Jersey Strong, But Really (Alternate Title: I Cried the Whole Time I Was Writing This Post)

[Warning: This post contains lots of photos. Also, lots of emotions.]

Prince Harry made headlines today when he visited Seaside Heights, N.J., the town where Jersey Shore was filmed & which Hurricane Sandy essentially laid bare. Have you seen post-storm photos of a roller coaster sitting in the ocean? That's Seaside Heights, & that roller coaster was torn down today. It used to be on the shore, of course, not in the water, & it was a main attraction at the Casino Pier boardwalk, one of two competing amusement park piers that were a summer destination spot for families & guidos alike.

Let's talk about the Jersey Shore for a minute, shall we? I'll get to Seaside Heights shortly, but let's start with nearby Asbury Park, home of American legend & all-around badass Bruce Springsteen. I'd been to AP only once before - last October, just before the storm hit - but a few weeks ago, Nathan & I found ourselves in town on a Sunday, grabbing coffee at America's Cup & brunch at Toast.  Though downtown Asbury Park appears unscathed (at least by now), I was shocked by the remaining damage we witnessed along the boardwalk just a few blocks away. Signs say the Jersey Shore is open for business, but, well, it sure doesn't feel like it:


The AP boardwalk is mostly in tact at this point (it reopened in March), but there are still telltale signs of damage:


The beautiful old Convention Hall at the end of the boardwalk is open to the public, but only sort of. Many of the doors are still boarded, & not much is going on inside - just a store or two open for business.


The abandoned old casino at the other end of the boardwalk, creepy even before the storm hit, has been even more gutted than it already was, & it remains closed for the forseeable future.

Along the boardwalk, a few places are back in biz, but the majority of stores & kiosks are still unopened, visibly damaged, boarded up - with no indication as to their return.

Because I thought the remaining damage in Asbury Park was devastating, Nathan wanted to take me through Seaside Heights, which is only a few miles away from our home. I'd never been - either before the storm or after - & he wanted to show me some of the real devastation there that is, essentially, in our own backyard.

I cried more than once that day, as we drove through a beach town that was clearly once a bustling summer hotspot but is now, in the bluntest of terms, absolutely trashed. At the boardwalk, called Funtown Pier, you could almost envision the way this place used to be, just a few short months before - bright & colorful, loud & crowded, home to so many people's best summer memories. In one night, though, Hurricane Sandy wiped it away.

When we arrived on that windy April day, the boardwalk itself was open but many of the stores & restaurants along it were still severely damaged, not yet ready to re-open for the upcoming summer season - if at all. There were sandbars in places where no sand should be, a remaining telltale sign that something wicked had this way come. We bought penny candy from a taffy shop, one of the only stores open that day, doing some small part to support the once-vibrant Casino Pier as it tries to rebuild itself, this place, these people.


The beach that runs parallel to the boardwalk - & the amusement park that used to stand there - was closed, decimated, blocked off with fences & police tape & signs warning lookyloos away from it.




What we saw beyond the fencing was horrifying, stomach-turning; at one point, I thought I was going to throw up, & instead I just started crying these hot, silent tears that I couldn't stop. Even now, having seen much of it myself, I can't look at pictures of the Funtown Pier taken by professional photographers in the immediate aftermath of the storm without that vomity feeling turning my stomach again. It wasn't just sad - it was scary, too, in that eerie sort of way that the ocean sometimes is, when you remember that it's not just beautiful. It's also powerful, & we are, quite simply, not.

Only four of Funtown Pier's 40 amusement park rides made it through the storm, & more than 50 feet of pier fell away when waves began to batter the coast. What's left of the beach was scattered with the carcasses of once-welcoming rides, now knocked over & covered in sand, rusted & mangled & dirty.

A year ago, this was a place tourists & locals alike flocked to for a fun day at the shore; I never saw that side of Funtown Pier, but I could almost imagine it before me, kids licking ice cream cones & begging their dads to win them cheap stuffed animals at dart-&-balloon games on the boardwalk, their biggest concerns sunburns & splinters & long lines.

