Display by Label: NJ

It's not news to some of you that I have a little bit of a guilt complex. Okay, maybe it's not so little. Maybe it's more like a "compound." But I swear, it began as this cute little bungalow, which I built just for me and a few low-maintenance house plants. But I've since added a couple of rooms, a pool (jacuzzi) and a walk-in beer cooler. It's actually quite spacious now. I even have room for several guests, in case you're interested. I wish I could explain why I ever built it in the first place. I mean, I'm not Catholic. Or Jewish. So I can't blame religion, or overbearing mothers. I'm sure I could probably come up with some kind of answer after a few dozen hours of therapy. But who has time for that mess? There's no denying that it exists, though. You only have to look as far as last week's post to see it. Sometimes it ain't so purty, is it?

One of the side-effects of a guilt like mine is I'm terrible around cops. Actually, that's not true. I'm not that bad, really. At least I don't think I am. I can fake an expression of innocence, when needed. But what's funny about that—if funny is the word to describe it—is that (most of the time) I'm guilty of absolutely nothing. Nothing that I'm aware of, at least. But the weird thing about cops is, they always seem to know something about me I don't. And damnit-all if I don't believe them every time.

If I'm confronted by a cop (or even a mall security guard) my first instinct isn't to smile and say "hello." Instead, it's to avert my eyes and say, "Nothing, I know nothing." But I've found that unwarranted declarations of innocence tend to raise more suspicion than they quell. So instead, what I try to do is just breath deep, think innocent thoughts, and speak as little as possible.

This is harder than you think. Because as soon as you try to think innocent thoughts, the first thing that pops into your head is something like late-night bong hits in college. Or cowgirl porn. (Always with the cowgirl porn.) I have some mental tricks to get me past those thoughts and bring me right to the church pew on Sunday morning. That way, on the outside, I'm cool as a cucumber. I'm just itemizing in my mind all the ways I am completely, gloriously...innocent. Meanwhile, on the inside, I'm only one stray pornographic cucumber image away from completely crumbling.

It makes the heart race. It really does. You should try it.

Yesterday morning, Honey and I were the only ones at the dog park. Actually, more than that, we were the only ones in that entire section of the Reservation, of which the dog park is only a small portion. No parked cars. No people. And, for some inexplicable reason, I was already feeling guilty about this. (I don't know...I've mostly stopped asking myself "why" to these things. I just roll with it.)

The reason for the park's emptiness actually had nothing to do with me, and everything to do with the fact that it was raining. And it wasn't just a drizzle, either. It was a full-on, unapologetic downpour.

I guess most people change up their routines for things like "inclement weather." I'm not one of those people, though. I am a slave to my routine. Lucky for my dog, it's a trait she and I have in common. But what I've learned over time is, it's something that might annoy you if you were married to me, especially if you were the type of person with a general disdain for routines and who, outside of your obligations to work, etc, basically went about your day doing whatever happened to strike your fancy, and eating whatever you happened to feel like at the moment you felt like it instead of, say, planning it ahead of time. You might also be the type of person who just put your shoes on, sometimes the left foot first and sometimes the right foot first, all chaotic-like. If you were that type of person, and you were married to me, you might be a little annoyed by my penchant for...routine. But I'm just speaking hypothetically. Because there's really no way I could know something like that.

Now that I think of it, the main reason I was already feeling guilty was that, on the way to the dog park, a cop in an SUV had put on his blue and reds behind me. I slowed down, preparing to confess everything—it was just a few times, maybe a dozen, okay? and I swear, it wasn't my bong, and I never sold any. And look, about the cowgirl porn, I like girls in shit-kickers and straw hats. There's nothing illegal about that, is there?—but he just passed by me on the left. A narrow escape.

I had pretty much resumed my normal breathing rate by the time Honey had done her business at the park. She and I were playing catch in one of the fenced-in areas. Then I saw what seemed to be the same SUV that had passed me earlier driving by in the parking lot, and he slowed down as he passed my truck. Holy crap! He's running my plates!

The SUV drove off. But then another one drove by. And another. All with the blue and reds. The bastards were calling in reinforcements. They had me surrounded, by God!

