Confessions Of A Splenda Stealer

When I have a deadline, I need music. As far as my own work ethic is concerned, nothing is more distracting than silence. When the room is quiet, my ears feel as if they are just straining and waiting to pounce on any little sound to prove that I am not deaf. Just like our eyes respond to the pitch dark–when you feel your eyes constantly scanning for some source of light in an effort to prove that you haven’t gone blind. My ears work the same way, so I silence this neurosis with music.

But, this is no easy task. In college, I made “mellow” play lists, with more instrumentals or softer lyrics so that the music wouldn’t compete with my own thoughts. As I’ve gotten older, I have found that my music personalities have gotten more bipolar. I never know what kind of music I am in the mood for when I begin to write. Mid-sentence, if a song comes on that does not jibe with my writing mood, as if I bit into a sour grape, my nose crinkles and my gut reaction is to immediately flip to another song. Playlists are even pointless because I can’t even define the genre my mind craves. I become manic and itchy to find just the right sound.

Today, my mind has responded well, so far, with the sounds of Elvis Costello and the O’Jays, but reacted violently to The Strokes and The Counting Crows (the banjo jilted it).  Al Green is streaming now, and that also seems to have taken.

Of course, this is all good and well until Pandora slaps me in the face with: Unfortunately, our music licenses force us to limit the number of songs you may skip each hour. Usually I get frustrated and then just punch in a different song or artist to generate a new station, but it was at this moment when I saw the button for “Snack Rap Radio.”

Every few minutes or so, Pandora will refresh the page with a new ad. The ad for McDonald’s new, disgusting Mac Snack Wrap, for the person too lazy to open their mouth big enough to eat the classic Big Mac, featured a friendly yellow button labeled “Snack Rap Radio.” Intrigued, I had to take a listen. Assuming it would be food-related songs, I was incorrect. Apparently, snack wrap eaters like the sounds of T.I, Busta Rhymes, Lil Wayne, and Outkast.

Immediately, I saw this as some sort of twisted marketing scheme, and that this station was somehow a socioeconomic commentary on the McDonald’s consumer. Fired up to find the meaning of what McDonald’s was trying to say with this Snack Rap station, I did an instant Google search, in which the first entry to pop up was:

“Did you mean snack wrap?”

With that same sour-grape crinkled face, I looked at the search bar to see that I had in fact typed in “Snack Rap” instead of “Snack Wrap.” Oh. Ha. Ahem…Good one…I was the last to get the play on words. Oh, how nothing gets by you, Google.

And this is why Pandora also feeds my chronic procrastination–not only did I waste about 15 minutes with Snack Rap Radio, but I also wasted more time writing this post.

I’m switching to my Nano for the rest of the day now.

As someone who writes for a living, there are times when a topic will fall into your lap that you are less then enthused to, well, write about. But, as my dad says (who is an editor himself) being a professional doesn’t always mean loving every single word you punch into the keyboard; rather, it’s about getting the job done. He hit the nail on the head.

But as far as this space goes, I don’t care about professionalism–in these regards. I want to enjoy every blog post I conjure up here, and until I feel inspired, I would rather not post. My best posts come from an inner giddiness fired up with my desire to share. I never want someone to leave this blog thinking, “Well, I’m never going to get those minutes back.”

Hence my current dilemma. Busy with a friend’s wedding, hopping down to the Jersey shore on the weekends, and a few freelance gigs, when I have found a spare moment to log into wordpress.com and then click on “Add New Post,” sadly, this is as far as I have gotten. With so much to think about, it’s been a bit overwhelming for my mind to focus on an angle to deliver a post with a point.

And it’s not as if I haven’t tried.

a visual of me thinking...I smell something burning...

I have about five drafts sitting in in my blog dashboard, sadly staring at me. Their titles are (no subject). Yeah, no kidding.

In any case, I hope the creative juices will start to flow again, but in the meantime, I hope you have been enjoying my columns in Hoboken Progress.

PS–I scored a free Quaker Oats Chewy Bar as I headed to the PATH station yesterday morning. Sweet.

Mid-brainstorming for my third column, I realized I really ought to address my odd love/hate relationship with the Hoboken A&P. Here is the fruit of my labors. Enjoy!

Location, Location, Location

What did you dream of owning when you were a kid—a pony, perhaps? These days, I find myself pining for the oddest things, like granite kitchen counters, a garden in a backyard, and a stoop with a curled rod-iron handrail.

Lately, I can’t help but find myself drawn to the brownstones that line Garden Street uptown, or the Victorians that decorate Castle Point Terrace. Having grown accustomed to my own humble apartment, I forget that there is square footage in Hoboken that isn’t lined with linoleum or wood paneling.

