The Girl's Gone Country

I'm about as country as Jessica Simpson, but it should be said that I spent the first six years of my life with cows for neighbors. My parents eventually upgraded to a town with a convenience store within walking distance, but the people without teeth still remained.

Back in those days, probably until I was about 10, the can't-wait-for event each summer was the Sussex County Farm and Horse Show, essentially a country carnival, complete with stomach aching fried foods and tractor pulls. It's where I experienced my first-ever thrill ride at the tender age of two, on some sort of red, dusty, merry-go-round contraption with a cow bell attached. Good times were had by all.

I haven't been to the fair in ages and for some reason I really wanted to go this summer. So I rounded up Jay and my parents and we took the long ride out to the fairgrounds via Route 206 in my father's 22-foot long diesel truck, for country-folk authenticity purposes.

I don't remember much about my past times at the Sussex County fair, but I have a feeling that not much has changed since my last visit, except that my father now has Jay to competitively eat against. (Usually he just eats.) Jay put up a good fight, but my father reigned, consuming a roast beef sandwich, pierogies, a cheese steak, popcorn, a slice of pizza, half of an ice cream waffle sandwich, beef brisket, corn on the cob, oysters and finally, a nectarine, all in three-and-a-half hours. For reasons unknown, the only item he refused was the remainder of my funnel cake. (Too sugary, perhaps?)

And just like always, good times were had by all. Pictures here.

I've come a long way since Stanhope, NJ.

Not only have we been living above a grow shop for the last two months, but we just recently caught on to the fact that "women of the night" (and day, in this case) hang out around the corner from our apartment, right near our favorite gelato shop. And yet! None of this phases me.

I feel so bohemian, circa 1970s East Village.

Signs of Aging

Driving in the slow lane, five miles under the speed limit, on a highway you used to do 85 mph on just a few years ago; cringing the entirety of the hour’s drive, not just because it’s been a few months since you’ve driven—let alone on a major highway filled with raging New Jerseyians—but also because your driving skills now resemble that of your mother.

Also; buying eye cream.

Getting reacquainted

It’s hard for me to get excited about a trip down the to the Jersey shore. My first thoughts are: traffic, sand in my bum and having to tell people I’m spending a weekend at the Jersey shore. (They invariably always reply, “Oh, going to break out the Trans Am and pick up some guidos, eh?”)

But my last trip, in honor of Mariel’s 27th birthday, was different, and mostly because Jay, who hadn’t visited Jersey’s beaches since the tender age of eight, came with me. I don’t mean it to as sound as saccharine as it does—even if we ever break up he will be my travel companion of choice because he gets so excited about the littlest things—like skee ball, for instance—and it’s hard to not get caught up in his enthusiasm. (Another example: When we drove from Chicago to visit that other tri-state area of Ohio-Kentucky-Indiana last summer, the rental car company gave us a mini van. I could not have been more embarrassed; Jay however, could not get over what a smooth ride it was.)

We stayed at The Blue Water Inn, which is not nearly as nice as it appears in the photos, but it’s not a bad deal for a cheesy weekend down the shore. Because it had been so long since his last visit, Jay was eager to do it all in the small amount of time that we had. By the time we got to Ocean City, the boardwalk was closed, save for a few pizza places and arcades, which we obligingly hit up after first downing a few alcoholic beverages in our room, just like the glory days of prom weekend in high school. We played skee ball, a few games of air hockey and managed to avoid the temptation of Dance Dance Revolution, mostly because there were a couple of kids hanging around who we thought might kick our asses if we did. We also took part in the requisite black-and-white photo booth.

The following day we spent at the beach, followed by an evening barbeque at Mariel’s, where there were rounds of flip cups to be played after the gourmet food was cleared from the table. On our last day, we proceeded to eat our way down the boardwalk. (Pork roll for him, French fries for me; then fudge and fresh-squeezed lemonade. Mack & Manco's pizza came highly recommend, but we both passed, as it also looked highly greasy.) The only item on the checklist we missed was mini golf.

On the way home, Jay made sure to tell me what a great time he had, but it wasn’t until I reflected on the trip later, by myself, that I realized I had a great time, too. I have been down the shore so many times I forgot how charming it could be if you treat each visit as if it were your first. I’m sure this concept can be applied to any place you visit regularly. Try it and you’ll be amazed at the fresh perspective it provides.

Nostalgia central

Witness above my commute to work. It ain't pretty, I know, but riding home today I started to feel a little sad. Maybe it was the JBJ rockin' on my iPod or maybe it was the drunken Knicks fans, but with seven days left until I move what little I own across the Hudson and East rivers and officially into a one-double-oh zip code, I got to thinking about what I would and wouldn't miss about living in New Jersey. Behold, my list, in no particular order ...

Au revior! to:

1. My 5:30 a.m. wake-up call and subsequent hour and 15-minute commute to work.
2. That pathetic look I get when I say I'm from New Jersey from every Alabama/Connecticut/Idaho native who's lived in New York a total of six months.
3. Living my life by the whim of NJ Transit.
4. Having to share a bathroom. (Nothing to do with living in New York, but it's still a perk.)
5. Spending every waking minute commuting to New York, Hoboken, New Brunswick, Stanhope et al because no one ever wanted to hang out in Bloomfield except for the one time I made them on my birthday.
6. Being associated with AquaNet, acid wash jeans and fringe bangs.
7. A lack of vegetarian options in the frozen food isle of the supermarket.

I may sniffle at:

1. No longer having emergency bathroom access on trains.
2. Feeling like I'm abandoning the homeland.
3. Spending every morning with the NJ Transit staff. Such nice folks, always, every day.
4. My roommate. (Aw.)
5. Parallel parking. It may just be my one talent in life.
6. Leaving behing my waxer and hairstylist, Tonya at Bangz in Montclair and Sam at Vanity in Upper Montclair. Oddly, I'm constantly getting compliments on my eyebrows and everyone just lurves the new chin-length hair cut.
7. New Jersey pizza. I have yet to find a slice in New York that can rival one of my many faves from the Garden State, i.e. New York Pizza in Rutherford, Vinnie's in Bloomfield, Lockwood in Stanhope, Ray's in NB and surprisingly, the pizza joint in the Hoboken train station. (I'm talking true $2 slices here, not ones that are of course delectable because you just paid $10.75 for it.)

That's all there is, folks. Tune in in two weeks when I'm having panic attacks because the toilet won't flush.

What's old is new again

I must admit, I haven’t been loving the ol' Gawk too much since J. Co left. I especially avoided the site once fingers started pointing at Jersey for the noxious odor that blanketed NYC recently. (You may not know it, but I’m viciously defensive of my home state.) Desperate to avoid actually working today, however, I landed at Gawker and came across this:

"Bad Smell Wrapup: Oh Captain, Mercaptan

The mystery (or is it a 'puzzle?') of yesterday's clouds of foul-smelling mercaptan (we learned a word!) hasn't yet been resolved, but everyone's been eager to point the finger at usual bad-smell scapegoat, the Garden State. The accusations have ranged in scale from subtle, i.e. the Times' whispered 'Some suspicion fell on New Jersey,' to the, uh, the not so subtle. We're left feeling sort of of bad for New Jersey, which hasn't at all been confirmed as the source of the odor. We're going to recommend that they go with the classic 'he who smelt it dealt it' defense-- it's been working for us since first grade."

I think I just feel in love all over again.

photo: solid threads