Category Archives: My Life in Hoboken

May 17 2010
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My Life in Hoboken

Stay Alert…Be Aware…

From the May 21st issue of Hoboken’s Progress:

The other morning, I committed a rookie mistake when it comes to commuting—I got on the wrong PATH train.

I can only blame myself, but instead, I’ll blame my body. Muscle memory is an interesting phenomenon. Like athletes and virtuosos manipulate their bodies to carry out skilled movements without even thinking, the same goes for how my body has learned to function in the mornings before work.

I, for one, am not a morning person. There are not enough words in the English language to describe how violently my body rejects the early hours. And so, I rely heavily on the fact that my body somehow manages to remember the movements required for brushing its teeth, getting dressed, and grabbing its apartment keys without the guidance of an alert brain.

But, even so, this method isn’t foolproof. Case in point, one morning after my body shuffled into the kitchen, it somehow filled a coffee filter with five scoops of coffee, poured five cups of water into the machine, and then switched “On.” It sounds productive, but my hands didn’t place the pot back under the machine. The counter got a healthy dose of caffeine. I got a headache.

Despite similar incidents, it still came as a shock to me when I saw Pavonia-Newport as the first stop,

the train I meant to get on...

rather than Christopher St. on my way to work the other morning. The worst part about it is that I feel as if my body and/or mind was trying to tell me that I sat down on a WTC train instead of a 33rd St. one, but I was still too half-asleep to really understand or listen. After clearing the turnstiles and seeing empty seats on the train that arrived on the middle track, I nabbed one. Why I was in such a rush, I’m not sure, since a lot of seats were oddly open for this time of the morning.

That was red flag number one. Red flag number two: I saw another 33rd St. train pull up on the track next to me that began to fill up faster than the one I was on. Squinting at the 33rd St. train, I thought, “Huh. Well, it’s nothing that reading New Moon can’t fix,” as I looked down to become engulfed in my story about werewolves, while my brain kicked the dirt, frustrated at my half-asleep body.

Before I know it, I’m in Jersey City. Not a total crisis—but still—I felt really stupid. Trying to cover how alarmed I was (I was finally awake), I walked off the train casually, nonchalantly looked around to see which track the 33rd St. train stops at, and subtly, walked up and down the stairs to get to the correct platform, and then stood looking bored, as if Pavonia-Newport was my regular station. I came this close to whistling.

Now, more than ever, those signs in the PATH that read, “Stay Alert, Be Aware…” remind me how it’s probably best to switch off my auto-pilot mode, at least after leaving my apartment.

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May 04 2010
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Apartment Life, My Life in Hoboken

The Ways In Which We Know Our Neighbors…

From the May 7th issue of Hoboken’s Progress:

A U-Haul van parked in front of my apartment building was the excitement of last Saturday morning. I wracked my brain to think of who could be moving out, and in between sips of coffee and scrambled eggs with my roommates, we came to the decision that it had to be the one neighbor who has really made himself known to us—the heavy walker.

It’s quite odd that we live in such close quarters with people that we essentially know nothing about. In my building, where there are only three floors, in which each floor has one apartment, there are probably no more than nine people living in this building, and yet, if my neighbors were to stand in a line-up, I would have no idea how to identify them, unless of course, they had to run up and down a flight of stairs. Then I’d most likely be able to identify at least one neighbor—soon enough to be an ex-neighbor.

Perhaps my neighbor aspired to be an extra in STOMP, and carried out his trash this way...

If you’ve ever lived in an apartment, you’ve probably experienced hearing the unfortunate sound of someone who experiences gravity with a bit more pull than push than other human beings. It’s a heavy burden to bear, and it’s even worse for those who live under them.

Ever since I moved into this apartment, back in August 2008, as I’ve mentioned in this column many times, I’ve had to get use to a few certain eccentricities around the apartment: the rattling pipes that sound like Woody the Woodpecker, early morning showers void of hot water, and then some other odds and ends, like its donut shape, where walking back and forth between my closet and my room make me feel like I’m running for high school track.

But, I have also learned what it’s like to live with a heavy walker. I’ve also especially developed an closer relationship with him since one of my bedroom walls is on the other side of the stairwell. Like clockwork, I know when the heavy walker goes to work, gets home, goes to the gym, gets home, goes out, gets home, and well, pretty much every time he leaves and comes home, because I feel the need to “hit the deck!”

Not only is he a heavy walker, but he takes the stairs like he’s being timed during a relay race. There are no words to describe the sound and volume of this repetitive act.

It wasn’t until early evening that we figured it was the heavy-walker moving out, since all day Saturday we heard him, up and down the stairs, though each step was slower, due to the fact that he was carrying his possessions.

Dear heavy-walker, though I won’t miss hearing your daily schedule, I wish you the best.

