September 21st, 2001


You from Joisey? I'm from Joisey!

Reading eideteker’s post today, I noticed a line in his entry that says: “I want out of New Jersey.” Instinctively, I was ready to comment on this post with something along the lines of “Oh? Where in New Jersey?” I stopped myself just in time. For those of you who have yet to really leave New Jersey or those of you who have never made a habit of living there do not know what I am talking about. As a Jersey Ex-Patriot, I am faced with a situation almost every day that I either fall victim to or have to decide whether or not to perpetuate.

On the bottom of some Pennsylvania license plates, it says, “You’ve got a friend in Pennsylvania”. New Jersey license plates should read, “You’ve got a relative or an ex-college roommate or someone you know in New Jersey”. It seems that people have some sort of connection with the state, and now with the Sopranos around, it’s almost everyone.

Whenever it becomes known that I am from New Jersey, whether it’s when I’m at a bar watching a hockey game and I’m rooting for the Devils, I say a word like “coffee” or “dog” (or the one that Southern Virginians can’t seem to get over: “embarrassed”. Some huckleberry once tried to convince me that it is pronounced “um-bear-issed”), or if I make the egregious mistake of making my Jersey heritage known by doing something like putting “JRZGRL” as my handle on those tele-trivia games they have at some bars.

The slow-witted will usually say something like “duh, huhuhuhuh…what exit are you from?” I am at the point where I need to carry cards around in my wallet that say “I lived so far from the damned Turnpike that I don’t even know how to get to my house from it.” Others will ask about “the smell”. Listen here, asswipe. DC smells like urine. North Carolina smells like dogshit (the whole state—I’m not kidding. It’s like they’re constantly churning around old settled dirt). There’s lots of bad regional smells out there, and I can tell you for damned sure that the town I grew up in would invest in thirty-story air fresheners if there were even a rumor of an unpleasant odor. But this one I can really do little more than smile and fake a laugh to.

Then there are those who actually know something about New Jersey or have lived there. They will ask me what town I’m from, and inevitably ask if it’s near Cherry Hill or Edgewood (why those two towns I have no idea—but the answer is no). Since I come from Randolph, a town that, while physically large, has a very low impact-per-square-inch rating, I usually have to say that I’m from a town just outside Morristown (que the Morristown/Moorestown conversation), a somewhat more significant town. It also doesn’t help that even while I lived in New Jersey, I was confused as to my actual town of residence since my home happened to be situated on the borders of three towns: I had a Mendham mailing address, a Chester telephone number, and went to Randolph schools. So I usually say I’m from Morristown, because that’s just easier. Either the person knows someone who is from there, or from someplace that is near there (pretty much any town in northern New Jersey will do), and unless they are actually from that place or have a location of reference, the next phase of the Jersey Conversation is merely a few smile/nods and a beer sip. Then they ask what brought me here, and I say I went to college in the area and stayed. The conversation tends to peter out after that.

The reason why I have gone into this is because I was about to subject Darksmile to this same torture. I almost did it. But then I remembered how once when I told someone that I was from New Jersey and they asked me if I knew Jennifer Russo. They didn’t know what town she was from, but they knew she was from New Jersey.

No. I do not know Jennifer Russo.

Please, anything but work...

The right side of my face is leaking. I have a feeling this is a result of poking myself in the eye while dancing at Heaven last night. It took me all morning to figure out exactly *how* I poked myself in the eye while dancing, but if memory serves, it was when I tried to push my hair out of my face. Of course I didn't make a big deal of it at the time, because I didn't want to be the only lamo on the dance floor rubbing her eye because just poked herself in it. I guess I played it off well, because I forgot about it until this morning. So it's been burny and runny all day. Now the strange part is that my right nostril is runny too. Weird.

Why is it that I always have to pee right when it's time to actually get work done?

I love Smarties. I love them so very much. Why is it that I always forget this until right around Halloween?
  • Current Mood

And we couldn't pee in the drinking fountain...

We have an ice machine in the kitchen in my office. It is similar to the kind you would find in a hotel hallway – the cubes sit in a big box and the new cubes fall from the top, and a scoop is used to get the cubes out. There is a slot for that scoop on the interior side of the machine, however, most people do not use it and simply stab the scoop into the top of the pile of ice. Over time, more ice is made that falls from above, burying the scoop in ice. The next person must dig through the ice with their hand in order to get the scoop out.

We would all like to think that everyone else washes their hands after they go to the bathroom. But we all know that there are people out there that don’t. We may have, like I have, witnessed one or more of our co-workers leave the bathroom without washing their hands.

The purpose of having the scoop is to provide the more sanitary option to simply reaching in there and pulling out the ice. However, leaving the scoop to be buried and having to manually retrieve the scoop from the ice defeats this purpose.

If I were one of those note-hanger-uppers (like the chicks in my senior year dorm who put up a sign reminding us that our mother doesn’t live here) I would post a sign that said:

Please do not make us lick your genitals. Put the scoop in the slot.