What hit me hardest at Funtown Pier was the sight of a beautiful old Ferris wheel sitting solidly in the ocean, attached to almost nothing on land. Though it was still standing, its position - again, solidly in the ocean when the pier below it crashed into the sea - rendered it wholly unsalvageable. Nathan & I visited on a Sunday; just a few days later, the iconic Ferris wheel was demolished. 

When we left Funtown Pier, we drove through the town of Seaside Heights, down the road that runs parallel to the beach, where many people people live(d) & rent(ed) modest summer homes. The beach access roads were all closed down, orange barrels advising explorers to turn the other way or risk police questioning. Down some of the streets were Dumpsters, cranes, construction vehicles, people out working - & down other streets, there was almost nothing at all, because there's simply so little hope of rebuilding. We saw houses & apartment complexes that burned to the ground when they caught fire after the storm, homes that looked as though they'd been hit halfway through with a wrecking ball, homes you could see straight into & outr the other side of, homes in piles of rubble with caved-in roofs lying atop them, homes with boarded-up windows & phrases like "We'll be back" spray-painted upon the siding. Big homes, little homes, homes with Halloween decorations still hanging in the windows. Homes where maybe no one will ever live again.

It took me almost a month to write this post, in part because I'm bad with time management, & in part because I was so emotionally impacted by what I saw in Asbury Park & Seaside Heights that I just didn't know what to say. I've lived here for nearly a year now (!), & for months, I've carried on with my life just miles away from absolute devastation. I never visited it, never volunteered to help rebuild after it, hardly even thought of it beyond seeing it on TV. My heart broke for the people affected by it, but I didn't fully comprehend that these people are my neighbors now.

The other day I was in the locker room at my gym, changing out of my sweaty gear, & I overheard a conversation between two women. One was saying that it turned out to be a blessing in disguise that she couldn't have children because she can't imagine experiencing homelessness with kids in tow. Homelessness. As I eavesdropped further, I realized that she had been displaced from her home in the storm - & that "displaced" is not even the right word because her home is gone now, & she's living on friends' couches while she tries to figure out what to do next. The Jersey Shore is full literally thousands of people like this woman, living in my town & in my gym & sitting next to me in Starbucks, & I didn't even get it, you know? I just had no idea, not really.

And what am I doing about it? The answer is still nothing. I just don't know. I still don't know, & I don't feel good about that. But I know that's it's horrible & painful & unbelievable & that, if nothing else, visiting the shore last month solidified one thing for me: For so many people, Hurricane Sandy was not just a scary thunderstorm that tossed a few docks into the backyard, like it was for Nathan & me. This shit is real, & it's still really bad, &... & we're connected to it, whether we want to be or not. We live in New Jersey now. We are part of New Jersey now. We were here for this, & we're still here for this, & that matters to me much, much more than I thought it did.

Three Ways New Jersey Handicaps its Drivers

Let me preface this post by saying that I don't hate New Jersey anymore. I don't. OK? So don't give me crap about giving New Jersey crap. It's kinda nice here, actually, & I don't hate it, but I do think there are a few key ways that the state of New Jersey is totally shafting its lifelong residents when it comes to preparing them to drive in states that are not New Jersey. Observe:

1. Yellow lights last forever. When Nathan first mentioned this to me, I thought he was mental. No way do the yellow lights here last noticeably longer than they do anywhere else! Right? Wrong. The more I drove in New Jersey, the clearer it became that something is up with this yellow situation. You could be two blocks away when a light turns yellow & still make it through before it changes to red.
   
   I read a lengthy, detailed story about yellow & red lights in New Jersey townships, but I don't have a great grasp of traffic-related technical jargon, so I'm still sort of lost. All I know is that when I'm in any other state, I now find myself slamming on the brakes to stop before red hits, forgetting that I've become accustomed to freakingly long yellows.

