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.