The key here, was to remain calm. And rational. Like MacGyver. As you can surely tell, I'm good at this. I put Honey on her leash and we left the fenced area and went out to where my truck was parked. I could see two cop cars pulled up alongside each other further on down the road. Probably talking about me. For some reason, it seemed like getting in my truck and leaving right then might arouse more suspicion. So instead, after lurking around my truck for several seconds, and opening the door and pretending to take something out of my center console. I took Honey by the leash and lead her down the road. In the rain. Directly toward the cop cars. Right hand in my pocket. Hood up over my head. Proud of myself, because this was definitely less suspicious.

I had only walked a couple of steps before the cops dispersed and drove off in opposite directions. Then, there was nothing for a few minutes. Eerie silence. Just me, Honey, and the rain. We walked for several minutes like this, man and dog through puddles and drips. Then all at once, several SUVs roared past. Some had "K9 Unit" displayed on the outside. One clearly said "Bomb Disposal Unit." As each car drove by me, I would look directly at the person driving from under the hood of my coat, all nonchalant, you know. Like "What's up, brother?"

I had my canned response ready, too, just in case they stopped to ask me what I was doing here. I'd say: "Look I'm just a normal guy with a dog walking in the rain at the dog park." I realize now that this is probably the most suspicious thing I could possibly have said. I think if I had actually uttered these words, I would probably be scribbling this onto a roll of toilet paper at the Essex County Jail instead of onto my keyboard. But they seemed like good words at the time. They always do.

Luckily, speaking turned out to be unnecessary, and as I walked back down the road toward my truck, I saw that I was no longer alone—two other dog-park regulars had arrived and were walking toward me. Thank God! Witnesses! I couldn't remember their names. I only knew the two women by their two dogs' names: Milo and ... okay, strike that, I only knew them by one of their two dogs' names.

I waved to the owners of Milo and the other dog and they waved back and as we got within speaking distance one of them said, "What's going on up here?!"

"I don't know!" I said. "But it's really freaking me out. I'm getting a little paranoid." I decided not to mention the bong hits. Or the cowgirl porn.

"I'm sure they're obligated to tell us if there is some kind of danger, doncha think?" said one of Milo's owners.

And that's when it hit me: these two weren't concerned about the cops coming after them. They were concerned for their own safety. Because there might actually be some other dangerous person out here who these cops really were after, somebody who might be truly guilty of something other than smoking a few bowls in college and watching the occasional cowgirl porn flick. This must be what normal people feel like. I tried to think what a normal person might say and came up with: "Well...yeah! You'd think so, right?"

We shook our heads and talked some more about what it could be. We even tried to stop one of the cops and ask him, but he just drove on past. These guys weren't interested in talking. Eventually, Milo's owners went off in the direction I had come from and I walked with Honey back to my truck.

I never did find out what was going on so I can't report to ya'll with any certainty on what it was all about. I do know this, however: Nobody followed me out of the park or to my house. I'm quite sure of this because I checked my rear-view mirror repeatedly, and took a route that was out of my way and in the opposite direction from my house so I could double back on myself and check.

Rational, people. Like MacGyver.

link to this | comments (8) | File:  NJ  Ho_Hum  Honey 

In many ways, New Jersey has been a good move for C and me. C loves her job and I've discovered inner peace and existential understanding through yard work. Oh, and we have some great kitchen drawers. And while our neighbors are a little yellow-bellied and talk funny, they're friendly and very welcoming. Still, it's no secret that if I had my choice, if it were not for careers and matters of economics, I'd be back in DC in a heartbeat. But life has brought us to the Garden State and, I've got to say, aside from the constant ache I feel in my ass from being repeatedly violated by our township on our property taxes every three months, it ain't all that bad up here. When we go to the store, we have a much greater selection of pasta sauces to choose from and most of my neighbors have last names that end in a vowel. What more could a half-Italian kid ask for? Also, we're pretty much guaranteed snowfall each winter, something I always missed in Texas (and even DC). Factor in that I'm a 30-minute train ride from NYC, which makes it easy for me to begin some evening classes at NYU, and it all adds up to an overall net gain. Bottom line: I can't really complain.