But, it wasn’t until after a discussion with a new Hobokenite that I realized what I really coveted. After learning that my friend’s new apartment was located at Sixth St. and Clinton, as if I were playing a game of word association, I couldn’t help but blurt out, “Well that’s right next to the A&P! That’s like, the best apartment ever!”

If I were a realtor in this town, I would organize prime properties according to their proximity to the major grocery stores: Shop Rite or the A&P. Kings is marvelous, but in my book, it’s similar to a Whole Foods, aka, “Whole Paycheck.” Shop Rite and the A&P are a little kinder to people like me, with meager, 20-something budgets.

It’s not that I wish to live in the A&P, but oh, what I wouldn’t give to be a few blocks closer. While my yoga arms may be strong, they are not equipped to lug bags full of A&P’s own America’s Choice brand products for two blocks west, five blocks south.

Growing up, my mother was a finicky consumer. Once a grocery store won over her heart, that was it. After years with the now defunct chain Grand Union, when the World Class Shop Rite was built only a few minutes away, a Power Point presentation and testimonials were practically required to get her to make the switch.

With this brand-loyalty relationship as my point of reference, (I hate myself a little for saying this) to my dear A&P, I must tell you that I have not been faithful. I took a vow when I placed your Bonus Savings Club card on my key ring, and yet, I cheat on you left and right—with convenience stores. When I lived uptown, it was with Fresh Picked on Tenth St. and Washington. Downtown, it’s the CVS for pantry staples and Natural Plus on First St. and Washington for produce. Oh…and St. Mary’s Grocery & Deli on Second and Willow, open 24 hours for late night needs.

It’s just that those little grocery stores are so close to the bus stop or PATH when I get home from work, and you, A&P, are too far away. I guess one could say that I’m not very good with long distance.

I’m just so weak, literally.

For now, I will just have to deal with the guilt. But for the future, I plan to implement a next-to-grocery-store category on Craigslist, where all my apartment searching will take place. Studio or shack, if it brings me closer to the A&P, that’s all I need, because life is all about the simple things, just like a pantry full of no-frills, America’s Choice groceries.

Here’s is my second column, to be printed this Friday in Hoboken Progress.

My sis told me she knows how to embed pdf files, but then we forgot to hold a lesson due to bachelorette festivities we organized for a friend over the weekend. Those results will be posted, shortly.

Enjoy!!

Here, There’s Always Time For Recess

By Emily M. White

“You know you want one,” the passenger laughed, as he pulled a silver balloon out of his jeans pocket, only to fling it at his unsuspecting friend’s face. To his delight, his friend eagerly agreed and blew up the balloon, adding to an arrangement of 10 red, white, and silver already bopping around the PATH train car.

It was 3am on a Saturday morning, still Friday night for most of the passengers, and the car slowly started to resemble a child’s play-room full of plastic balls; a Chuck E. Cheese somewhere between the 23rd and 14th St. stations.

After a few volleys between giggling passengers and myself, I realized that this wasn’t the first time the Hoboken experience helped me feel about 20 years younger. Last summer, in my former apartment building, I made a habit of bumping into one of my neighbors on the stairs. Curious as to why I always saw him walking downstairs from above (he lived on the second floor, I lived on the fourth), I finally caught him one day carrying two buckets of water—while wearing swim trunks.

Apparently, without a waterspout on the roof, he was forced to do the next best thing—lug two buckets of water at a time, up three flights of stairs, to fill the baby pool he put on the roof, for himself. That day, he dropped about 30 years from his age. Thank God it wasn’t to slick a slip-n-slide, because that would have been dangerous.

As a 9-5er, sometimes I find it hard to believe I even live in Hoboken. My life in this town centers on the fact that most of my large cups of coffee and lunches are eaten at a desk in midtown Manhattan. The dance back and forth makes me feel like a dual citizen; I often have to remind myself which Park Avenue I’m crossing.

But what is unmistakably Hoboken is that sigh of relief I experience as I crawl out of the Path station. In this town, you hardly find people in a rush. New Yorkers have their own hurried minute; we Hobokenites allow for a little more breathing room. Speaking from the portion of town residents that commute to Manhattan everyday, when we return, it’s time to unwind, and we mean business. During the evenings and weekends, our residents fill the bars and restaurants along Washington St. with laughter and conversation, walk English bulldogs, Pomeranians and Labs along the Riverwalk, and recline on lawn chairs in the parks and pier to relax. Whenever I return home from work, I can’t help but feel as if I were in one big backyard, looking to play.

If this town wants to help me to forget I’m an adult every once in a while, I will let it. And, why shouldn’t I, when a ride home includes a stopover where a kid can be a kid?