Tag Archives: New Jersey

News you can’t use.

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Because I’m helpful that way.

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This is a bridge too far. Seats have gotten smaller, food disappeared, we’re charged for baggage and extra leg room and there are more added fees than my phone bill. Now they want to weigh me? Screw you Finnair. If I want to visit Finland I’ll fly to Sweden first and drive. They invented the smorgasbord and don’t care how much I weigh.

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I’m sorry, but this is not news in my house.

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I would expect no less from New Jersey. It is home to the Sopranos after all.

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*Groan*

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This type of thing drives me nuts. I understand language is a living breathing entity that grows and must change with the times. When new technology is added to our world? Sure.. include it. But these entries?

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No.

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Let’s play.

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You don’t have to, but you should all the same.

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I’d have to say being a New Jersey fast talker.

I was born in Jersey and lived there until I was 15. I don’t look like Carmela Soprano or a blinged out housewife, no leopard print leggings or teased shellacked hair … but I did retain a bit of New Jersey twang in my speech (think dawg and cawfee) and I’m most definitely a fast talker.

Jersey people have places to go and people to dump in the Meadowlands swamp, we don’t like wasting time with slow conversation .

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How about you?

What stereotype do you embody.

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Let’s play.

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It won’t hurt, I promise.

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Sadly, I don’t remember a thing.

My maternal grandparents moved back to Austria before I was born and we never visited. My paternal grandfather died when my father was 10 years old, so I certainly never knew him. And though I was 3 when my paternal grandmother died, I have absolutely no memory of her either.

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I’m told this is a picture of her standing in the backyard rose garden of this house….

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But honestly, neither the person nor the house stir any warm fuzzies in my prefrontal cortex.

When my mother died almost a decade ago we took a trip back to my hometown in New Jersey. The state gets a bad rap, and though most of it is well deserved… there are some lovely areas scattered here and there and thankfully I grew up in one.

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We walked north of town…

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Along the river….

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And found my grandparent’s house.

Still in the thick of early grief for my mother, I stood outside this nicely restored and clearly well loved home and cried. The new owners saw me, came outside to investigate and warmly welcomed us … complete strangers! …. inside for a full three story tour.

Don’t believe everything you hear about people from Jersey. This couple was grace personified.

We exchanged stories and histories and they were very sweet to an only child who had just lost her mom. The new owners expressed interest in my old family photos of the house and I promised to email them when we got back home.

So while I don’t have any grandparent memories of this particular house?

I do have nice new memories of the compassionate and caring young couple who live there now…. and that’s fine with me.

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Going out on that limb again.

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Okay, I know I said my last weird experience post was the finale but after I blogged them all… I realized it actually wasn’t. The following is what I wrote three months after my mother passed. Her wish was to be cremated but she never told me what to do with her ashes. Being an only child I agonized over the decision, but knew that part of her should rest somewhere in New Jersey where she spent some of the happiest years of her life. It was an emotional trip for many reasons, but what happened on this particular day really hit home.

Rivergirl

October 20, 2014

I knew….

The third day of our trip started much like the first. My husband was up before dawn and went downstairs for the free…. but barely edible… hotel breakfast. Think watery eggs and rubber sausage.

I took a shower and as I was getting dressed, realized I should do what I had been putting off.

The purpose of our trip was to bring my mother home and I’d been stalling with walks down memory lane. I knew I wanted to spread half of her ashes at the Jersey shore where we’d spent many happy summers. She always loved the sea.

I stood there in the hotel room, feeling sad… missing my mom…. and set about the gruesome physical task. There’s something surreal about holding the remains of your loved one in your hands. The weight of a lifetime.

Of course I started crying. Wondering if I was doing the right thing, doing what she would have wanted. The grief flooded over me like a wave…

And then, when the task was done and she was evenly divided, I smiled…. because I realized I had double baggied her and she would have loved that.

Remember her fondness for baggies?

After I wiped my tears, I reached for my purse which held my much needed makeup… and saw something on the table. The table that had been perfectly empty a half hour before when I stepped in the shower.