2. Turning left is unheard of. I've already explained to you the concept & functionality of jughandles, & I shared with you just how weird I think they are. As time goes on - & as I become more familiar with my surroundings - I admit that I've begun to see the value in jughandles, even if I still find them wholly unnecessary. But let's be clear: I still know how to turn left on green. I may not have the legal opportunity to do it in New Jersey, but I'm familiar with the idea, & I won't hesitate to implement it in states that will allow me to (slash require me to, because how else would you get places if you couldn't turn left & didn't have jughandles?!)
   
   I have a friend, though, who's Jersey born & raised, & I recently learned that after Hurricane Sandy, when all the traffic lights were out, she panicked when she reached an intersection where she had to turn left - even though so one was coming at her from the other direction. She just, like, couldn't do it. Not turning left is so ingrained in Jersey residents' driving habits that trying to turn left is, it seems, foreign to & difficult for them. That's some Zoolander shit right there.

3. The thing with not pumping your own gas. It's illegal to pump your own gas in New Jersey, which is absurd & can cause confusion. Sometimes it's great, like when it's very hot or very cold outside, & you don't have to get out of your climate-controlled vehicle to refuel. Sometimes it's awful, like when there are seven open pumps & one attendant on duty & three people in line before you. You could gas & go on your own, if you were allowed (& knew how...), but instead, you have to wait in line like a helpless, obedient child until the attendant gets to you. So much time is wasted at highway rest stops this way. And also, back to my original point, a great many native New Jerseyans do not know how to pump their own gas - & are are possibly proud of it?

Also, as a related side note, I learned just yesterday that in the Garden State, it's illegal to talk on your phone while you drive. Quite illegal, in fact, as can attest a fried of mine who received a $100 ticket for committing this offense, which he, too, did not realize was a criminal one. The more you know.

Stuff I'm Enthusiastic About

For a brief period of time, I wrote a little series of posts called "Gamechangers," all about stuff I just, like, like. Lately, I've been liking a lot of stuff that I want to tell you about, so I'm bring that ish back, but I'm just going to call it "Stuff I'm Enthusiastic About," because I think that really sums up the gist of it. Readyyyy? Go!

Right now I dig:

Goin' to London: I took a week off at the end of June because I essentially forgot to take vacation time this year, & if I don't use my paid vacation days by the end of the fiscal year (June), I lose them. It's sort of like being forced to take time off! I'd originally planned to do a staycation - sleep in, run errands, watch a lot of Ellen - but so many of my friends are globe-trotting right now, & I've got a titch of the green monster, so I started thinking I should try to get some travel in myself. My little cousin is living in London for 18 months, so I just booked a flight to visit her! More on this to come, obviously.

Drinkin' wine: While I was in Austin for SXSW in early March, a fellow attendee gave me a $60 voucher for NakedWines.com. I was skeptical - because ain't no such thing as a free liquid lunch - but I was pleased to find that A) it was totally legit, & B) NakedWines.com is awesome. That voucher (plus $13 from my own wallet) got me six bottles of wine, delivered to my doorstep within the week. Now, my wine rack is full for the first time in my life, & I'm looking forward to trying to become a wine-lover. (In case you're interested, I bought: F. Stephen Millier Angels Reserve Viognier 2011, William Henry Riesling 2012, Rachis by Randy Hester Sauvignon Blanc 2012, & Da Da Da... Lodi Chardonnay 2011.) 

Gettin' trim: I started Weight Watchers in January, & while I'm not always perfect at sticking to it (um, there are Stella D'Oro Fudge Cookies in my car right now...), I've found it to be a really easy-to-understand, mostly-easy-to-follow program. I'm not losing as much or as quickly as I'd like because, um, cookies, but I am seeing a difference & feeling better overall - & also my jeans fit again & are even a little bit too big, which definitely falls into the category of "stuff that's awesome." And if I do lose copious amounts of weight, I promise not to become a Jennifer Hudson (which is to say that I won't abandon the traits & talents you know & love me for in favor of talking about being skinny all the time).
 
