Lake George

Graduation day is soon upon us. The four of us, Jason, Joe, Seth and myself (Steven), were looking forward to spending a summer together before going away to our institutes of higher learning. A summer full of doing nothing, well nothing consisted of work, work and trying to find work. But after work we’d hang out blow off some steam and just be carefree. My friends are smart, I’d even go as far as saying they are brilliant. We were not your rowdy bunch of young men, more book smart than street smart, but we still knew how to have fun. We did our share of drinking and smoking, cigarettes and other smoke-able substances. It would be safe to say I was the wild one of our not so rowdy bunch.

Jason, Joe and myself had known each other since elementary school. Seth came to find us as a sophomore in high school. Three of us worked together scooping ice cream at Friendly’s, sorry if we delayed your Jim Dandy or your Fribble, we were kids and we really didn’t care. So if you ever wonder why the service sucks at Friendly’s, take a look around you. The entire staff is kids and shitty burnt out waitresses. We really wanted to do a good job but in the thick of it, we really didn’t give a shit. Well at least I didn’t. I really wasn’t looking to please our coked-up-never-to-be-found-manager. As for the customers, it’s Friendly’s for crying out loud.

Our senior year is drawing to an end, we discuss planning a trip. We don’t know where, but are tossing ideas around. The Jersey shore, the Hamptons or maybe camping. Well the Jersey shore is full of guidos, need I say more? The Hamptons is a bit out of our budget. And camping was out of the question. I do not camp nor do I rough it. I prefer indoor plumbing to a hole in the ground thank you. I’m sure one day before I leave this earth I will go rough it, but not yet and definitely not back then. Now I don’t exactly remember who mentioned Lake George (I think it was Joe), but it sounded like a great idea, a mix of both, nature and indoor plumbing. Looks like we are going upstate.

If you don’t know about Lake George it’s the “Queen of American Lakes”, located in the Adirondack Region in upstate New York. A great place for four Jewish boys to spend their final hurrah before college. There seemed to be plenty of activities to keep us busy like boat rentals and beaches to just relax. It had a village filled with touristy shops, restaurants and what we called “clubs”. It was about three hours away, a good enough distance where there would be no parental interference. Now this was the late 80’s, no cell phones, no internet and no GPS tracking devices. We were going to be free for five days and what a great way for our parental units to get used to us being away. We were excited, but now we needed a plan.

I f I remember, I was the only one with a fake I.D. It was purchased in Times Square way before the Disnefication. Back when there were hustlers, pimps, prostitutes and a peep show every 25feet. Like I said I was the wild one of the not so rowdy bunch. That fake ID worked. Not to sound conceited, but I look younger than my age and at seventeen I looked like I just hit puberty. Now I know that people knew it was fake, maybe they just thought about the balls it would take to show them this laminated form of trickery, but I got drinks at clubs, bars and bodegas. I was obviously the one in charge of acquiring the alcohol. I needed a list and I had to check it twice. I also thought it wise to buy a good mixology guide. First stop the bookstore, second stop the liquor store.

I go to the local Barnes and Nobel with Seth. We walk in and search the shelves for a book on how to mix drinks. We looked in cooking and guides, we didn’t find it. We find an employee and they bring us back to a section we walked through prior. Great there’s more than one. We peruse the titles, Mr. Boston, The Complete Bartenders Guide and the one that stuck out the most The Harvard Student Agency Bartending Course. Well holy shit, a bartending guide form Harvard, I’m sold. That would be the only way that I would ever take a Harvard course. It even had a form in the back to get a certificate, I’m going to be a Harvard grad. Who cares if it was for mixing booze and juice. We take our new Bible up to the counter and gladly hand over the six dollars and change.

I studied that book. More than I studied anything my last two years of high school. I finally learned what was in the drinks I was illegally consuming. Fuzzy Navels, Sex on the Beach, Daiquiri, Kamikaze and the famous Long Island Iced tea. I’m getting a Harvard education on how to get people drunk and I’m loving it. I’m learning the libation lingo, high ball, neat, muddle. Soon I know what was in most of our drinks and decide that I need lots and lots of booze. Vodka, Gin, Rum and Tequila. Four of us drinking for five days, I figured a mixed case would be great. I had very high expectations.

Next up, acquiring the booze. This was going to be more difficult than I expected. Knowing that my ID could fool a waitress or a bartender and the guy behind the bullet proof glass at a bodega, fooling the person stationed behind the register at a liquor store may be a bit more complicated especially with a case of alcohol. And I didn’t buy the cheap stuff, no well spirits for me. Even as a novice drinker I knew the good stuff from the shit. I went with my girlfriend at the time to a liquor store nowhere near my home, forbid I was noticed by a neighbor or parent, I had to keep this very hush-hush.

We are strolling the aisles and picking out all the necessities. The Absolut, The Cuervo, The Tanqueray, and of course the Bacardi. I get to the counter, gently put down all the precious bottles and then the obvious happens. The man, who looks like he just drank a fifth himself asks the inevitable, “you got ID?”. I don’t know if I looked nervous or not, but I was shaking on the inside, this was the most illegal thing I have ever done in my life at this point, well other than procuring a fake ID in Times Square. I collect my inner composure and take out the laminated form of trickery and hand it to the man who is either going to let me slide or call the cops, well maybe not call the cops but still not a fun feeling. He looks at it and asks “what year were you born?”, fuck, fuck, fuck. I have no idea, I didn’t memorize any of my false vitals. I’m screwed, this guy is going to get me in some serious trouble or he’s going to keep the ID and that would totally fuck my shit up. I am not great at math when I’m under pressure, actually I’m not great at math when I’m not under pressure, but this just made it ten times worse, I blurt out something that made no sense, like 1953. I’m now ready to leave with my chin buried in my chest, and he says “nice try”, that’s my cue to exit. He hands me the ID back, I look up surprised and say thanks. Now I need a plan B.

I didn’t have a plan B. We couldn’t ask our parents, even though looking back I think one of them would have agreed. We really didn’t know many people who were in their twenties. But I needed to find someone quickly. I talked to my girlfriend, she knew some shady characters, surely she would know someone to purchase the alcohol. I called her up and asked her if she knew of anyone and low and behold she worked with someone that would probably help, she’ll get back to me. I’m not worried, but worse come to worse we would be stuck with wine coolers and beer. Her contact got back to her and said he’d gladly do it. OK, that’s a weight off my shoulders.

We are now deciding on our mode of transportation. I didn’t have a car, and I don’t think the others parents were too keen on them taking their car knowing that some form of debauchery would be happening. We decided on bus. I’m pretty sure it was Trailways, but I could be wrong, either way it was a bus. Not the most glamorous form of transportation but it will do. The lodging was taken care of, again by whom I don’t remember but we knew we were going to be close to the village and a car wasn’t really required. I really didn’t care, we were gonna have a case of booze and almost a week without parents. So we all hurried up and waited.