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Apr 05 2010
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My Life in Hoboken

April Showers

Sometimes, it’s the little things that teach you life lessons. You just have to keep an eye out. For example, I never thought that the recurring floods of Hoboken would teach me to be less hasty.


Let’s rewind to a recent Tuesday morning before work. Sensing rain, I pulled on my rain boots and scampered out the door. In the past, my rain boots have made me feel invincible, and perfect for what I call “fording the river.”


No, this was not an attempt to cross the Hudson, but rather, I’m referring to what it feels like to cross a street when it rains in Hoboken, while using a term that stems from my childhood and playing the computer game, Oregon Trail.


Intended for educational purposes, Oregon Trail was to help teach kids about the days of pioneers and Conestoga wagons, although the most kids pretty much remember is which family member got a snakebite or dysentery.


Despite all that business, personally, I loved when it came time to cross a river. There were a few options as to how to move forward, dependant upon how much cargo was in your wagon and the depth of the water. Though a risk, I always chose to ford the river with my oxen, despite what my situation was in my wagon. In my haste, I usually lost half my cargo, and my patience with the game.


I never thought that Oregon Trail really taught me much, but I was dead wrong. Nowadays, I still find myself wondering if I should ford the river, aka, the flooded streets of Hoboken, because, well known to Hobokenites, our town becomes something of a Venice during heavy rains.


That Tuesday, the skies had not let up since the previous Sunday, and there was a call to arms for my rain boots. And yet again, about 20 years later, I still chose to ford the river, rather than taking a moment to weigh my options, like walking a block down to avoid the water. I stepped right into the rushing waters, thinking my rain boots would be all I needed.


It was then that I realized I still haven’t learned anything from my Oregon Trail days. In my haste, and because of one tiny hole in my left rain boot that crushed my false sense of security, I once again lost my precious cargo that day—my mind.


As it turns out, it didn’t take the consequence of losing a whole wagon-full of goods for me to amend my ways, but instead, a wet left sock. For the remainder of the day, my damp foot served as a reminder that I should perhaps take a few seconds to think before plunging into any risky situation.


Faced with the approaching April showers, I’m not quite sure what I’ve learned from reminiscing about Oregon Trail so much, but I do know that I will use the Hoboken floods as an opportunity to focus on my new decision making ways.

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Mar 01 2010
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La Splenda Vita, My Life in Hoboken

The Queen of Stretching Food

From the March 5, 2010 edition of Hoboken’s Progress:

For someone like me, who sees the grocery store as the bane of my existence, you would think that Fresh Direct would be my saving grace. No more having to pass on the 10 for $5 deal. No groceries falling out of plastic bags torn open by the metal buckles on my boots. I thought this was it. So did my roommates.

Apparently, I just have a problem with the whole concept of buying food unless I’m completely out. While my roommates loaded their online carts on the Fresh Direct site with goodies, when it was my turn, my cart carried two boxes of granola bars, and then my desire to buy diminished immediately.

Missing an entry in the Merck Manual, my roommates and I have affectionately labeled me as the queen of  “stretching” food, ie: if my food acquiring habits were to be tracked on a graph—my trends are extremely predictable. No matter what, I will always find a way to dodge buying groceries.

I present to you exhibit A. This morning, I awoke to find that I was out of oatmeal. My box of America’s Choice was such a tease. Digging around my pantry, I found that I was actually out of a lot of things that are staples in my diet–namely, any source of protein other than peanut butter and two eggs. I decided to keep the eggs for a dinner scramble, so I succumbed to a breakfast of slathering peanut butter and jelly on pretzels. To my delight, I was quite satiated.

Exhibit B was last week: I arrived home, starving, with the suspicion that I didn’t have much in my cupboard. Upon opening my refrigerator, I find a leftover half of a cold sandwich from Luca Brasi’s. Huzzah! I got to work.

It is also quite fortunate that I have a somewhat small stomach and so I fill up very easily. Using that to my advantage, I dissect the turkey, mozzarella, roasted peppers, and arugula of the Big Petey as if I had just hunted it in the wild, deciding what to eat and what to spare for another time. Instinctual survival skills were definitely kicking in.

What I’m about to tell you I find half impressive, half sad. I took the mound of turkey and wrapped it up to use as lunch meat for a sandwich, and then demolished the rest of the sandwich for dinner. One sandwich supplied me with three meals.

My family still talks about the Chef Salad I ordered at a diner whose leftovers fed me lunch for the rest of the week. In my own defense, there was about a pound of turkey and ham atop another pound of lettuce. Or maybe, I’m just resourceful.

Sometimes, I think I just like the challenge of splicing together random ingredients on an empty stomach. Other times, I think maybe I’m just lazy. But I like to think it that whatever does not kill me only makes me stronger.

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