Makin' sandwiches: Nathan & I went to a street fair in downtown Red Bank two weekends ago, where I picked up some Raspberry Hot Pepper Jelly from Jacky's Jams and Jellies, made locally in Pine Beach, N.J. Fruit & heat? Gross. Except no. This jelly is the stuff culinary dreams are made of, & I created the World's Most Perfect Grilled Cheese™ (patent pending in my imagination) with it: three Babybel Light cheeses, sliced in half, with 2 tbsp. of jelly & a sprinkling of mozzarella cheese, pressed on multigrain panini bread in my George Foreman grill. I would eat this every day if I could do that & still end up looking like Jennifer Hudson. Instead, it'll be my new favorite-but-infrequent comfort food.

Eatin' cheese: I recently won a giveaway on my friend Suki's blog Super Duper Fantastic, & my haul arrived in the mail today: five blocks of fancy Sartori cheese! Basically, I have never been happier or more excited in my whole life, which is saying a lot, because it arrived on a less-than-stellar day. For lunch this afternoon, I had one serving of their Rosemary & Olive Oil Asiago cheese on Saltines with a side of carrots & yogurt, & then I pretty much died & went to Wisconsin (in which Wisconsin is heaven because, you know, that's where this cheese comes from). Seriously, I may never buy another kind of cheese ever again for as long as I live. Wonder what kinds of gourmet grilled cheese I can invent next?

So tell me: What are you enthusiastic about right now?

Bad Jokes, Good Man: A Tribute to My Grandfather

Two things occur to me: The first is that there's been a lot of eulogizing & emotion-sharing on this here blog lately. What with my tribute to my dear friend Elissa, & my piece on the one-year anniversary of my grandmother's passing, & my reflections after the Boston Marathon bombings, I've talked a lot about death lately in this space.

The second thing that occurs to me, though, is that I've never really told you about my grandfather. He passed away in 2008, & even though this blog existed then (five & a half years now!) I never wrote about his death here because I didn't think my readers would respond positively to, like, me. Stuff with emotion. I kept it strictly funny in those days, almost nothing person, & sharing my eulogy for my grandpa didn't seem to fit into that structure.

These days, though, I share of myself more freely (see first paragraph), & you guys seem to be supportive (thank you!) That's why today, on the five-year anniversary of my grandpa's death, I want to share with you the eulogy I gave at his funeral half a decade ago. He was one of my favorite people in the whole wide world, & suspect that I will always miss him dearly.

*****

If you knew my Grandpa Sandy at all, you know that what defined him most was his undying sense of humor. Granted, I only knew him for 23 of his 83 years, but I think it's a safe bet to say that his orneriness didn't come about with age. The way his two sisters tell it, it was a lifelong thing.

If you didn't hear one of Grandpa's jokes or stories the first time around, there was about a 99.8% chance you'd hear it again– he was notorious for telling and retelling the same ones over and over again. Perhaps most well-known and groan-worthy within our family was The Rutabaga Joke. At every Thanksgiving dinner, without fail, my Uncle Jim has insisted we serve rutabagas, even though he has consistently proven to be the only family member interested in eating them. And every year, as my cousins and I rattled off our same old list of complaints about rutabagas, my grandpa would stop the conversation and chime in: "Rutabagas, eh? I don't like that name. It sounds mean. They ought to be called polite-abagas."

That was grandpa's humor. He was the king of puns and had the kind of comedic timing that could save even the dullest of conversations. No matter how serious – or argumentative – the rest of our family got, Grandpa was always waiting in the wings with a pun or a punchline to divert our attention and lighten the mood. As the rabbi just said, he was a trained expert in "keeping up the troops' morale," a skill that he applied not just to his time in the military but in his everyday life, as well.

And the best part about my grandpa was that even when he wasn't telling jokes, he simply had the sort of personality that lent itself to good story-telling – the kind that, even in his absence, I'm sure will continue to make for good story-telling.