The time had finally arrived, we were all packed and ready to go. I think I had more booze than clothes in my suitcase. I was hoping that I packed it properly. The last thing I wanted was for my clothes to smell like Tequila, Vodka maybe but definitely not Tequila. We get to the bus station, find the ticket counter and buy our tickets to paradise. We get on the bus, it’s not too crowded but we learned the ride is going to take a bit more than three hours, more like four and change, so what we’re on our way. That just gave me more time to open the bible and start reading, getting quizzed and get some rest.

The bus ride went smoothly and dropped us off not too far from the motel. We go to the office, check in and go to our crash pad for the next five days. We get settled in, choose the sleeping arrangements and just relax. I go and check out the place. It’s nice from what I remember, a bit on the old side, not many amenities, but it was on the water and had a beach what more could we ask for. Well ½ naked women running around would have been nice, but we all know that wasn’t happening. So we settled for the view of the lake instead.

That day we spent going into town, eating lunch and just taking in the sights. And by sights I mean girls, which there was not much to choose from. We pick a family friendly place, now I thinking maybe we should have hit the Jersey shore. Next we had to go grocery shopping, get the essentials, limes, Coke, orange juice, pineapple juice, grapefruit juice, plastic cups and some munchies. We go into town we find a grocery store, it’s called the Price Chopper. Now it’s no Pathmark or ShopRite but it had to do. We go in, shop get what we need and then we decided to get some wine coolers. I have authentic New Your City fake ID, these people upstate wouldn’t know the difference, so I was confident that they would take it and we will be on our way.

The wine coolers were the last thing on the conveyor belt, the rest of the mixers were in the bag. The guy at check out wasn’t that much older than us, for sure he’s going to let us go, just ask for our ID, look at it and send us on our way. He mutters those famous words “ID please”. I take out my laminated piece of trickery and hand it over. He then asks “do you have anything else, a License?” I answer “no” and he says sorry but I can’t sell you the wine coolers. I say “no problem” but wouldn’t you know it a woman, probably in her mid twenties who was behind us said that she would buy it for us. You’re fucking kidding me, how lucky is this? She says that she understands, it’s happened to her and it’s no problem, it would be her pleasure. Well happy fucking day, it’s time to celebrate with our wine coolers and booze. We get back to the room and I’m mixing drinks like I know what I’m doing. Screwdrivers, Greyhounds, Madras and Tequila Sunrises, we are getting inebriated, quickly.

We wake up dry mouthed and hungry so we decide that we are in need of some breakfast. Now my memory is fuzzy about this but I remember that someone told us about a place, about a mile down the road called Grandma’s Kitchen. Now what better place to go eat morning food. In theory at least. In reality I don’t remember many great breakfasts at my grandmothers, dinners yes but breakfast not so much. But you get the idea, a nice warm country feeling restaurant, that served up a damn good breakfast. We went there had to wait a bit get a table and ordered all the food we could. Except Seth. Seth ordered a box of cereal, huh? Is that all his grandmother ever served him? Here we are the three of us eating pancakes, french toast, bacon, sausage, eggs, toast and coffee and there is Seth eating Frosted fucking Flakes. What could we do force feed him pancakes and syrup, nope, so we just let it be.

The next night we decide to hit the village and see whats what. We find a dance “club” that’s teen friendly. My ID is not going to work anywhere so we are now reduced to a teen club, no big deal. The place is thumping empty, it’s noisy but extremely empty, apparently there were no teens in Lake George on this evening. About a half hour goes by and then there they were, two or three girls that came in, dancing in a group, as girls always do. They dance, we dance, lets dance. And that’s what happened.

I think it was New Order’s Blue Monday that was pumping through the speaker, this girl, maybe 15 or 16 is dancing with Joe and I hear her talking, saying that she’s here with her parents, blah, blah, blah, do you have any alcohol? What? Did she ask if we have any alcohol? Joe says no, no we don’t have anything to drink, sorry. What the fuck did I just hear, he said no? We have enough booze to start a bar. Now I’m not sure why he said no, but he did. It was a little disappointing but what were we going to do, kidnap her and her friends? Nope. Should one of us gone up to her and say, um, our friend must have forgotten but we have plenty of alcohol in our room, care to join us? But I guess we didn’t want him to look bad and we didn’t have the balls to do that either. So we stayed a bit longer and then went back to the room, female-less. And then we drank.

Next morning we wake up and decide to go to Grandma’s Kitchen again. We make the mile or so walk to get some really good,cheap breakfast grub. It really was reasonable, not expensive at all. Again we order the menu, except Seth. You guessed it. Another Bowl of cereal. It was the cheapest thing on the menu, like less than two bucks, spend double that and you could get pancakes. I remember asking him, what the fuck gives, says that’s all he wanted to eat. Really? Who are we to argue with him? Seth watches as we devour our homemade breakfast, as he was always the first one finished eating. Over breakfast we discuss going to The Great Escape. Nothing mixes better than roller coasters and ½ digested pancakes and coffee.

We spent that day at the amusement park. What a great name for a place, amusement park. Think about it. Anyway we get back on a bus to go back to the motel, rest up and then start drinking. And boy did we drink. The four of us then headed out to dinner, I want to say we went to a pizza joint and then just hung out in the village. We are waling back to the room and we pass a Psychic/Tarot Card reader, which was located on the first floor of a house. This seems to amuse us to no end, we walk up, the place had a porch, and they’re not open. That bums Jason out a bit and then for what reason I don’t remember, Jason starts to do push ups on this porch of the Psychic’s place. Counting out loud how many he is achieving. We are all laughing hysterically, well except for the police officer who is standing there watching this in total amusement. We tell Jay to stop and he does, but what came next was priceless, Jay is hammered, and he tells the cop, “I’m sorry occifer, it won’t happen again”. Yes he said occifer, it was brilliant. The occifer asked us what we were doing, I don’t remember the response, but he asked us to get off the porch and keep it down and be on our way. Yes, sir. Sorry sir, Thank you sir. We clammed up and made it back to the room without another run in with the law.

We kept drinking, and I was putting on the pressure for everyone to do Tequila shots. Jason said he couldn’t do another, but I taunted him enough that he agreed, but only if he could do it in the bathtub. You know that feeling, when you’ve had too much to drink and one more is going to make you puke. That is the feeling Jason must have had. He goes into the bathroom takes another shot and you guessed it, throws up. We are all laughing beyond control. This is a night that we would never forget.

The next morning we reminisced about the night before, laughed our ass off and then decided the go to breakfast, at where else, Grandma’s Kitchen. French toast, bacon, sausage, eggs, and you guessed it cereal. It is really starting to get on our nerves, he fucking ordered cereal again. We finish up and decide to spend a day on the lake. We rent a boat, and have some fun in the water. As anyone know spending a day on the water can be quite tiresome. We met some girls on the lake and they invited us to hang out with them, we said sure. Finally! There was only two of them but no worries, every man for themselves. We deliver the boat back to the rental slip and get ready to hang with our newly found female friends.

