HumaNatural

Musings on the life of a writer, baker, enviro-mom, soapmaker.

Sunday, February 05, 2006

I Heart New Jersey

Yes, that really says "heart," not a typo of "hate."

I used to say I hate New Jersey - cliche, I know - but that was before I met Joe. Joe, the New Jersey Turnpike gas station attendant.

So I went to visit a friend (the previously-mentioned Rachel) this weekend, and that trip required me to traverse the state of New Jersey - not normally something high on my list of things to do, and a principle problem with living in Connecticut - all points south involve New Jersey.

As an aside, my husband's only request for the weekend (which means "the one thing I will not manage to do") was that I check my oil. Presumably, before I left CT.

The trip also afforded me an excuse to visit my friend Nick, who is currently living in New Jersey. I majorly heart Nick, and thus came my first tipoff that traveling thru NJ might not be all bad.

I was right: good friend, fun cafe, great Thai food. Excellent prelude to the weekend. Except that it was sooooo much fun, I stayed too long. And forgot to check my oil for the second time. And by the time I started the remaining four-hour drive to Rachel's place, I was already exhausted (see previously-mentioned nightmare-plagued child). And then wired and jittery after drinking a cup of coffee in the hopes it would help me stay awake.

It did, but it also made me sweaty and panicky and irritable and, at one point, when I looked at my mapquest directions, caused me to calculate that I was actually moving backward in time (and, therefore, New Jersey) and thus would never actually reach my destination.

I made it, and collapsed in bed at midnight but didn't fall asleep until 1:30 (thank you, coffee), after perusing the copy of Men's Health on the nightstand (how could I possibly sleep without first learning the 36 Sure-Fire Sex-God Secrets to Rock Her World with an Erection That Really Goes the Distance?). Slept poorly (thank you, coffee and Men's Health article).

Had a (previously mentioned) good-but-exhausting weekend. Three straight nights of poor sleep, one night of poor dancing, several instances of poor food choices, and a little too much fun. Left Sunday morning. Forgot to check my oil x's 3.

Stopped for gas on the NJ turnpike. Enter Joe. Joe looks like a young Billy Joel on the wrong end of a bar fight. Kind of tough, kind of punch-drunk. Very New Jersey, Hoboken-style.

Gas stations in New Jersey are all full-service. Weird, I know. I used to hate this about NJ, because it felt so... contrived? superfluous? Anyway. That was before a three-day weekend of revelry, or back when a three-day weekend of revelry wouldn't have set me back so much, energy-wise. By Sunday afternoon, having someone else pump my gas for me sounded just fine.

Me: Fill 'er up.
Joe: What grade?
Me: Oh shit. a test. (out loud) um, the cheapest.
Joe: Sure... (pause) Uh, ma'am?
Me: (I love being called ma'am, starting about 5 months ago when a polite young man called me ma'am and I suddenly realized it could be charming.) huh?
Joe: Could you pop it open?
Me: Oh shit. Another test. (fumble for gas tank release.)
Joe: Would you like me check your oil for you?
Me: Oh shit, a test I've failed. Yes! My oil! Please check my oil.
Joe: (Backing away from the car) Sure thing, ma'am.
(checks oil.)
Joe: Ma'am?
Me: Yes, Joe? (really, I feel like we're on a first-name kind of basis by now.)
Joe: You're over a quart low.
Me: Shit.
Joe: I can put a quart in.
Me: That would be supah. I mean super.
(Suddenly, a snippet of the previous conversation with my husband floats back to me. I have a quart of oil in my trunk.) Wait! I have a quart of oil in my trunk!
Joe: Ahright. I can put that in for you, then.
Me: Okey-dokey.
Joe: (waiting patiently by the trunk) Can you pop it open?
Me: Oh, right. (fumble with trunk latch, then realize that the oil is in the spare tire well underneath the trunk floor which is in turn underneath the weekend's worth of detritus PLUS seven bags of crap I've been meaning to drop by the Goodwill.) Ummmm, on second thought, can I just buy a quart?
Joe: Sure. It's $3.
My Husband (from several hundred miles away): Don't pay $3 for a quart of oil!
Me: Sure.
Joe: (waiting patiently by the hood) Ma'am? Can you pop 'er open?
Me: Oh, right. (fumble again)
Joe: DO you still want your trunk open?
Me: Oh. No.

Then he cleaned my windshield. And he was just so... nice. And I was so... fumbling and tired and grateful. I was grateful because he helped me with that whole oil thing, thereby preventing me from having to admit to my husband that I completely forgot all about the one thing he asked me to do. But even more so, I was grateful because at no point did Joe exude that East-Coast jesus lady get your shit together and stop holding up the goddamn line people have somewhere to be attitude. The whole time I was demonstrating remarkable incompetence, he was just nice and patient.

Joe handed me the receipt to sign. I looked for the tip line: do you tip full service gas station attendants? I don't know. I hate things like this. What's worse? To erroneously tip and look silly or erroneously not tip and be rude?

Me: Do I tip you, Joe?
Joe, looking sheepish: Uh, folks from Jersey don't.
Me: Well, I'm from Connecticut. And I really appreciate your help.