He loved the Ohio State Buckeyes with a passion, so much that after my grandparents' house caught on fire, my mom salvaged his smoky, burnt Buckeyes banner, even though my Grandma tried to sneak it into the trash can. He loved the Buckeyes so much that he once taught his pet bird, Barney, to whistle the Ohio State fight song. He loved food. On a trip to Hilton Head, he once dared to try alligator, and he was notorious for making midnight snacks of other people's leftovers. To my grandma's chargin, he kept bags of popcorn in his car and trail mix in his bedroom, and he loved nothing more than a good free sample from Sam's Club. He made jewelry for his daughters and me out of dental gold, the kind meant for filling teeth, and held a special place in his heart for my mother's mutt, Missy, whom he lovingly referred to as his "granddog." And in his later years, he became famous among friends and family for his refusal to use a cane and his insistence, instead, upon using his giant walking sticks.

My grandfather was a good man. He was the sort of man who saved the tie he wore on his wedding day and wore it again to his anniversary party 50 years later. He was kind and loving and hard-working and friendly, and overall, he was simply a good man. He will be sorely missed as the silent but mighty patriarch of our little family. And so today, in honor of my grandpa, I'm about to say something I never thought I'd say, something I hope my cousins will forgive me for. Today, despite years of complaints and dinner-table mutiny, I am submitting a formal request for this year's Thanksgiving dinner. We probably won't eat them, and we will probably still whine about them, but this November, in honor of Grandpa's memory, I ask my Uncle Jim — please make sure to bring the polite-abagas.

On Falling Into Lakes

Today was a work day full of calls & meetings, & before I knew it, it was 2:15 & I'd yet to eat lunch. Oh, is that my stomach? Of course, I had to be in another meeting at 2:30, but I decided that gave me just enough time for me to run to a nearby coffeeshop, settle in, order a sandwich, & hop on the call. I knew I'd be a few minutes late, so as I walked, I sent a quick email to my boss from my iPhone.

Here's where I'd like to clarify that the route from my place to my favorite coffeeshop is through a residential neighborhood, with a sidewalk the whole way & approximately zero through traffic. I pay special attention to crossing the major street that runs through town, but after that, it's a walk in the park - almost literally. I pass two senior living establishments, two townie restaurants, & a whole lot of trees, & then boom, favorite coffeeshop.

So as I emailed my boss, I was walking on a sidewalk, toward almost nothing, when a yippy, unleashed little dog took a sharp corner from behind a building & ran right into my shins. I looked down at it & laughed, cooing something in my stupid voice reserved for animals (don't pretend like you don't have one). I smiled at it owner, a very done-up woman who could best be described as a Jersey grandma, 70-something in a purple tracksuit with heavy makeup & big hair & penciled-in eyebrows. She didn't smile back, but still, I gave her an "Excuse me" as I stepped around her dog & carried on down the sidewalk. When my back was to them, she yelled after me:

"That's how people fall into lakes."

I stopped & turned, said it again, this time as a question: "Excuse me?"

"That's how people fall into lakes," she repeated. "Walking & texting."

I tried to stay friendly, keep it light - "Luckily, I'm not walking near any lakes." - but she wasn't having it.

"I don't know," she said meanly. "There sure is a lot of water in this area."

I stayed stoic, but I was fed up. "There's no need to be so rude to a stranger," I told her.

"There's no need to text while you walk," she retorted. "It would serve you right if you fell into a lake!"

Look, I get it. Texting while walking is "more dangerous than crystal meth," & I'd certainly never do crystal meth. I like to think I'm a smart person. I don't text & walk in cities, or near train tracks, or in areas I'm not familiar with. Could I be hit by a car while walking & texting? Sure, but I could also be hit by one while walking & not texting. Anyway, it was pretty clear that this woman didn't care about my safety nearly as much as she cared about being a sanctimonious "get off my lawn" type.

What I wanted to tell her was that it would serve her right if her adorable little unleashed dog got run over by a car, but that seemed too mean to the adorable little unleashed dog. I wanted to tell her it would serve her right if she died alone in her apartment & that adorable little dog gnawed her arm off before anyone found her, but that seemed too mean, period (yes, sometimes my mental filter works). I wanted to tell her that if I fell in a lake - which would be literally almost impossible, given that there are no lakes nearby - it'd be my own damn fault & she would never even know about it. I wanted to tell her that I work my butt off, all day, every day, sitting alone in my living room, such that I sometimes can't even get a bite to eat or a cup of coffee without missing the first 10 minutes of a meeting, without feeling harried & panicked, without checking my email while I walk. I wanted to tell her that in a world full of bombs & shootings & all kinds of terrible things, she should be ashamed of being so mean to a total stranger - or to anyone at all.

