Confessions Of A Splenda Stealer

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?

Imagine my curiosity when I received a comment on my Moving Day weekend post from an editor, inquiring if I wanted to write a column about the wonders of living in Hobokia (Hoboken).

Behold, my weekly installment in the OpEd section of the weekly newspaper, Hoboken Progress:

Since I still need to figure out how to embed pdf files, I have pasted the copy here:

The question comes less often now, but it inevitably rears its ugly, little head. Whenever the topic of apartment shuffling pops into the conversation between my friends of an (212) area code and myself, as if I were guilty of hiding my PATH card behind my MTA Metrocards, I’m struck with, “So, when are you finally going to move across the Hudson?”

Though sugarplums may dance in the heads of other sleepers, I awake having dreamt of chicken cutlets and mozzarella. Thanks to the wonders of century-old venting systems, my living space is supplied with the aroma of marinara sauce, on a daily basis.

Since moving to Hoboken two years ago, like an Alice in Wonderland my apartments have gotten increasingly “curiouser and curiouser” as I’ve resided no farther north than 10th Street, no further east than Park Avenue. I’ve slept on an air mattress and in a closet. Forget railroad style—I’ve lived in a donut-shaped apartment. But the best, by far, is at my current address.

My answer to my friends’ question has taken on many forms over the past 24 months. At first it was some muttering void of humor, wit, or even logic, just to change the topic. Having grown up in New Jersey, I’ve learned to ignore insults thrown at the Garden State.

Then, as my adoration for this little town grew, I learned to strike back, demanding of my inquisitors: Why would I leave a town where I can walk home from any restaurant or bar within 10 minutes? Not when the PATH also takes me to destinations in Manhattan faster than my friends can climb down from the Upper East Side.

But it wasn’t until after I settled into my third apartment that I finally found the ultimate reason why I have no current plans to move out of this mile-square town. Now, when plagued with the inevitable, my reply is: “Do you dream of raviolis? Because I do.”

As of right now, there are two prime suspects: the little Italian grocery below that my landlord owns (I hand the monthly rent checks to a man in a paper-wedge cap) or the other establishment on the block, Leo’s Grandevous. Just short of being nimble enough to crawl through the air ducts, I’m at a loss for how to solve the spaghetti sauce mystery of Second Street. But, word on the street is, as one of Hoboken’s oldest family-owned restaurants, the food service at Leo’s began with the owner’s wife serving dinners out of her own kitchen—in the apartment above the joint. Though obviously not the case today, I like to believe this slice of town history is the explanation behind my wonderful discovery as a tenant of downtown Hoboken.

There’s no greater flashback than a flood of memories triggered by a particular scent. For me, recollections of my mid-20s will always smell of marinara sauce, and for right now, I wouldn’t have it any other way.