It ends up the girls were locals and lived there right in Lake George. We meet up with them, one of them had a boat, and they ask if we wanted to go out on the lake again. Sure, a boat we didn’t have to rent, absolutely. Well little did we know, that one of their dads would be along for the ride. This is not what was supposed to happen. Meet girls, yes. Bring parents along, no. I’m a bit disappointed but didn’t have the balls to back out. So now it’s four horny guys, two girls and one of their fathers. This is not a happy equation. It’s not like we could invite them back to the room to get sloshed. I’m sure her father knew the drill, shit I now know the drill. But back then it was a little deflating. He asked us if we wanted to try water skiing or knee boarding. Sure, what the hell.

I have never been water skiing or knee boarding before, but there is a first time for everything. I decide to go first. I’ll pass on the skiing, knee boarding sound a bit more my style. I was not the most athletic and did not master sports on the first try. I put on a life vest, jump in the water and take directions from the boat captain. You need to hold onto the rope, pull yourself up and out of the water with your elbows and onto the board, then strap yourself in. Sounds easy, but it did not happen. Try after try I was either getting pulled by the boat, water gushing into my nose. Not remembering to let go of the rope. I hogged my time, I seriously wanted to just get up on the board and get pulled bu this boat. I would get up but couldn’t hold it for long. I totally sucked. The rest of the guys were getting frustrated, pissed even, but I was determined. Well it didn’t happen, I get back on the boat thinking this is another sport on the list that I will never master.

That night for whatever reason, tension was running a bit high between the four of us. Be it lack of women, lack of wakeboarding, lack of breakfast or maybe we were just getting on each others nerves. We started making fun of each other, playful banter back and forth, occifer got mentioned several times. Then I hit a bit below the belt. Seth said something and I just went off. I brought up the whole cheapness, the cereal for breakfast and just him being a downer. In retrospect it was not fair, I should have not talked like that to one of my best friends, that was his shit to deal with, not mine, But that opened a can of worms. Jason and Joe chimed in as well. We wanted to get to the bottom of this cereal for breakfast thing. We all brought up just about the same amount of money, we were meant to spend it all, have fun and be care free with our money. But not Seth, he said he just didn’t want to spend all of his money. Huh? All? How about some? This went on for a few minutes, it hurt his feelings, that was not our intention. I felt bad, but it did feel good to get that off of out chests. This to shall pass, he’ll get over it. From what I remember he went home with $30 or $40. If that’s what make you happy, I can’t tell you differently.

The next day we were scheduled to leave. We gather all of our things. We must have had at least ½ of the case of alcohol left over. I’m sure I can find a way to get rid of it in the near future. We are a little quiet toward each other. But we need to eat, so we had on up the road to Grandma’s Kitchen. The whole walk there I am thinking, please Seth, please do not order cereal, for the love of all that is holy, please do not order fucking cereal. We get there sit down, order our drinks, coffee and juice. The waitress comes back and takes out order. It’s Seth’s turn, we are all anticipating cereal, just to spite us. But nope, he ordered real breakfast food, we all drew a sigh of relief and laughed. We ate our final breakfast at the lake and Seth did not leave anything on his plate. I couldn’t think of a better way to end our trip.

Po-white

The Vice President of the company I worked for is at the back of the room, talking to our Regional Manager. I know what they are talking about, I have had my suspicions for months now. We are waiting for everyone to get here, talking amongst ourselves, chatting about the inevitable. The regional robot talks about how sad this is, how we are a ll valuable and wishes us luck in our future endeavors. Then the Vice President gets up and says that companies make mistakes, we are closing this market, but we are growing our company in other major markets. If anyone wanted to stay with the company we should see him at the end of this meeting.

Most people were done, didn’t want to move their family, they were happy where they were. I on the other hand wanted to get out, we needed a change, because living in the tourist capital of the world wasn’t fun anymore. The meeting comes to an end, I walk up the the V.P. And we have a brief discussion. I could choose where I wanted to go. Really? That was a great offer, but for me some of the locations had automatic catches.

I’m from New York and a huge Yankee fan, so relocating to a place that had Fenway Park and Yankee haters that were overflowing like a crock of baked beans, Boston was out of the question. Another choice was Pittsburgh. Need I say more. While I’m sure Pittsburgh is a wonderful city, I was there on a road trip in college and had a great time, I didn’t think Pittsburgh was the right fit for us. Next option was the Washington D.C/Richmond,VA area. We had family that lived in the D.C. area, so I decided to do more research.

I book a flight from Orlando to Dulles and also book a rental car online. My flight had a layover in Atlanta, no big deal, I got a cheap flight, what did I expect. Well that layover ended up being a four hour delay. I don’t get into Dulles until 10:45pm. Then I have to get my bag and catch a shuttle to the rental car facility. Luckily they are still open, but there is a line and everyone is on a cell phone telling everyone on the other end that they are running late, myself included. I finally get to the counter with all my vitals and then what happens next really pissed me off.

The man behind the counter informs me that my credit card is declined and that they will not give me a car but rather a free ride back to the terminal to catch a cab to where I need to go. I said that there is a mistake, I booked it online 2 days earlier, ask him to swipe the card again, he refuses tells me that no company is going to rent me a car. I am not the most patient person on the planet, some would even say that I have a short fuse. I have spent years in customer service, I know the drill, so I ask for the manager. He says he is the only one on duty and there is nothing I can do about it. He says get out, he needs to help the next customer. I am now screaming profanities (yes, I know I should not have been doing that, but I was fucking pissed). We will see about this.

I take my bag, walk outside and see another, more famous (if you can be famous in the rental car business), company right next door. I walk through the gates, get to the counter and ask the woman what the most expensive car they have on the lot right now, because that’s the one I want (knowing in the back of my head that I am not going to pay for it). She looks at me as if I were crazy and asks me why. I tell her the whole story, and she said, that is crazy and the most expensive on the lot right now is a big giant SUV. I’ll take it. She runs my credit card and guess what, it was approved! I fill out all the necessary forms and I’m on my way.

The next stop, the original rental car place. I pull up, walk in and ask him how does he like them apples, asshole! I then get all of his vitals and I start making phone calls at midnight no less. Well there is no customer service agents that can help me with my specific issue at this time of night but I’m informed that they will take down my information and someone will get back to me tomorrow morning. OK, sure, yeah right, you’ll get back to me, ha! I’m now on my way to my sister-in-laws house and have a strange felling that I’m going to get lost. I don’t like driving to new places at night. You’re not sure where you’re going and the lighting always sucks where you need it most. Try driving on the Beltway, that merges and merges and merges, at midnight with shitty directions. This day has to end.

I arrive almost 6 hours past my scheduled arrival, get ready to go to bed and then out like a light. I wake up the next morning have some coffee and no shit, my cell phone rings. I check the caller ID and it’s someone I don’t know, I answer it and I can’t believe it, It’s the shitty rental car company. The man on the other end is from their “Presidential Customer Care” division. He wanted to know everything again, I reiterate the story and he says he will get back to me with in the next few hours. Sure he will. I am now looking at different apartment brochures, trying to figure out a plan. After talking to my sister-in-law’s husband I decide that the DC area is way overcrowded and way out of line when it comes to rent and the cost of living. He told me he has to drive eleven miles to his office and it takes him about 35-45 minutes. Thanks but no thanks.