But there has been something missing from our lives here. Something that used to bring us great joy and that we really took for granted for so long ...

Awww, Dave. Stop right there. You know we don't go for those sappy displays of affection, so let's just keep it brief. You miss your friends back home (both in the DC Metro and the Lone Star). Well, we miss you, too man. We ...

Chipotle.

Oh my God we've fucking missed you, Chipotle. It's left an empty spot in our heart not being able to make the five-minute pilgrimage once or twice a week to one of your holy locations, where we would sit at one of your stainless-steel alters and give honor unto thee while we feast upon a heaping bowl of rice and beans and naturally raised, antibiotic-free chicken. And chips of the white corn variety. Lots of white corn chips. Up until about two weeks ago, we actually needed to drive about 45 minutes to get to one of your places of worship. And that just didn't seem right to us. It somehow ruined the spiritual experience to have to travel that far. And it weren't good on the environment, either.

But all that changed a few weeks ago as C was driving home down Route 10 and noticed those eight beautiful letters spelled out on the side of an otherwise useless strip mall filled with a hot dog hut and a Michaels and a Best Buy and an all-you-can-eat chinese buffet. There it was! Grand Opening: Chipotle. And less than a ten-minute drive from our house!

The first thing C did was call me with the news.

"Guess what?!"

"What?"

"Guess what I just drove by?!"

"What?!"

"It's so wonderful. You'll never guess."

"For the love of God, say it woman!"

"Chipotle!"

"Oh, my lord ... that's .... that's ... amazing."

"I know!"

"... I ... I just ... I mean, I think I need to sit down."

"Breath, Honey."

"It's just so much to take in ..."

"I know. I just pulled over and had a good cry."

"C?"

"Yes?"

"I love you."

"Oh, I love you, too, Honey."

Oh, how I wish I could describe the joy that filled my heart at that moment. Suddenly, I knew it was all going to be okay. Maybe our economy was falling apart and the world was entering a powerful and scary financial crisis. But by God, we had a Chipotle in our neighborhood. We had nothing to worry about. Things were going to work out.

God had not forgotten us.

Since it opened two weeks ago, C and I have visited the store a total of five times and I think we're finally over the religious zealot faze. We're finally speaking in complete, rational sentences that don't end in ... "do you feel like Chipotle?"

And let me add, in case you think me cold and callous, we do really miss our friends and family back home, too. And please don't judge us for our love of Chipotle. If we had a decent Tex-Mex place up here, we probably wouldn't depend on it quite as much as we do. But desperate times call for desperate measures. And Chipotle is our tie to the Mexican comfort food of home. Please understand.

Now that our bellies are full, we really do miss you guys.

Really.

link to this | comments (9) | File:  Food  Friends  Moving  NJ 

The way I remember it is something like this, and it's really the beginning (and tragic end) of so many party stories: Everything was going fine until somebody brought out the bottle of tequila. Just for the record, I believe that somebody was my wife. And when I say "everything was going fine until ..." I mean "for me."

And here's the thing: it was only Thursday night. Friday was July 4th. Friday was supposed to be the night. Not Thursday.

Demon blue agave. You and me are not on speaking terms, brother.

I only partially blame C. The real culprit is K, whose promises of new postings on her blog lead me to set aside my own misgivings of watering a bellyful of recently-planted IPA Hops with Patron shots. I think there were only three. But three was enough. The hickory flavor of E's slow-smoked ribs was so good that night, but the next morning I would have given anything to shake that scent from my nose. It seemed to be everywhere. And it probably was.

I'm not an idiot ... I mean, I know the "beer before liquor, never sicker" mantra. But honestly I've never had that much of a problem mixing alcohols in the past. When I was twenty-three and tending bar, it was not uncommon to chase beers with shots of tequila as a matter of good form and proper etiquette. (I'm nothing if not polite.) In the morning I would feel a little like the inside of a small clanging church bell, but the sensation would go away with water and breakfast. Somewhere in the last eleven years, though, the church bells have gotten bigger, and they've begun to ring louder and deeper. And they can put a frightful shakiness in my belly. And so I have new respect for the axioms I learned in college.