I gasped. And started crying again….

It was my mother’s white bobby pin.

She was such a pill about them. Would never use any other color and they’re harder to find than you might think. She hoarded them… and started fretting when she was running low. They were in every room of her apartment, in every pocket of every coat and every sweater she owned. She was never without them…

But I didn’t carry them. Ever. And I certainly didn’t pack one to take on the trip with us. Why would I? My husband didn’t put it there, he was downstairs eating breakfast. I suppose a random white haired maid could have snuck in and dropped it while touching up her ‘do when I was in the shower…. but I’m guessing the odds of that are pretty high.

There’s no reason on earth why a white Bobby pin should have been on that table… except one.

My husband walked in the room a few minutes later, saw me crying and looked lost.

He didn’t believe me when I told him…

But I knew.

I knew she was there with me.

I knew.

To this day I still can’t wrap my mind around what happened. A physical embodiment of spirit? Get the straight jacket ready and tidy up the rubber room, River is on her way.

It’s been 7 years since that crazy bobby pin appeared out of nowhere, and if I think about it too long I begin to doubt it happened at all. But then I walk into our bedroom and look on my bureau under my passel of Alex and Ani bracelets…

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Hello momma

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And I know.

I know it did…..

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Pandemic humor.

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Because I’m still here and still trying to find the humor in it.

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I remember climbing over seats into the back of our station wagon and sticking my feet out the rear window while my parents barreled down the Jersey Turnpike to the shore. How the hell did any of us survive to adulthood?

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This is why we’re not traveling. People be morons.

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Now if someone could just tell me how I can apply Dizzy Izzy…. my life will be complete.

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Good grief, I hope not. That will seriously impede my martini consumption.

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Are you ready for a vacation smackdown?

 

You had 2 days off in between trips… and I threw in some Bambi pics as well. Are we good?

Good!

I admit I might have gone a little overboard with the Williamsburg, Virginia vacation photos this time…. like 3,089 pics overboard.

So sue me.

It was a fabulous trip, a marvelous Christmas and a wonderful place to explore. What can I say? When I’m old and feeble I’ll enjoy looking back on them all. (If I can remember why there are so many pictures of rocks…. and who that strange man is of course.)

Time to fasten your seat belts and loosen your pants!

The trip starts now.

 

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Okay… but fair warning, that may not be until June.

Not wanting to put the miles and wear and tear on my car, we rented one. Well, I rented one. A mid size SUV like I always do… but when we arrived at the lot, they didn’t have any and had to upgrade us to luxury.

Cool beans!

We could pick the Audi or the Infiniti.

So what did my husband pick?

 

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The Chevy Suburban.

 

 

Which happens to be the biggest, thirstiest, most annoying  lumbering behemoth vehicle ever made. A nightmare to park. A horror show for short people like me to board. A useless third row seat we didn’t need and couldn’t figure out how to fold down. Gas stations? We dreaded the mere sight of them after a few days. So why did my spouse choose it?

Because it was big.

And he’s a man.

Enough said.

Our trip from Maine started out like this:

 

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With buckets of the same for the first few states.

 

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When we were nearing Hartford, Connecticut it let up, but we hit road construction….

 

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And this rather precarious way of shoring up of the highway made me cringe.

 

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I guess I should be glad they didn’t use duct tape, but still.

 

 

Next up was my least favorite part of the trip….

 

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New York City.

Don’t get me wrong, I was born and raised in New Jersey… I can hang. But riding shotgun with my  (leadfooted, 2 centimeters from the car in front of us, switch lanes like it’s the Indy 500)  husband…. in the Black Brontosaurus?

Would test Ironman’s nerves.

 

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Though I can honestly say it’s the only time in my life I’m thankful for bumper to bumper traffic.

 

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Reduce speed?

 

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I don’t think that’s possible.

I’d post some great pics of our trip over the famous George Washington bridge, but the husband always takes the upper truck level…. so basically this was my view:

 

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But here’s one peek through the fog.