So I decide to head on down to Richmond. A mere ninety miles, the Capital of the South (well at least back in the day), this is going to be an adventure. This is before GPS was standard in cars, this was a you-need-to-mapquest-everything-and-then-get-lost-and-ask-for-directions kind of adventure. Sounds fun right? Well it was to me, but I must tell you, I hate, and I mean hate getting lost. Now I know you’re not really lost, just temporarily off track, misplaced if you will. But for me that feeling of not knowing where the hell you are is not one I enjoy having. Back to my adventure. I decide to go to the furthest apartment first and then work my way back.

I get on the road and I’m driving South on 95, figuring out what the real speed limit, not the posted one. I hope you know what I mean. Well I get to Fredricksburg and the phone rings, I look to see who it is, low and behold, it’s the shitty rental car company. They did some research and found out that the guy I was dealing with at the counter wasn’t even a manger, her was the cleaning supervisor. No shit the fucking cleaning supervisor. They apologized and asked what they could do to make it up to me. Well I told them that taking care of the rental I’m driving would suffice. He said he would get back to me and did not think that would be a problem. I didn’t think so. Off to Richmond.

I get to Richmond, not thinking much of it because the views of most cities from 95 tend not to be the most picturesque and appealing. I find that I have to drive just a bit more to get to my first destination. I get off and drive down another parkway, I see rolling hills, trees, lots and lots of trees. It starts to remind me of parts of Westchester County (New York). I’m already liking it. I get off the exit I’m supposed to get off and travel down another long hilly road. I check the map and by the looks of it, I’m almost there. I see the lake that this apartment complex is talking about, make my turn and arrive at what I think will be our new home. I meet with a leasing agent, she shows me around, tells me about the amenities, and gives me an application and more reading material. I tell her I like this place, but have more to see and could she help me with directions. She said sure, I tell her where I need to go next and she tells me to avoid 95 and take the Powhite. She pronounced it Po-white, not Pow-hite. She also neglected to tell me that the Po-white is a toll road, but more on that in a bit.

I have no idea what a Powhite is. It sounds Native American, maybe something to do with Powhatan Indians. But right now I just need to find the Po-white Parkway to get to my next destination. I find it, get on the ramp for the direction I need to travel, completely neglecting to read the sign that says toll road. I am on the parkway for about 4 minutes and then I see a sign that say Toll Ahead. Ever since the invention of a debit card with a credit card logo, I do not carry cash. So now I begin to panic. It’s only a fifty cent toll, what are they going to do, throw me in jail? Nonetheless I still panic because I don’t want a ticket. I have no choice but to pull up to the cash lane and explain to the person in that cramped little booth that I’m not from these parts, using my best New York accent of course. I roll the window down, tell her I don’t have any money, I’m not from here and I’m just Po-white. I couldn’t believe what just came out of my mouth, I said I’m Po-white. The response was almost immediate, she looked at me laughing and said, “I’ve been doing this job for almost five years and I never heard that excuse, ever”. I ask her if that’s a good thing and she didn’t say anything, just threw fifty cents in the coin catcher and I was on my way.

Time Is Of The Essence

It all started when my wife was looking for a new position with a new company. The resumes were emailed and faxed. The follow up phone calls were being made. Phone interviews were being conducted. Lots and lots of phone interviews. After months of this frustrating process she lands a face to face interview with a company based in Chicago. Well, not in Chicago, but the greater Chicago-land area, the suburbs.

She flies back home, says the interviews went OK, not great, not horrible. She said she was not sure what would happen, they said they’d call. If anyone has ever been job hunting and you hear the “we’ll call you either way” you know what that means. Your life is now in limbo. Trying to carry on as usual, but a little tension and nervous energy start to flare up. When are they going to call? A week goes by, then two weeks, then three. Why say you’re going to call either way? To me no news is no news, whoever said it was good should reevaluate that statement. We just want to know something!

She finally gets the call. They offer her the position. She calls me and we discuss our options. They are one of the largest retail companies in the United States. The salary is good, the opportunity is good, the relocation package is great. We decide to take the job. The moment I hang up the phone with her I call our Realtor. Tell him we need to put the house on the market as soon as possible. He says no problem and within a few days our home was up for sale. In the mean time my wife is told she will be contacted by a relocation company and will get a relocation packet in the mail. They want her to start in less than one month. Now is the time to get all of our ducks in a row and make things happen.

Enter Bob, the relocation Realtor. Bob was given to us by the relocation company. Bob was an “expert” in the market. He said he knew all the ins and out of the suburbs and would help us find a new home in the town we were looking to live in. He said he had great negotiating skills and has been in Real Estate for over twenty years, we should be confident and at ease with such experience in our corner. And in the beginning we were.

Our house sold in less than ten days, for exactly what we were asking (this was right before the housing market took a huge dump). So now we really had to get moving to find a hose in our new city. My wife had to be at her new job very shortly and she was going to stay at some sort of extended stay close to her office. After work she would go with Bob, the relocation guru, house hunting. We gave Bob our criteria, price, size, neighborhood and vicinity to her new office. Bob was on our side, taking her around, giving his “expert” advice and showing her lots of homes.

But he wasn’t showing her homes that we could afford, but with his expert negotiation skills we could certainly get them down to where we needed to be. A week goes by, still no progress on the home front. I’m calling her ever day, what have you seen today? Going online, virtually tracking every house they have looked at. Her telling me that Bob says you don’t want to live over the river, too much traffic in the morning. Bob says we can negotiate, don’t worry. My wife has to worry about starting a new job and is not thinking all to clearly at this point. Our house is sold and we need to move in less than thirty days. It was time for me to take the reigns and speak to Bob.

After talking to Bob for a good amount of time, I lost all confidence in Bob. Bob was a talker, not a listener. If you are in sales and I have been in sales most of my adult life, it’s the listener that gets the sale, not the talker. I kept on asking him questions, but didn’t seem to be getting answers. I hung up the phone with Bob and got right on the phone with my wife to ask her opinion. We agreed it would be best for me to come there next weekend to go house hunting and to get Bob on our page and time line. My first trip to the Windy City, how bad could it be.

This weekend we had to buy a hose, no ifs ands or buts about it. Our house is sold, we have a closing date and need to move. My wife living in an extended stay in a far away place. We need to get our shit together and it needs to be done now. There is nothing like putting pressure on yourself to find a new place to call home in less than 48 hours. If you have ever bought a home you know what I mean. This time this was more of a business transaction, rather than finding the perfect home, with the right driveway, the proper plot of land, the picket fence and two car garage. We just needed a place to live that was in our price range and relatively close to her new job. Not a difficult task, we are giving you easy money Bob, just fucking listen.

It’s Friday morning, I get on a plane and a couple of hours later land in my new hometown, but without a house to live in. My wife picks me up at the airport, we go to the hotel and search through houses on the internet. Bob has called and we make our way up to see the great negotiator. His office is in a very affluent town in the North West suburbs. I reiterate to him what we need and that we need to take care of this situation this weekend. I tell him by the time I get back on a plane Monday morning, I want a contract on a house. Period.