It took all of us a while to get going on July 4th. Particularly me. I felt bad not emerging from my room until 2pm. But that's the nice thing about close friends and an understanding wife: they'll cover for you when you're down. I owe them. For icing down the keg. For setting things up. For taking Honey out at 6:30 am. When I finally made it downstairs, shaking and about ten pounds lighter than I was the night before, the first of my neighbors began showing up with their July 4th game faces on, all full of energy and wondering what the hell kind of party this was where everybody was chewing Rolaids and talking about hairs on dogs and squinting at each other from behind sunglasses under drizzly skies.

And let me go ahead and apologize right now. To all of you. Because the details of this post sound like they came straight out of some college student's MySpace page. Let's see ... there was a keg. Check. Somebody got sick from tequila. Check. A trip to the Urgent Care was made. Check. The cops came. Check. Okay, nobody engaged in any sloppy make-out sessions in the basement (at least I don't think they did). And okay, there was no beer bonging. Oh, and nobody streaked down our street naked. But still, all and all, this had all the crucial ingredients of a college house party. And that's sort of embarrassing ... since, with the exception of a few twenty-somethings, we were mostly of the thirty-something-not-quite-willing-to-admit-we're-really-that-old demographic.

It weren't pretty.

And yet, it really was quite a beautiful thing. Because beneath all of these details which, on the surface, seem so horrific and clichéd, there was, at root, the undercurrent of a really good time. The kind of time you don't want to end: Catching up with friends. Sitting around a fire (in July!) listening to music and telling stories. Laughing. And bringing a little Texas Backyard BBQ to the New Jersey burbs.

The urgent-care visit actually had nothing to do with alcohol consumption and everything to do with a spider bite on my foot which I had let fester for over a week and which had become gruesomely infected.

And yes, the cops did come. Because my neighbor Ax brought over some fireworks. And let me just pause for a moment to say this: when your new neighbor tells you he'll bring fireworks over to your 4th of July party and you say something like, "Aren't those illegal in New Jersey?" And he responds with something like, "Aw fuck 'em," and you both share a hearty laugh at your mutual contempt for authority, you should trust that little stream of a conscience flowing through all those overgrown weeds of hutzpah. Here's what I found out about Ax that weekend: he's really good at being a rebel, as long as the rebelliousness takes place at somebody else's house. When the cops showed up at my driveway Friday night, it was just me and my friend E from Texas out there to greet them. Every yellow-bellied Yankee neighbor — these people who had kids and respectable day-jobs and upstanding lives — had disappeared inside. E was standing there holding a lighter in one hand and a bottle rocket in the other. And I was holding a black plastic garbage bag full of spent fireworks. The cop was actually quite nice about the whole thing. He said he didn't want to ruin the fun, but some neighbors had complained about the noise. We apologized, and he went on his way, but not before asking me what my address was. So here we are: only four months living in New Jersey, and I'm in the police database. Which means next year we're doing the fireworks at Ax's house. Or I'm leaving Jersey altogether.

So here are my lessons from this July 4th:
And most importantly:

link to this | comments (6) | File:  NJ  Neighbors  Friends 

I keep looking in the wrong drawers. They aren't the wrong drawers in any existential sense. I mean, as a drawer, they're perfectly right. They are drawers and drawers are what they are. They just lack qualifiers. And that's the problem — we can't just say, "Put it in the silverware drawer." Because, so far, there is no "silverware drawer." There are only names like, "To the left of the sink" and "I don't know, baby, wherever you want to put it is fine by me." And those just aren't good names for drawers. It leads to a bit of the confusion. And so I keep opening the wrong drawers. Like when I want to find a spoon. Or the beer opener device. But I really don't mind. Because they're such awesome drawers. And opening them and closing them is actually kind of a beautiful thing. And yes, I'm surprised to find myself using the word "beautiful" as a way to describe the closing of a drawer. But I can't help it. I like the way that these drawers don't slam shut. Instead, they magically stop, just short of a slam, and then they sort of ease closed, nice and gentle. Like they're making love to the countertop. Just a love tap is all it is, really. Nothing hateful. Because even though our house is from the 1940s, the kitchen is all 2006, love. And, oh man, we've lived in a pre-90s kitchen for long enough.

