission to meet her.
This place is the most diverse place I've ever been. A quick walk around my neighborhood today took me by a Vietnamese restaurant (Cafe Saigon, very good), multiple Spanish restaurants, a Polish deli, a shop specializing in African-American haircare, a Jewish deli, numerous Asian markets and who knows what else. Pretty awesome stuff.
A learning from today: You'll get good produce cheap at the local neighborhood markets (especially the Asian ones) but pay approximately one million dollars for something like a box of Kashi cereal. It's like an alternate universe of grocery shopping. I'll be getting my dry goods from Fresh Direct, I guess. If someone had told me I'd be ordering my groceries online and having them delivered a year ago, I would have cracked up laughing.
Actually, I'm sort of still cracking up laughing.
Lots more to come, but I'll leave you with one final thought:
No one has asked me if I'm From Away yet.
Nor do I suspect anyone will.
The UHaul departs in three days.
Are you ready for all this Maineness, Jersey?