We go house hunting all day, look at cookie cutter home after cookie cutter home. Bob really has no idea where he is going. He is checking maps, looking at street signs, calling listing agents for directions. I am not happy. This man has no idea what kind of temper I have and what thoughts are going through my head. Bob you really are a douche bag, Bob you really are such an asshole, Bob you really should go fuck yourself, Bob, Bob, Bob. Well, we finally see a house that we like. The right size, the right plot of land, on a cul-de-sac, quiet neighborhood and a great distance to her new office. We do the discussion sans Bob. We decide to make an offer, Bob sounds happy and we go back to his office.

This is not out first real estate transaction. I am familiar with the offer process. You offer lower than the asking price with room for negotiation. We offer a bit lower than the asking price and blah blah blah, yadda yadda yadda. Then we get to the most pivotal part of the contract. The when we need an answer section. He asks me, I tell him twenty four hours. He stops, looks at me like I have my dick hanging out of my pants, and says “we don’t do things like that in Chicago, maybe where you come from that’s common practice but it’s not the Chicago way”. Really? I mean really? You can’t be serious. I ask what do you say then, and he says we put “time is of the essence”.

Now that phrase is subject to broad interpretation. My time is going to be completely different than the sellers, I guarantee it. I let Bob know this and he is quite assuring that we will get an answer sooner rather than later. I go outside to have a cigarette and call my Realtor back in Virginia. I tell him the situation and he says it sounds a bit off, but maybe this is the way they do things in Chicago. So now we are hurrying up to wait once again. We go back to the hotel, Bob calls us to tell us they received the offer and we should be hearing something soon. Maybe they do understand time is of the essence.

It’s now early evening and still no counteroffer. We decide to go have dinner and a few drinks, take the edge off and fill our bellies. Well still nothing, no communication, no answers. We call Bob, Bob said he has no idea how long this is going to take, but he will call the agent and find out. Bob did not call back, and he tells us “we can wait till tomorrow”. I say absolutely not, we want an answer tonight, yes or no, that’s it. Nothing. We got nothing. So what do we do? We give Bob an ultimatum, get an answer tonight. Well, no answer led to the inevitable. We fire Bob. Bob did you hear that, were you listening, you’re fucking fired. That’s the New York way. How you like them apples mother fucker. That’s my time is of the essence.

Now we painted ourselves into a very tight corner. No realtor, no contract and no house to live in. So what do we do? We scour the internet searching for a Real Estate office that opens early on a Sunday. The early bird gets the worm, well at least a nice commission. We find one that’s open early, and is in the town that we would like to live in. Tomorrow is going to be a good day, as long as no one says time is of the essence. I try to sleep, tossing, turning and waiting for morning to come.

The morning finally arrives and we head out, grab something to eat and make our way to the real estate office. We enter the office, which is located in a strip mall, everything is located in a strip mall out these parts and are greeted by the receptionist. We tell her that we want to buy a house, today. She said since no one was in the office she is going to have to make some phone calls to see who will be available to come in to help us. This is where I interrupt her and say “look we have been through hell and back with our previous master of negotiations, Bob, so lets just cut to the chase and get me your bulldog”. She explains that she has to follow protocol and go down “the list”. Finally she is talking to someone, tells her the situation, then proceeds to ask us to have a seat, Sharon will be with you shortly.
Sharon does not sound like the name of a bulldog, but our hands are tied at the moment, so we hurry up and wait.

A car pulls up and out gets a tiny middle-aged woman who looks like a 7th grade English teacher, walks in the office and leads us to a conference room, where we sit and tell her the entire story. The first thing she said is, “did he really tell you that we don’t ask for answers to contracts within 24 hours?”. We talked a bit more and I now realized that we have the bulldog that we were looking for. After spending an hour in her office going over the homes that we have already seen with Bob, she narrows it down to a few homes we never saw and we head out the door.

Talking to Sharon in the car we learn that she knows the area like the back of her hand. Knows what builders to avoid, knows what an SSA tax is and what homes we can get a deal on. Knowing that our time is really of the essence, we go from house to house, making an immediate assessment the moment we walk in the door. No to this and no to that, maybe we could live with that, but can’t live without this. Now this went on for a few hours, and we look at one final house. The realty sign outside says I’m Beautiful Inside. Now I can definitely relate. The house wasn’t bad on the outside by any means, but the inside did amaze us. We talk it over and put an offer in and what do you know, we got our answer in less than 24 hours. I go back home the following day with the weight of a home off of my shoulders.

Believe it or not Bob called about a week later to say that the owner of the house that we put an offer on had gotten back to him and he wanted to know if we were still interested in making that deal happen. I asked Bob if he was “fucking kidding me” and then proceeded to tell him to take his “time is of the essence and shove it up his ass the Chicago way”.

It’s All In The Delivery

It’s All In The Delivery

If you think this is a story about comic timing, you’re right. But it’s not your average story about how to tell a joke, or add proper inflection in your voice to make things sound funny. It’s about waiting for my first child to be born. And by waiting I mean standing there in total fear and amazement. Because when you are having a baby, you have to hurry up and wait.

My son, who is now seven, is the most wonderful child ever. I know, I know, everyone has the most wonderful kid, but mine truly is the most wonderful. I know, I’m biased, but I also see the kids that he goes to school with and by far, he is heads above the rest. He is kind and considerate of others. He is always willing to help and doesn’t think twice about sharing. But this was not always the case. He did not want to come out, he wanted to stay in his happy place.

People with children and people who are expecting children will understand this next part. No offense to people who don’t have kids, yet, but try to put yourself in out shoes for a brief moment. Think back to High School and you were waiting for your SAT scores to come in the mail. Do they still come in the mail? Anyway, that excited, nervous, anticipatory feeling you got is kind of like waiting for a child to be born. You are hurrying up to wait for the inevitable.

“I’m pregnant”, those words really do change the way you think, the way you conduct yourself for the rest of your life. Especially when you hear them for the first time in your life. So many thoughts ran through my head all within a few seconds. The first one that I remember is HOLY SHIT! Followed by You’re kidding. Now remember this is what went on in my head, not out loud. How it came out was Really? Are you sure? We should go to a professional, we need a doctor. Yes, I know captain obvious strikes again.

A few days go by and my wife’s co-worker recommends a practice and a specific doctor. We (and by we I really mean she) call and make an appointment. Apparently it is one of the busiest practices where we live and are lucky to get in. Now as a man I am about to embark on a new adventure, the waiting room of an OBGYN. I have never been to one but can only assume that there will be absolutely no Sports Illustrated, Baseball Weekly or anything resembling a men’s magazine on the premises. And to my recollection I was right. What was in the waiting room? Pregnant women, lots of pregnant women. And none of them looked blissfully happy to be there either. I felt like I was getting the evil eye from some of them. After all it was my kind that put them in a waiting room at 10:30am on a Tuesday. Sorry ladies it take two to do the horizontal hora.