I stared her down for a few seconds, trying to decide what to say. And then I swallowed hard, & I turned around. And I took a deep breath & put my phone in my pocket & walked away. And I remembered to "be kind, for everyone you meet is fighting a harder battle."* And also because I'm terrified of lakes.



*I have no idea who said this, but it's one of my favorite quotes. I'd always thought it was Mother Theresa, who is apparently not even in the running.

*Apparently people fall into lakes while texting. I'm lookin' at you, Bonnie Miller & Tiffany Hess.

I Like My Friends More Than I Like My Cat. And Yet...

It has come to my attention that a great many of my dear friends are unable to visit my home because they're horribly allergic to cats, & I have a cat. Remember this dude?

As testing recently revealed, I, too, am allergic to cats, though not deathly so. My doctor confirmed that my allergy is likely lessened by my owning a cat, & it's possible I'm no longer so allergic - to mine, at least, though maybe still to others.

I'm just bummed. Like, bummed to the point of anger. Because what are Claritin & Zyrtec & Allegra & inhalers for if not to fix this crap? Why doesn't any of that stuff actually work? Get your act together, pharmaceuticals!

I'd been trying so hard lately to like it here, & I've even begun to. Victory! I really hoped that when spring & summer rolled around, the local festivals & our proximity to the beach would lure visitors, & I could share my newfound love - OK, like - of the Jersey Shore with the people I love. And now? Now at least six - no exaggeration, six - of my closest friends have told me they can never set foot in my apartment because it will hinder their ability to, like, live.

Look, don't get me wrong. I'm absolutely not mad at any my friends. I understand allergies; if my friends lived inside oak trees, I would never visit them, either! It's not like anyone chooses to have respiratory problems. I'm not mad at them - but I'm just kind of mad, period. I really thought I'd found a great, beachy loophole that I could use to entice folks to visit... & now I can't. Because breathing & shit.

Guess I shouldn't waste my money on buying a bed for that guest room, huh? Womp.

PS: Sorry for this angry rant. Sometimes you've just gotta yell it out.
PPS: Any of you allergy-free folks want to come to the beach this summer?

Think I'll Go to Boston, Think I'll Start a New Life

During those 16 months that I lived in the far-away foreign land of New England, my frequent overnight trips to the great city of Boston were an emotional lifesaver. In fact, I came to love the city so much that I hoped with all my heart Nathan would be stationed there next.

Today, from 263 miles away, I'd almost forgotten about that love - until this afternoon, when it all came flooding back.

I'm relieved that all of my friends in Boston are safe, but I'm devastated that so many other people's friends & family are not. My heart is heavy for them, for their city, for our country. And beyond that? For once in my life, I'm truly without words. Only feelings - & there are just so, so many of those.

Tell someone you love them. Do something kind. Make the world a better place. And don't just do it today, on the bad days - do it every day. Please, please. Do it every day. Because that's the only way we're ever going to combat the hatred that drives people to do things like this. That's all we can do - love people, no matter what, & press on, regardless.

Remembering My Grandmother: The Great Olive Garden Debacle of 1990-Something

My grandma loved Olive Garden, & even though I love to poke fun at (usually Midwestern) folk who believe that Olive Garden represents the epitome of classy Italian dining, I was always willing to give my grandmother a pass. The lady was 82, you know? She can like whatever spaghetti she damn well pleases. And she was more cultured than anyone I knew, despite living in a town with very little of it; she went out of her way to experience the arts & film & music (are those "the arts"?), so she deserved a pass on processed pasta.

