New Jersey and Me, Imperfect Together

February 18, 2009 is a day that I will never forget. I was unemployed, carefree and had the luxury of sleeping-in as late as I pleased. But that day, I woke up extra early for 5am workout and an hour of primping then spent 45 minutes picking out the perfect casual-chic winter outfit. Eventually, I strutted out the door headed to a place that nobody wants to go. The DMV. But on February 18, I could hardly wait to be yelled at to “get in line!” or “fill out this form!” by an underpaid government worker.

The line of Guatemalans wrapping halfway around Herald Square could hardly dampen the excitement I felt. I had my iPod-induced swagger on as I took my place in line and whipped out a book prominently displaying a NY Public Library sticker, because yes, I am a New Yorker this was the day I’d be trading in my New Jersey Drivers License to make it official.

Perhaps I should’ve been more excited about the fact that it was the day I would officially become “Mrs. T” by changing my last name. But no. Instead I was thrilled because my ugly, maroon, laminated New Jersey license was being “traded up” for a shiny NY State Drivers license bearing the Manhattan address I’ve occupied for the last 5 years.

Only now, on a day not-too-far away, some unlucky DMV employee will have the displeasure of wrestling me, as I scream “but these are Prada shoes!” to the ground. Then she will have to pry from my cold, clenched fists the New York Drivers License that I so proudly whip out whenever I’m asked for ID, all because my husband T and I are purchasing our piece of the American Dream: A Condo in Montclair.

Don’t get me wrong, I’m thrilled and excited and all that and I’ve already begun ordering too much of the Crate and Barrel Winter catalog, but that doesn’t change the fact that I am still the snot-nosed, over-dressed, but under-clothed, guess-where-I-got-in, city-dwelling beeyotch I’ve always wanted to be. I take extraordinary pleasure in answering the question, “Where do you live?” when I’m out of town and in some sick way I actually enjoy the fact that I pay the same amount to rent 700 square feet that many people in the burbs pay to own 3000. Because (in my most superior voice) “you pay for the location, not the space.”

Now, as I prepare to head west across the river, I’m struggling with the fact that I will no longer be anyone’s “city friend” and that people will probably stop calling me for restaurant recommendations. I dread my first night out in Manhattan, probably in the Meatpacking District, when some bitch-faced Murray Hill skank gives me that you’re-so-bridge-and-tunnel look as I whip out my NJ Drivers License.

I invented that look!

So in a few weeks from now, if you see me driving home from COSTCO wearing a hot-pink Juicy sweat suit and sporting acrylic nails, give me a honk. I’m ready for the car, the home and even the commute, but you can bet your sweet ass that I will be delaying my trip to the DMV as long as possible. Not because it’s unpleasant, but because I’m just not ready to give up the persona that has taken me 5 years, numerous trips to Saks (fine – H&M) and an AmEx bill as thick as a phone book to craft.

The only saving grace is that, in New Jersey, they let you look at your ID photo and retake it until you’re happy. So to anyone behind me in line that day – I’m sorry, but I’m now a Jersey Girl and I’m going to re-apply lip gloss, brush on the bronzer and adjust my push-up bra until my Drivers License photo is Just Friggin Right. So back up!

My Annual, Un-Original, I Hate Tourists, Rant

Warning:  What you are about to read is not new.  You've heard it all before from many different people, with many different points of view, in various states of annoyance.  But as I sit here, fighting the urge to bash my head against the wall and thanking my lucky stars it's Cyber Monday so I don't have to venture out and deal with the "Old Gals Club" who took the train in from Lon-guy-land for the day to do some shopping and see a show, I can not resist the urge to purge myself of my annual Holiday Season Rage.