Well the doctor confirmed what we knew, that a baby is on the way. The doctor was very nice, warm and seemed genuinely concerned for my wife and our unborn child. I felt comfortable knowing that this man was going to help us through the next nine months. After that visit we did what every expectant parent does, we hit the bookstore. Yes, the bookstore, I mean you want to be educated about every aspect of this life changing process. We bought books, searched eBay at two in the morning for used copies, because you now have to be fiscally responsible, you have a child on the way. The there was the prenatal vitamins, everyday making sure she took all the vitamins she had to take, I was being the vitamin Nazi. I was calling to make sure she took the vitamins, knowing damn well that she was, but you get nuts when you’re expecting. “Expect to Lose Your Mind When You Are Expecting”, that’s what they should call that book, not “What to Expect When You’re Expecting”. Unless you want to be more confused, do not read that book.

Fast forward to Lamaze. Yes we signed up for Lamaze classes. Now unless you don’t know, women have been giving birth since the dawn of time, so a class on how to breathe and relax during this process is futile to say the least. We go with an open mind, we want to learn all there is to know. Having a “birth plan”, what the fuck is that? Yes my wife plans of giving birth, as far as the plan goes, it’s to get to the hospital as fast as possible. We opted for drugs, and that does not make the Lamaze coach (drill sergeant) happy. Did I really give two shits if I was offending anyone, no. That was our birth plan, get as high as possible so you didn’t feel the pain. But we still went to these classes, for what reason I have no idea. There were people taking notes for Christ’s sake. I was cracking jokes, making wise-ass remarks and getting evil looks from the Lamaze Nazi and the note takers. So maybe that’s why we went, so I could one day write about how funny it was and how ridiculous it all seemed back then.

Then unexpectedly we hit a major bump in the road. My wife was having complications and needed to be on bed rest. Now I’m totally freaking out. Oh and that’s not all. Our caring, compassionate, concerned for my wife and unborn child doctor also informed us that he will not be here for the remainder of the pregnancy. I’m sorry, what the fuck did you just say? Yes, you heard right. This was like the movie Knocked Up, way before Knocked Up ever made it to a theater. Now I’m pissed, this guy knew my name, he knew everything about us and our unborn child. Now what the fuck are we supposed to do? How do you ask “OK doc, who’s like you in this practice?” and “why the hell are you leaving us?, don’t you know we have abandonment issues? you fucking prick”. But we were nice and didn’t want to rock the boat and took his recommendation.

Oh, I almost forgot the reason he was leaving, he had to go on a mission, not like a mission impossible mission, but a Mormon Church mission to France. A fucking Mormon mission to France? During our first pregnancy? You couldn’t tell us that in the beginning? I was duped, because he wasn’t wearing a crisp white short sleeved button down shirt with a black tie and name tag that had the Church Of Jesus Christ Of Latter Day Saints on it. No he was dressed like a normal person, I felt completely violated. So my trust level for any doctor has now sunk to a new low.

Back to his recommendation for the replacement. He was cold, never remembered our names, he was very clinical and methodical. Every visit was the same, this is how big you are, this is how along you are, this is how much your baby grew, see you next time. He was the exact polar opposite of what we had in our French Mormon mission doctor. We were not happy, but had no choice. Time to hurry up and wait for the baby to arrive.

Well the due date has come and gone. We are trying everything to get this baby out and I do mean everything. Walking, sex (I applaud my wife for allowing that one to happen), more walking and more sex. Still no baby on the way. We are now about a week overdue. We go see Dr. personality and he says if it does not come soon (like within the next few days) he will schedule an induction. Now as far as I know this should have been an easy process, you call the hospital and set it up, then the baby comes. But not for us. The hospital was booked. OK how the fuck is a hospital booked, it’s a special hospital mind you, one for women and children only. But there were no openings (trust me I called the hospital directly) and we had to wait for an opening, like this was some highfalutin restaurant. Again we were hurrying up to wait.

We finally get the call, on this date please be there at 2am. 2am? Are you fucking kidding me? But we have no choice in the matter, we show up at 1:30am, we’ll show them. What are they gonna do make us wait? Yes, we waited. We finally get a room, my wife is getting hooked up will all sorts of buzzers and

bells. I was just sitting there watching taking this all in, learning what every beep and electronic sound meant. I was a smoker back then, and let me tell you I smoked a cigarette every 15 minutes. I was beyond stressed. They give my wife the epidural, she starts to get numb where she needs to be numb and now I’m hoping that the dole out drugs to the expecting fathers just to keep us calm, but you and I both know the answer to that.

We are now on our way to having a baby, all signs are looking good, then, a loud beeping sound is blaring from the heart monitor (see I was paying attention). I am now slowly freaking out, a nurse runs in and checks what she needs to check and things go back to normal. I go have a cigarette, come back up and there goes that annoying beeping again. More nurses this time and the beeping is louder, which is not a good sign by any beeping standards. I am standing in a corner, helpless, not knowing what to do, asking myself, where the fuck is Dr. personalty. Seriously get this man in here now. The nurses are moving my wife, who cannot feel anything below the waist, from her back to her front, putting her on all fours, making sure the baby is fine. I’m still standing in the corner, wanting to light up a cigarette right there. Finally I here the doctor is on his way, meanwhile there is banter about an emergency c-section. They are asking me and my wife if that is OK. Really? Seriously? Yes, yes and yes, please get our baby out! But we are still waiting, this time for the doctor.

The doctor arrives, does the usual poking and prodding, the head nurse gives him the synopsis and he turns to me, as serious as can be and says “we are taking this baby naturally”. He was as calm as I have ever seen anyone in a crazy war like situation. He was in the trenches and looked like he was playing a round of golf. I actually felt calm for the first time in hours. My son was ready to finally enter this world, but he was “stuck”. The doctor looks and says “I need your help, are you OK?”. “Yes, what do you need”. The doctor “I need you to hold your wife’s legs and count to ten and tell her to push, can you do that?” I answer “Yes”. The waiting is finally over.

I am now Lamaze Nazi Drill Sergeant Father To Be Steven. Legs in arm, counting to ten like I have never counted before, yelling push harder at the top of my lungs. I see my son! He’s almost out! He’s almost there and then all of a sudden, among all the grossness he finally enters the world! Then I look at my wife, she is sweating, her eyes have almost popped out of her head and I’m standing there with her legs in my arms, I look back down and notice that my son’s head is pointy. Very pointy. This worries me, the nurse notices me looking at him and says that’s normal he has been in the canal a long time, everything will be fine. I breathe a sigh of relief, turn to the doctor and say these exact words, “looks like he could give Dan Aykroyd a run for his money”. The doctor, I shit you not, started laughing, it was the first time I ever saw him crack a smile let alone laugh. I thanked him and he was out the door. This time it really was all in the delivery.

Liberals Wear Argyle Too

Liberals Wear Argyle Too

Growing up in the Northeast part of the United States, specifically the New York Metropolitan area you could almost tell what someone’s political view was by the way they dressed. Now remember I did say almost. But conservatives dressed, well, conservative. Liberals dressed different, more flowing, not as buttoned up, you get the idea. To this day, most of the time, I can figure out what people’s views are by the way they dress. It’s the first thing I look at. Not the hair, not the eyes, but the clothes. I call it label profiling.