And so, as you may have guessed, we're completely moved in. Which means we're now residents of the great state of New Jersey. In fact, Monday it became official: we got our driver licenses. And since we never wound up doing that in Maryland, and since Hoshi still has her DC plates, it kind of feels like Baltimore never really happened. And I'm okay with that, honestly. I always sort of felt like a foreigner there. And so when people here ask me where I'm from, I don't even mention that little post-industrial mecca of drugs, crime, potholes, and crazy people. I mention the diamond-shaped, 13 story tall, NPO-filled, power-political (yet ironically, non-represented) neighboring district just 50 miles south. (Which also happens to be in no short supply of drugs, crime, potholes, and crazy people.) Ahh. Yes, that one. Because in my head, I think maybe I'll always be from DC. And, who knows, maybe I'll actually reside there again someday.

But maybe not. Because, weird as it is for me to be saying this, I really dig it here in Jersey. Things are clicking here in ways they never did in DC . . . or Baltimore. First of all, the actual move was so smooth, I could have seen my reflection in it. It was that early-morning, only-boat-on-the-lake kind of smooth. The kind where you just throw your line in and watch the sun rise slowly and you just feel good in your gut and right with nature. If you ever need to move in NY or NJ, I've got the company for you. These guys were real pros. And since this was a relo (and we weren't paying for it) we had them pack and unpack us and, let me tell you, that's the way to go. These guys knew what they were doing. They packed and loaded us last Tuesday, then unloaded and unpacked us on Thursday. And Thursday night, after an early dinner, C and I even had time to get the bedroom somewhat organized. No wading through boxes looking for that one damn thing we needed but had no idea which brown, square, taped-up thing it was in. Because everything was all out and in plain sight. And so all we had to do was find a place for it. And put it there. And there are lots of places for putting things here.

But it's not just the move that's been smooth, brother. Or the kitchen. It's everything. Like the way the JCC is so close and new and modern and it's got all this great new equipment and, at the same time, is so reasonably-priced. And they even have a lounge, with a cafe and, get this, WiFi. Sorry Y at 17th and Rhode Island . . . this JCC has you beat.

But mostly it's the people: The way the guys at the Mazda dealership call you "Buddy" and resurface Hoshi's front rotors for free. The way the washer/dryer installers help you out with recommendations on a place to watch The Game on Sunday. The way the pregnant woman at the Shop Rite says to me, in her thick, slightly nasal, New Jersey accent, "Excuse me, very tall, un-pregnant man, could you reach that for me" as she points to the top shelf in the canned vegetable aisle. Then to C: "Do you mind if I borrow him for a second?" God, I wanted to kiss her.

Here, people have first names like Frank, Mario, and Sal. And last names that tend to end in "o" or "elli." And even though they may still need to know how to spell my own last name, they don't hesitate with the pronunciation of it, or remark on how they've never heard it before, as tends to happen in other parts of the States. They're completely unimpressed, in fact. Because here, Italian last names are about as common as "Smith." Here, the grocery stores stock dozens of brands of spaghetti sauce, not just Ragu or Newman's Own. Here, you can't drive five miles without running into a pizza joint.

This is the way the world should be. This is home.

And so I'm sitting here, my brain awash with blood and oxygen from my first workout at the JCC, the first good workout I've had since September, and marveling at how interesting it is to have my brain awash with something besides alcohol. (Did I mention I've started carrying a flask?) Actually, now that I think about it, maybe that's why I keep opening the wrong drawers.

link to this | comments (7) | File:  NJ  Moving  Ho_Hum  House 

Well, tomorrow, C and I will be closing on a house in West Orange, New Jersey. A lot has happened in the past month, so let me briefly get us up to speed. Since this post, we wound up putting an offer down on the above-mentioned place. Then we went through some negotiations in price, followed by inspections and contingencies, and settled on something pretty darned good, both for us and (I think) the seller. It's nice when everybody comes out happy on these things. At the exact same time, we wound up receiving an offer on our place in Baltimore, and that had it's own set of negotiations, inspections, and contingencies. I think everybody is happy on this one as well. But it was dicey for a bit, and all this made for an interesting holiday filled with back-and-forths between us and various agents and attorneys.