I tipped him.
Joe: Thank you ma'am! You just made my day!

My husband, still from hundreds of miles away: You what? You forgot to check your oil BEFORE the trip, remembered only when th gas station attendant reminded you to on the way HOME from the trip, PAID $3 for a quart of oil, and TIPPED the guy?

Good thing he doesn't read my blog.

Joe: Ma'am?
Me: Yes?
Joe: Your forgot to take back your credit card.

Me: I heart New Jersey.

Great Expectations

I have just returned from Delaware, where I got to spend time with my dear friend Rachel. We had two goals for the weekend: 1.) Go Dancing and 2.) Appraise the New Man.

I love to go dancing, although I never ever get to do it - thanks mainly to my lack of anyone here in Connecticut to go with me. My other going-out friends here are more of the dinner-and-copious-intoxicants variety, which is why I am generaly designated driver rather than dancing fool.

So. Rachel planned the dancing. Of course we were going to go with her sister, who is an extraordinary dancer, and her sister's boyfriend, and Rachel, who is herself a very good dancer, and Rachel's new man whom I - by dint of being both discerning and blunt - had been charged with vetting. For the first round of review, he only had to exceed the very low threshold set by her previous significant other. My shorthand for this threshold is "not an ass-fuck."

I am, if I do say so myself, an exceptionally mediocre dancer. Being a mediocre dancer means, in my case, that when I am dancing with a group of my friends, I will be approached by 6-10 men offering to dance with me, but they will all be white, inebriated, and employed in a technical field. Rachel, being a very good dancer, will attract more men, many of whom can actually dance. And Rachel's sister will attract an admiring crowd of on-lookers.

So. I am a mediocre dancer who last went dancing two years ago, also in Delaware, where I entertained my dancing friends by being an apparent magnet to all manner of creepily enthusiastic guys of the H-1 B visa sort. And if I recall correctly, prior to that it was dancing at a Juarez nightclub when an intrepid little mambo king had scooted up to me and LICKED MY NECK.

Perhaps I should take up golf.

But no matter. I was exhausted, because I had been up two nights prior with a nightmare-plagued child and one night prior with a raging cold and so we were going to go out EARLY. Early, when dancing is on the menu, means 9:00, which by my standard is not that early at all. And which, when you factor in Rachel's sister's boyfriend's requisite 2-hour preening time, is actually impossible.

Anyway. Eventually we were at the bar and we were dancing. Rather, Rachel was dancing with The New Man and I was doing that vague third-wheel kind of dancing beside her, when a particularly enthusiastic Richard Simmons dead ringer sidled up behind me and started grinding.

Ahem.

Only I did not notice, because hey, it's a crowded dance floor and you just can't investigate every little bump.

Bump bump bump bump - hey, what's Rachel laughing at? - bump bump HUMP HUMP HUMP - *Hey!* THAT was not incidental.

I moved away. I scowled at Rachel. I reminded her of the unspoken parameters of our friendship: "Here's the deal. I don't let you date ass-fucks. You don't let some guy try to ass-fuck me on the dance floor."

Point taken. We resumed dancing. Now a little more wary, I had to investigate another bump. A rather earnest software engineer biting his lip with concentration had tried to take up where Richard Simmons had left off. Ack. I whipped around. A third guy moved in to try his luck.

In desperation I threw myself at Rachel, who was no longer dancing since she had long since doubled over with laughter.

"Do I have a magnet in my ass?" I demanded. I don't get it. I'm not exactly known for my ferocious badonkadonk. (Oh, please. If Trace Akins can co-opt it, it's fair game.) A college friend of mine once bragged of having "black-lady butt." Mine is more of the German-Grandma variety.

The New Man stepped in to shield me from the onslaught. Bonus points for him.

Back to dancing. I felt a tug on my arm and turned to find another guy inviting me to dance with him. Unlike all previous suitors, he was a.) not attempting a clandestine bump and grind and b.) well, that's enough, isn't it?

So after my opening line of "I am very married" was parried with, "No problem, so am I," we started dancing. He proved himself to be a suitably mediocre dancer, and seemed goofily harmless. After awhile I dropped the protective Heisman stance, and it was more fun than doing the Third Wheel.

And then he smacked me on my ass.

Giddy-up.

I kid you not.

I was drenched in sweat and so tired I was nearly hallucinating and I reinstated the Heisman distance and didn't really worry too much about it when I felt a rather refreshing breeze on my neck. Thoughtful dance partner that he was, he had lifted my hair and was blowing on my neck.

I looked over. Rachel was smirking over the shoulder of The New Man, who was so totally blissed out by her dancing that he was now legally blind. No help from that quadrant.

Goofy but harmless, I reiterated to myself. Goofy but harmless. I shook my hair out of his hands and kept dancing and things were going more or less smoothly. Until he stuck his tongue in my ear.

Golf it is.

We left. The New Man bought me a bottle of water. Clearly he knows who holds the pass-fail power around here.

Later, after he left, Rachel quizzed me, "Verdict?"

I gave her a thumbs-up. "Not an ass-fuck," I answered.

And some days, that's the most you can hope for.