I have lived in other states, visited many different parts of the country and apparently my radar only works in the Tri-State area. Let’s take Florida for example. It’s tropical, hot and humid most of the year. You are not going to see many people wearing suits, sweaters, corduroys or flannel. What you see are shorts, lots and lots of shorts. Shirts and ties, but the tie is usually loosened and the shirt-sleeves are generally rolled up. Then there are the men who wear short sleeve dress shirts, with a tie. Typically this look will date someone or they are selling used cars or are in some other fast talking profession. Have you ever seen the younger population wear that? Not unless they were on bikes wearing a short sleeve crisp white shirt, with a black tie, a name tag, knocking on your door asking you if you would like to talk about the latter day saints. I never wanted to talk about the latter day saints, but always wanted to ask them about their matching attire. Was it required to wear to become a member? But I never asked so I’ll never know.

So I’m still in Florida, trying to figure out views through the clothing, which proved to be difficult. Enter Tommy Bahama. This was the epitome of conservative dress for Florida. Tommy Bahama? Conservative? Yes. I was at the mall roaming endlessly in the cool confines of a million square feet, when I pass a store that I have never seen before. The sign above the door was a script font in matte gold and it read Tommy Bahama. The place looked like a Bahamian beach house. I walk in, look around, watching the people who are coming into this faux hut, they are the 40+ crowd, look a bit well to do, searching the racks for conservative island wear. I look at the clothes, see the price tags, and I’m totally offended. Ugly Hawaiian shirts for $100, are they out of their fucking minds? Now instead of running out of there screaming I peruse their trouser collection, $90 for a pair of chinos? How relaxed do you have to be to buy this shit. Needless to say I was not their core audience. So now I see people wearing this expensive “Luxury Island Wear”, thinking to myself, you stupid fuck, you just spent $100 on a Conga Bongo shirt and it’s tucked into your $90 chinos. You must be conservative because a liberal would never waste that much money on something that makes you look like a reject from the Love Boat.

From Florida we make our way back up the East Coast to Richmond, Virginia. The Civil War Capital of the South. I’m a Yankee in Rebel Territory. We have never lived in the “South”, didn’t know anyone there and I looked forward to more label profiling. The South is very tricky. I couldn’t tell a conservative from a liberal, ever. The south is conservative by nature and most people that I met were Right wing Republican. Where Rush is Right, and Fox News is Fair and Balanced. Was I completely out of my element, absolutely. Did I get along with people from the South, surprisingly yes. Now not everyone I met wasn’t a die hard conservative, but all seemed to lean a bit to the right. Which is OK by me, I’m just more concerned about what they’re wearing. And they were wearing all sorts of frocks. T-shirts, jeans, work boots, ropers, sneakers, fishnets, sundresses, oxfords, chinos, suits, dresses and everything else you could imagine, but none of them screamed conservative or liberal. I gave up label profiling in the South. So I assumed and yes, I know what assuming does, everyone was conservative unless they stated otherwise. Luckily, I did not see much Tommy Bahama, so that made the South a bit more pleasurable.

Now if one was to label profile me, you would think I’m conservative. My wardrobe consists of Ralph Lauren, Ralph Lauren and Ralph Lauren. I do have some non-Ralph clothing, but for me it’s Polo all the way. I will be a preppy for life, but does that make me a conservative, no. It depends on how you “wear” the clothes. I rarely tuck in my shirts, my sleeves are almost always rolled up and 80% of the time I will have a baseball hat on (yes, I own several Polo hats too). I love argyle, socks and sweater vests in particular. But I’m liberal, now I’m not the bleeding heart version, but I don’t have many contemporary conservative views. If you wanna marry the same sex, go right ahead. You want to fuck a goat, go ahead, just go do it in private (I’m sure if Anne Coulter read this her head would be spinning right now.) The world will not end and we won’t be consumed by fire and brimstone. Bill Maher and John Stewart make sense to me, they are logical and that’s what we need in this illogical world. Liberals do wear Argyle too.

Booger Boy

Booger Boy

Have you ever made fun of someone behind their back for a nasty habit? Sure, we all have. Have you ever done it to their face? Maybe. Over and over and over again? Probably not. Now ask a child that same question, better yet ask your inner child. Go back to when you were in Kindergarten through Third grade, you might know what I’m talking about. Now see if you can remember what it was that was so socially unacceptable. Was it the kid who wore the same clothes 3 days in a row? Was it the type of Lunch Box that child had? Was it the kid who occasionally peed in his pants? The smelly kid? Or was it the kid that picked his nose and ate it? Either way this kid exists in every Elementary School. And in my elementary school, I was the Booger Boy.

Not only was I the Booger Boy, I was also the new kid. What a better way to be socially accepted, brand new (in the middle of the school year no less) with a disgusting nose digging habit. But what did I know, my dad was a nose digger, we do what we see and I did what I saw. So now I’m the new nose-picker-booger-slurper in class. I don’t really remember when the onslaught started, or who started it, but it came and it was relentless. On the playground, at the bus stop, in the classroom, it was ewww booger boy, ewwww he ate it! Apparently I was so enthralled with clearing my nostrils it did not matter in the moment. But later on it did take a toll on my psyche. Think about a thing that would make any kid feel awkward, I felt times ten. So anyone who would talk to me I was totally OK with. Enter the other new kid.

We had another new kid who was right off the boat from Japan, literally, not a lick of English. Surely you can make fun of someone who doesn’t speak the native language. I mean he wouldn’t understand anything you were saying. Plus, that would be one less kid making fun of me, wooohoo! So, yes the other new kid did not make fun of me. I actually helped him learn a bit of English, and no, booger and nose picker were not any of the words I taught him. I spent the rest of that year trying not to pick my nose in public. But occasionally I would relapse and a finger would find it’s way in the nostril.

Something I have always wondered, how much nostril juice do kids have? What was my aversion to tissues? Was I afraid of blowing my ears out? Did I enjoy being teased relentlessly? To most of these questions I hold no answers. What I do know is that I was (and maybe in some peoples eyes still) the Booger Boy from Second Grade. It’s not something that I ever wanted to admit, ever. Someone once asked me if I remember what I was called back then, I lied, said I have no idea what they were talking about. I was ashamed, and didn’t want to bring old boogers back to the surface.

So why talk about it now? It’s fucking funny. I have learned a long time ago that if it don’t kill you it only makes you stronger. I know it’s a bit cliché but it resonates. One thing I want everyone to take away from this story is not pity, or regret, but humor. Laugh with me, and know that I’m laughing with you.

Bridge & Tunnel 2 (Jersey, The Other Side)

Jersey…..The other side of the River

When it comes to dating in NYC, New Jersey, as opposed to The Islands is a bit of a touchy subject. It’s all about location, location, location. As in what part of Jersey do they reside. But, it also depends on what part of the city you reside in and in what proximity to the PATH train/NJ Transit you live. Like I said, location, location, location. There are so many different degrees to this equation, that when you meet someone and ask that very important question “where do you live”, you have to decipher, in almost nanosecond speed, the logistics of how do I get there. If you don’t, are not familiar with this or have never encountered this before you are in for a real ride.