Nathan & I had dinner at Basil T's last weekend for Jersey Shore Restaurant Week, which is patently not Olive Garden but rather an upscale Italian establishment that is, as it happens, approximately 30 steps from the front door of our apartment (-so it cannot be said that we were going out of our way to experience classy Italian dining, but I can't help it if we live someplace awesome). As we were being seated, I caught a glimpse of the dessert tray: mini cannolis & tiramisu & a chocolate torte & some apple thing & God know what other confectionery delights that would absolutely crush my Weight Watchers daily points allowance.

As I caught a glimpse of this decadent dessert tray, I remembered this time when I was a kid, & I was at Olive Garden with my family because grandma loved it (& probably I did, too, so I shouldn't be all high & mighty on this one). As we were being seated, we walked right past the dessert tray, & do you know what my grandmother did? She wasn't even that old at the time, maybe in her late 60s or something, so there's really no excuse for this: She stuck her index finger into a piece of fancy-looking mint chocolate cake, just plop! right into the middle of it. And the icing sort of squelched out with out around her finger as it went in, just like that, because cake is obviously a really soft matter, & apparently my grandma used some force with that dessert poke.

Staring at that piece of cake, I was mortified: "Why would you do that?!" I asked her, & when I looked up to face her, I found her looking back at me, mouth open, eyes wide, just as mortified - & maybe even a little bit more.

"I thought it was fake!" she exclaimed. "I thought it was fake! I just... oh, why would I think it was fake?!"

And we laughed & we laughed, & I remember thinking that this was such an absurd thing to do & my grandmother was not at all an absurd person. But she was like that sometimes, a little bit unexpected, this classy, artsy woman who painted watercolors & loved the orchestra & drove 45 minutes away to Dayton to see movies that didn't make it to the one theater in her small town, but sometimes she'd just do something a little bit wacky like that, like sticking her finger in a piece of cake because she assumed it was made of plastic - which is an absurd assumption in itself, & even if it were plastic, why poke it? But it still makes me laugh, even as I write this, & I can hear her voice, her laugh, her horror at realizing her mistake.

Dessert trays have always reminded me of her, ever since then, which feels like my whole life. I cannot remember a time I looked at a restaurant's dessert tray & didn't recall my grandmother plopping her finger into a piece of mint chocolate cake.

It has been 365 days since my grandmother died, & I miss her every day. I still think, "I should call Grandma. It's been awhile," before I catch myself & realize that it will always have been awhile, from here on out. Sometimes I miss her so much I can feel it, like my body is closing in around my heart & I can't breathe, can't imagine that she's really gone for good & that this is just what life looks like now, without her, forever. And I know she'd hate to see us crying about her, crying at all, because as far as I can recall throughout my whole life, my grandmother almost never cried. But she did laugh, & she made me laugh, even when she didn't mean to, so I'm telling you this dessert tray story & hoping you'll laugh, too. Because it hurts so badly some days that I just don't know what else to do.

Indoor-Kid Status: Confirmed

I get sinus infections approximately all the damn time, so when I felt the last one coming on, I decided it was time to take action. I made an appointment with an asthma & allergy specialist here in Red Bank, & when the time came to meet with Dr. H, I was actually enthusiastic about it. Because finding out what's actually wrong with my body is a hypochondriac's wet dream.

But as it turns out, I'm not a hypochondriac at all (about this). I am actually just allergic to everything.

If you've never had allergy testing done, it goes something like this: A very kind nurse jams 24 tiny needles in your forearms, six at a time. WebMD tells me these are called "skin pricks" & not "shots" because they don't draw blood, but I'll just go ahead & confirm for you that they feel exactly like shots. Six of them at a time. Each prick injects a drop of extract of a potential allergen into your skin - & then you sit & wait for your arms to swell up. Wherever the pricks get puffy, the doctor can confirm that you're allergic to the allergen injected there.