Living in Manhattan allows me the daily joy of taking my stress out on the other 8 million people making their way through the concrete jungle.  I take pleasure in bumping into someone on the sidewalk just a little too hard because both of us were determined to claim our space and too stubborn to move 1/2 a foot to the right.  When the UN is in session, I relish the opportunity to yell at a delegate and let him know that "here in New York", we let women through the door first.  And, by far, my favorite is giving cab drivers the combination "Middle-Finger-F-ck You A$$hole-yell" for almost running me over as I cross the street after the Don't Walk light is already lit. This is a pedestrian city and pedestrians have the right of way (unless it's the rare instance where I am the one driving, in which case you better move your a$$ off the crosswalk because the light is green and I will run you over - don't test me).  While this may seem overly aggressive and unacceptable, to most people here it's unspoken, understood and perfectly normal.  I don't really have a problem with that b1tch who slammed into my shoulder and who's hair I subsequently yelled looked like a bird's nest.  She needed it.  I needed it.  We got it out of our systems and we could probably become best friend's over cocktails.  It's just how we roll.

Enter Late-November.  The temperature drops, the SALE signs go up, the mood starts getting festive and tourists invade.  Fifth Avenue becomes inundated with funny accents, odd clothes, and the unmistakeable calling card of the Mid-West, blue eyeliner and bad hair.  So last Wednesday at 9am, I made my way across 34th Street to beat the crowds at Macy's.  Always tempted by the call of cheap jeans and long T Shirts that I pass off as dresses, I pushed my way through a group of tourists doing the dreaded five-across-block-the-whole-sidewalk move and ducked into Forever 21.  What awaited inside filled me with an incomprehensible mix of fright, naseau and hysterics.  Like Alice in Wonderland I gasped at the cast of characters that surrounded me in what is usually my turf.  

Forever21 had been invaded by the throngs of bubbly Macy's Thanksgiving Day Parade Participants dragging their Mom's excitedly through a store they can find at any mall in their Ohio suburb, beyond thrilled to fight crowds and pay sales tax on items they could get cheaper at home, just because the store is bigger.  I winced each time my delicate ears were met with southern twangs practicing cheers and the attack continued on my nose with the unmistakeable scent of Jean Nate wafting off every 45 year old, bleach blonde mom who's fake smiles seethed jealously and vicarious living as they chased their teenage daughters around the store stopping only to contemplate if there's any chance they could get into a mini skirt like that just one more time.  Determined to grab a pair of jeans and give these girls the kind of New York experience they could go home and tell their friends about, I bumped, pushed and told-off my way through the store to the enormous line at the cash register.  Immediately I picked up the phone and called someone to b1tch loudly and make funny comments about the Middle American Travesties I was surrounded with.  

After 15 minutes, I was off the phone, still standing on line and in pain.  If I heard one more squeel, screetch, or Oh-My-Word-Look-At-These-Earrings!, I was going to lose it.  It was at that point that I looked at the door longingly, dropped the jeans and ran for my life.  They had beaten me.  Here I stood a few year veteran of New York City taken down by a gaggle of high-schoolers with high pony tails and ribbons in their hair.  Dejected, defeated and determined to get the hell out of Herald Square, I trudged across 34th Street trying to make my way past Fabio, Donatella and their four beautiful Italian children, all of whom strolled slowly, seductively smoking cigarettes blocking any chance I had of getting to the east side as quickly as I hoped. Once again, I was reminded of the simple fact that I Hate Tourists.

I Hate Them! I Hate Them! I Hate Them!  Now, please excuse me while I stomp my feet, clench my fists and am left no choice but to do my shopping online.  Wah.

On Borrowed Time (and Books)

Still in awe of all the free time I now find myself with, I figured I should take advantage of it and catch up on my reading.  In my previous life as a productive, employed member of society, I usually found myself able to read about 1 page of a book every night before I would be fighting to keep my eyes open, my body begging for sleep to get me through the coming work day.  Now, having been given this gift that keeps on giving - unemployment - I could actually pick up a book on a Tuesday afternoon and head off to the park to relax and read.  How novel! (no pun intended).

My usual MO when it comes to scouting new reading material is to head down to Borders, pick up three or four books that look intellectually stimulating along with one that I actually want to read, not just say I read (usually something along the lines of "Shoes, Sex and Why Women Like Them") then shell out the $60 - $100 to the cashier without thinking twice.  However, my new socioeconomic status doesn't allow for such careless spending so off I was to that foreboding monster of a building on Fifth Avenue called the New York Public Library to get myself a Library Card.