 

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After the bridge? It’s New Jersey…

 

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And the swamps they built the Meadowlands on.

 

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If you’ve ever wondered where Tony Soprano and his boys dumped the bodies?

It would be here.

 

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Oil refineries aside, you have to admit that the foul, smoggy New Jersey air does make for a dramatic sky.

Onward through the evening we drove, with the husband choosing our route. If you know me…. you know I’m type A and like to plan. Letting him pick a spot for us to spend the night was torture, but I sucked it up and endured.

I endured him picking a random town in Delaware because he liked the name, Red Lion.

Did Red Lion, Delaware have any hotels you ask?

No.

It did not.

And trust me, we drove around for almost an hour trying to find one even though I Googled it and came up empty. We did however find this:

 

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A Christmas extravaganza house that was blocking traffic.

 

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I can barely keep 2 reindeer lit… WTH?

After admitting defeat, the husband drove another 40 minutes to Dover, Delaware and pulled into the first Holiday Inn he saw.

 

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I had my doubts when I saw the lounge was decorated in early bordello. Yes… satin furniture and rhinestone encrusted mirrors.

Thankfully our room was toned down from that…

 

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But it did have some interesting features.

 

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Mainly, the lighting.

 

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Is it me?

 

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Or did this over the bathroom sink fixture look like deer hooves?

 

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Come on…

There’s no reasonable Martha Stewart explanation for that.

 

 

And while this corner lamp reminded me of my mother and her pull down hair dryer of the 1960’s…..

 

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It was these over the bed reading lamps that were a little too proctology/gynecology themed for my taste.

 

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And don’t get me started on the art work.

 

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Really, don’t.

What the…. what?

So ends day one.

(And before you start screaming Martin…. road trips with my husband consist of a McDonalds lunch eaten in the car doing 90 mph and a perfectly horrible turkey dinner at a Bob Evans next to the hotel late that night. Neither were photo worthy!)

 

Cape Cod Day 3…. the Pilgrim Trail, Plymouth

 

Behind the (not so historic) grist mill? A path….

 

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That turned out to be more historical than the building we paid to see.

 

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It was a lovely walk….

 

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That followed the brook.

 

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The murals were fun.

 

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And certainly brightened up the underpass.

 

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The path led to a park.

 

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And I have to admit I’ve always been a sucker for a good park.

 

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Maybe it’s because I grew up in New Jersey where large properties are for the uber rich.

 

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Maybe it’s because parks are always a refuge of green open space in the middle of a city.

 

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Maybe it’s because you can tell a lot about a place by what they display in their parks….

 

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Like this statue dedicated to the many immigrants who have flocked to our shores.

 

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Maybe it’s because it’s just a nice place to walk your dog…

 

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Whatever the reason, it was a nice way to approach downtown Plymouth and the harbor.

 

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Where I’d finally get to lay eyes the most famous rock of all time…

Plymouth Rock!

 

 

Come on…

You had to know that was coming, right?

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

A simple question…

What’s up with Band Aids, and why does the product want me to bleed to death?

Seriously, what did I ever do to them?

I cut myself the other day….

It looked something like that, except my finger was in the way and there was a lot more blood.

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Okay, not that much. But enough so I had to run to the medicine cabinet to try and staunch the bleeding.

Have you ever tried to open a BandAid with one hand?

It’s  harder than Richard Simmons at an all you can eat buffet  not easy.

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And after multiple attempts, some very colorful language and a splatter pattern on the walls and floor certain to stump CSI….

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I gave up and wrapped my finger in a paper towel, cursing the Band Aid brand and it’s ridiculous packaging.

And as I was cleaning up the spilled blood? I swore I heard…. somewhere in a Highland Park, New Jersey cemetery…. Earle Dickson laughing.

(Earle Dickson invented the BandAid in 1920 for his wife who was always cutting herself in the kitchen. Clearly, he wanted her to bleed out as well.)

(Serious research there friends. I just don’t phone these posts in…..)