Again you are in your favorite bar/club in Manhattan, it’s a Thursday evening, you’re drinking socializing and flirting. Someone catches your attention you strike up a conversation and then WHAM! You find out they’re from Jersey. Now depending on you family (almost everyone from NY has some family that migrated to New Jersey) you are a bit educated about the State of New Jersey. The cliched thing to say is “what exit” , not like you really know where that puts you on the map. I mean there’s the Garden State Parkway and The New Jersey Turnpike, so which one are they referring to? They tell you Basking Ridge and you say “is that anywhere near Parsippany?”. Trying to sound knowledgeable about the location and also, because you have a cousin that lives there you can almost figure out the proximity to where they live. They say “it’s about ½ and hour away”, now you know that Parsippany is about an hour or so away, so now you decide whether or not to continue the pursuit. Depending on the distance the same 2-3 scenarios would apply (for an explanation please see Bridge & Tunnel).

They come into the city, go to a bar/club almost on a regular basis (Thursday, Friday or Saturday), meet someone that is living in the city, then what? Do they think damn, why do they have to be living in the city. Do they realize that I live in the bowels of Jersey? I am not gonna be coming here all the time, they are gonna have to come to my place to prove themselves to me. Do I tell them that I live in Jersey? Now this last bit is tricky, I have encountered this. It’s the I’m from NY thing, that some Jersey dwellers use on unsuspecting prey. They say they’re from NY, and hope that you leave it alone. Get to kow you, good vibes are happening and then all of a sudden you ask for a number and SMACK, there’s a 201, not a 212 area code. What the fuck just happened? It might even be a 609 and now you are thoroughly confused and pissed. What do you do? (refer to the 3 scenarios once again).

Now if they live in Hoboken or Jersey City and you don’t live in BFE Queens or the nether regions of Brooklyn, this relationship may have a fighting chance. The Hoboken/Jersey City dweller is someone who is rent conscious, doesn’t mind the short commute to mid-town and can be at your place in less than an hour. Not too bad for living across the river.

So beware of the Bridge and Tunnel crowd. They look the same and in some cases act the same, but by no means are they the same. They creep into the city, use a parking garage, or worse yet take up valuable street parking. You have been warned!

Bridge & Tunnel

Bridge & Tunnel

For those of us who grew up in and around NYC (and by around I mean Westchester County), there was a silent rule, a code if you will, avoid dating someone from The Islands. Long and Staten to be more precise. It is such a headache, a pain in the ass to see them. The traffic, the accents and yes people from The Islands have different NY accents and totally different mentalities. The everything is better here mentality, you wouldn’t know ’cause you’re not from here mentality, the once a week you go there, they come to you mentality. Who wants that type of fucking relationship. Well if it’s just fucking, that’s another story.

You meet someone in a bar or a club, you start to talk to them asking the obligatory questions, blah blah blah, what do you do, where do you live, OK stop right there. If you did not ask that within the first 5 minutes of meeting someone you have opened a can of Bridge and Tunnel. You would know whether or not this conversation would cease or proceed. If they said they live on The Island, that is your cue to exit, stage left. Pick an excuse or pick a multitude of excuses but just run the other way. The only thing to come out of The Islands are Guido/etts Maximus and Uber Yentas. Please see any Gotti Boys episode and you will know what I’m talking about. As far as the Uber Yenta thing goes, I went to college with a girl who had a name plate and it said, I shit you not :Jewish Princess. Yes these are all tell tale signs that it’s time to get ill, literally.

Now if you did not ask that question in a timely manner, got to know them, did a little bump and grind, and you now see it’s 3:30am. You ask her if you can take her home and she says “I live on the Island” or “I’m here with my friends, we live on Staten Island”. There is nothing that can bring you down at 4am faster than those boner deflating phrases. You have now wasted valuable time and money.

There are now two scenarios(well maybe three, but if you did three you needed your head examined):

1.She says it’s OK, we can go to your place. Which is still a dilemma, she is now going to know where you live. And you know that some chicks from the Islands can be a bit psycho, look at Amy Fisher for crying out loud.

2. Tell her you had a great time ask for her number and give her yours. Hoping that she calls you because it’s long fucking distance. Now with this scenario it’s easy to get out of, losing the number, not answering the phone, funeral, swine flu, etc. But if you go back to the same bar/club the in the upcoming weeks, you now have to do the avoi-dance. But only for a short amount of time, or you just never go back there again because they allow Bridge & Tunnel people inside.

3.You agree in your drunken-horned up-state of mind to go to The Island, either one, you don’t care you are drunk and horny. You get there you get your thing on, pass out and then wake up and realize you are not in your place. You are hungover, your mouth is fuzzy and realize you now have to get back to reality and you have no idea how to get there. Do you call a cab, ask her for a ride, or just leave and figure it out on your own. Either way you’re fucked and hopefully a lesson has been learned.

Jersey is next…………….

Mommy Dearest

When my parents would fight, and that was quite often, my mother would threaten my father that she was going to take the kids and never come back. So instead of leaving for good, she would take me (and sometimes my brother) to the movies. This happened often, and it was a way for me to see movies, lots of movies, late at night. Like an 11:30 showing of Mask or a midnight showing of The Right Stuff. But the one that sticks out the most is Mommie Dearest. If you have never seen this movies please run out and get it. If you think you’re a bad parent, watch this movie. Chances are you’re not, but that’s your shit to deal with if you are.

That night my parents had a huge blowout over what I don’t remember, but they always fought about something that made no sense to me as a child. It was 1981, I was almost 11 years old and have become used to leaving late at night and watching a movie to help my mother get her point across to my father. We were going to see Mommie Dearest, if I remember correctly it was a 10pm-ish movie time. Mind you I had no idea who Joan Crawford was, and was told she was an actress from the past. With popcorn and soda in hand, we enter the near empty theater.

While watching this movie I learn that Joan Crawford was a great actress, she adopted a daughter (I’m adopted!) and then proceeded to be an uber bitch to everyone around her (quite like my mother, in my 11 year old mind). It was the first movie I saw in the theater that used the work “fuck”. Now mind you I have heard that word my whole life, I even used it when I was about 5 or 6 and subsiquently ate a bar of Ivory soap, but to hear the f word coming from a movie, that was just awesome! Joan was just shitty to everyone around her. Her daughter in particular. Beating her with wire hangers, making her scrub the bathroom floor and an onslaught of other abuses children should not have to go through. Little did I know that I was going through one of them just by sitting there watching a movie. But that’s a whole other story.

I’m getting very tired, struggling to stay up and watch the ending, because all movies have happy endings when you’re 11. Well it really depends on what you consider a happy ending at this point, the daughter is all sorts of fucked up later on in life. Drugs, sex, getting kicked out of school and anything else she could do to make her mother’s life miserable. So, the end of the movie finally gets here and she is now giving a speech for her mother, who ended up in a pretty shitty situation herself, alone, almost broke and all used up. Which at the time made me feel happy, sick that an 11 year old should feel happy about someone else’s misery, but in my opinion she deserved everything she got. Think I had some unresolved issues?

The movies ends, I’m exhausted full of buttered popcorn and soda and as we are leaving my mom turns to me and says “see I’m not that bad”. I responded, “no you’re not”.