I haven't written much about the new house until now partly out of a superstition that once I type the words, the whole deal will suddenly fall apart. And I'd really hate for that to happen because it's a great house and we're even more excited than we were last time we bought one of these domestic abode type doo-dads which — wow — I can remember it like it was yesterday, or — oh, I don't know — seven months ago. But there, I've had these words on my screen for a couple of minutes now and . . . nope, no phone calls. Looks like we're still good. But just in case, why don't we all find a little wood and knock on it.

Nice. Thanks.

And so begins another frenzy of disruption and change. Utilities canceled at the old place and re-ordered at the new one. Addresses swapped out again, one by one, for a long list of magazines, credit cards, insurance companies, and other subscription services. And as this whole process did the last time, it once again alarms me how much my name and address is tied to. And, while I'm happy and grateful for all of the things I have, I've lately found myself longing for . . . nothing. Or rather, I do long for something and that something is nothing. Maybe nothingness would be a better word. Whatever. What it boils down to is this: I long to be off The Grid. Floating anonymously, far from the the dock of obligation or identity. In fact, this now holds the number one slot for "wildest fantasy" in my mind, which when you think about it, is a pretty sad commentary on the state of my imagination and, let's be honest, my libido.

But I can fantasize all I like. I'm firmly rooted in The Grid now. There's no getting around it. My name is already on multiple loan documents, and while it will be released from one of those at the end of the month, it will be added to another tomorrow. So it's a wash from that standpoint. Then, there are the legal identifications. I just renewed my passport (which is totally unrelated to the move, but still relevant to the theme here) for another ten years so that I can travel to Mexico in March without being detained on the way back in (my current passport is set to expire during the trip). And when we move to Jersey, one of my first stops will be at the DMV, where I will register with the state so that my identity can be firmly emblazoned on a piece of plastic, along with my photo. And maybe I'll receive another combination of numbers that people can use to identify me, in addition to the nine I already have. And I will tell the state — and by extension the federal — government where they can find me at all times, you know, just in case they need me. And I'll also let them know which cars they can find me in, in case I ever decide to skip town, because I'm helpful like that. And that reminds me: on Saturday, while I'm still punchy from signing a ream of papers and writing checks to people, I'm going to acquire a second four-wheeled A-to-B device. I'll do formal introductions later. For now, I'll just mention that it is a truck and I can't wait. At the same time, though, it's yet another thing to register. So while it symbolizes a certain amount of flexibility and freedom, it also chains me even tighter to The Grid. Damned irony.

And that's the central tension I feel in my life these days. That split feeling of excitement and dread at each turn. The excitement of new digs, new wheels, new jobs, new adventures. And the simultaneous anxiety these things create. And the way each of these things serves to "root" me . . . in place, in time, in a role. And I guess that's what life boils down to: a never-ending series of trade-offs between having the personal freedom to do what we wish and the compounding responsibility and obligation we assume as a result of those pursuits . . . our "rootedness." The more "independent" we become by acquiring the things and assuming the roles that make our lives easier and more "comfortable," — the more dependent we become on the network of utilities, services, and social constructs that keep those things going and the more fixed we become in those roles. Which makes things like moving, however exciting, a huge pain in the ass.

And now that I've ventured down into this murky, moderately depressing territory, let me step right back out of it and say, I can't wait to get on with it, already!

The next couple of weeks will be spotty with the Internet access. There will be the move, of course, and then once we get to the other side, it looks like it's going to be a week or so before our FiOS gets installed. (Speaking of being tied to The Grid, I'm totally psyched to finally be able to get FiOS!) Maybe not having Internet at home for those first couple of weeks will be good for me. It'll force me to get the new digs organized. It'll also no doubt force me out to a nearby Wi-Fi spot so I can occasionally do that pesky thing called "work." But hopefully there won't be anything terribly urgent to attend to, and I'll be able to just stay offline a bit. Off The Grid. Untied. Whatever. I have no doubt I'll gravitate back to it the first chance I get. Because I guess, when it's all said and done, I kinda like being tied up. Crap, how did this come back to fantasies?

link to this | comments (1) | File:  NJ  Moving  House  BMore