Climbing the many steps to the beautiful building I had passed so many times before, I started to feel like Rocky running up the steps to the Philadelphia Museum of Art, my mind wandered and I started thinking about why New York is so much better than Philadelphia.  Typical. Thinking I would prance right through the giant doors and and immediately be surrounded by shelves and shelves of books, enough to scare the pants of the Dewey Decimal System, I pushed the revolving door as fast as I could until I was inside and abruptly stopped by the giant line of people going through security.  Did I forget I was in New York for a second?  I happily opened up my bag to let the security guard dig his way through my notebook, a couple of Pepto Bismol Pills, a tampon and my gigantic makeup bag until I was finally inside and free to roam the New York Public Library.

I bounced up to the information desk, all cheer and sunshine and said, "Excuse me, but you can tell me where I go to get my Library Card?!" Anything but charmed by my positive attitude, the woman behind the desk replied, "You're in the wrong building.  You need to go across the street." 

"Damn," I thought.  The building across the street is plain, there are no statues, no exhibits, just a big dusty, quasi-book store.  How can I experience this momentous occasion without the grandeur of statues and stairs and artwork surrounding me?  Where will the gospel choir that is going to sing as my library card is handed over to me going to stand?  Resigned to the fact that my Library Card experience would be more like a trip to the DMV than a day at the Met, I decided to pop into an Art Deco exhibit being held inside this pretty building that I so desperately wanted to borrow anything from before heading across the street to get my card.

Once inside the glass doors to the exhibit, I took a look at the five or so other people in there and decided to pretend I was just as genuinely interested in the art of this period as they pretended to be.  And so I read each and every informational piece on the wall when I came to the a descriptive on how the Art Deco period came to be.  It began, "On Thursday, October 24, 1924 as the Stock Market crashed sending the United States into the Great Depression..." That's when I stopped.  I did not need a reminder that I am unemployed and not a lady of leisure, so I decided to head across the street to get that Library Card.

Resisting the pull of BCBG to my right and Lord & Taylor to my left, I trucked it into the building where the nice lady at the information desk directed me to the long line at the Library Card Registration Desk.  Wanting to whip out my AmEx and bolt back across the street for some shopping, I trudged over and took my place in line.  When it was finally my turn, I handed over my Driver's License, which still has my New Jersey address on it, when Stanley, the man running the desk said, "I need something with your New York address."  I desperately dug through my purse, determined not to have wasted an afternoon looking at art I don't get and waiting on line.  Viola!  I pulled out a bottle of Antibiotics my doctor had prescribed for the Sinus Infection I had a few weeks ago. Embarrassing?  Absolutely.  But it had my New York address on it so I handed it over.  Stanley, clearly uncomfortable with the situation, reached out and grabbed the bottle, gave me a look that said, "Sure this is antibiotics, it's probably Herpes medication" and copied my address from the bottle, into his computer.  

Within two minutes my antiobiotics were back in my purse and my New York Public Library card was in my hand.  "So I can take out books RIGHT NOW?" I confirmed.  "Yes," replied Stanley desperate to have me and my pills away from his desk.  "Sweet!" 

 

I was off.  First to crime and mystery to pick up a book for T, then off to the "Oprah" section to pick up one for me. I looked around in wonderment at just how many people were here borrowing and returning books, in awe of the fact that here, at this place in New York where nothing is free, they will just give you a book or a DVD and trust that you will return it.  I'm just glad they didn't do a background check and find out that I am permanently banned from Blockbuster for failure to return movies.  

When I checked out and passed through security to leave the building, this time I barely noticed all the retail therapy that surrounded me upon exiting.  Slightly skeeved by the fact that thousands of other hands have probably touched the books I was holding, I whipped out my bottle of Purell for a quick fix, then bounced the rest of the way home like a little kid on the first day of school.  The minute T walked in the door from work, I proudly displayed my Library Card and handed over the book I selected just for him.  That night, we settled into bed and read ourselves to sleep.  For free.  Nice.