Or something. Look, guys, I don't have a medical degree. I just know that it made my arms look like this:

Also, because you're allergic to these things they inject into your scratches? Your arms start to itch like hell, & you can't do a thing about it because that's how it's supposed to work. As it turns out, I am allergic to: ragweed (a.k.a. "the entire season of spring"); grasses (except the kind that grows in the south, where I of course do not live); tree pollens (especially from oak trees but not from pine trees); mold/fungus (which explains the mushroom allergy); dust mites (oh, God, do not do a Google image search for these); cockroaches (I already knew these were disgusting, so don't Google them, either); & "select weeds." Know what else I'm allergic to? Cats. Don't tell this guy:

After the shots - errr, pricks - I took a breath test, which confirmed that I essentially cannot breath, which felt mildly surprising to me but maybe not at all, considering that I've thrice been to the ER for respiratory distress. My very patient new doctor prescribed me a new inhaler, which he "suggested" I use more frequently than I currently do (which is almost never), plus a nasal aerosol, eye drops, & a recommendation that I start taking two allergy pills a day instead of just one, which I had always thought was a sure recipe for death. Apparently not. Again, I don't have a medical degree.

As the doctor led me out of his office, he asked, "Did you take pictures of your arms?"

Am I that transparent?

"Of course!" I responded enthusiastically. "I work for a Jewish organization; everyone I know is terribly allergic to something. I have to tell them I've got that indoor-kid street cred, too!"

He laughed. "My son's in BBYO," he told me.

"So you know what I mean."

"I do. I'm an allergist!"

Touché, doc.

In Which I'm Too Anxious to Function, & (Spoiler Alert!) a Corndog is Eventually Involved

I had Monday off, & after writing a slew of thank-you notes, cleaning my office a little bit, & just generally being more productive than usual on work-free days (what is it about weekdays off versus plain old weekends?), I decided I'd try to get to a spinning class. As it turns out, my gym didn't have any classes until 6pm, & I didn't want to wait that long, so I decided to try out a 4pm class at another gym location just down the road. Enthusiasm aplenty, I suited up in yoga pants & a tank top & let Google Maps lead the way.

I made it to the gym with 15 minutes to spare before class &, enthusiasm faltering but still mostly intact, I asked the front desk staffers where the cycle room was. "I've never been to this location," I explained. "Can you point me in the right direction?" The dude staffer, who was a guido extraordinaire (because remember, I go to this chain of gyms), literally just pointed for me, & grunted something like, "That way, can't miss it."

Except I could miss it, & I did miss it, because that gym, unlike my usual gym, is a big circle of mirrors. I already have terrible vision & intense anxiety, so, you know, it was pretty ideal.

I wandered awkwardly for a bit, feeling sure that the fitter-than-I folks on treadmills & ellipticals were wondering what the hell I was doing looking lost & toting a big, patent leather purse throughout the gym like a dope - but I couldn't find the locker room, either! When I finally located the cycle room, I decided to keep my dopey bag with me, against the wall or something, because I didn't want to venture back out into the Hall of Mirrors, except as it turns out, the cycle room was a mini Hall of Mirrors itself, at least three times bigger than the cycle room at my usual gym... plus, you know, covered in mirrors.

Still, I was (mostly) undeterred. I chose a bike & tried to adjust it to fit me - but the seat got stuck, so I moved to another bike & tried again... & the seat fell off. There were two other cyclists already in the room, & both of them were looking at me like I had three arms.

So obviously, I bailed.

"I'll just run on a treadmill!" I thought to myself. Except I couldn't even find the treadmills, & I was still carrying the damn purse. And I still couldn't see because I need an optometrist, stat. And panic was setting in because ohmyGodwhatswrongwithme?! Who gets overwhelmed by a new gym?! So I did what any sane person with an anxiety disorder would do: I left. Quickly. I slithered past the guido front desk staffer, my head down & my enthusiasm fully destroyed, & took refuge in my car.

As I pulled out of the parking lot, I spotted a glowing Mecca next door, a comfortable & familiar friend: a Sonic. So naturally, I went through the drive-through, still dressed in workout clothes, & bought a corndog, which is essentially the opposite of working out. But that, at least, didn't induce my anxiety. Just my guilt.

Annnnnd all was right with the world again.