All posts tagged: New Jersey

Trader Joes wine

In Search of Beaujolais

On Sunday morning, I had a brilliant idea. “Let’s go to Trader’s Joes!” I tell The Wedding Date.  “The Holiday Beaujolais should be out by now!” The Holiday Beaujolais is somewhat of a tradition in the Richter household, and it’s only sold during the holiday season, hence the name.  My dad always drives up to Princeton to load up because they don’t sell wine at the Trader Joe’s in Pennsylvania due to the state liquor laws and since TWD lives in New Jersey, I figured we could save my dad the trip. (Plus there was that minor incident on Saturday afternoon when my tire blew out on my way to rehearsal and my dad had to come rescue me on the side of highway…) So TWD pulls out his smart phone, finds that the closest Trader Joe’s is in Shrewsbury and we head out. Every time I visit him, I feel like I’m going back in time.  As we make our way north, things start to look familiar. “Are we in Tinton Falls?” I ask. …

Anti NJ

Sometimes You’ve Got to Fix Your Mascara without a Mirror

I get it.  Relationships are about compromise.  And compromise requires both parties to give in once a while.  But as The Wedding Date and I prepare to celebrate the one year anniversary of our first date, I feel like all the things I want are getting sacrificed to what he has to have. And I’m not happy. He called me yesterday just as I was getting ready to head into work for the evening and asked, “How much time do you have?  Oh.  Only fifteen minutes?  Well maybe I’ll tell you later.” As you all know, “later” is never an option with a prelude like that.  So he told me then and I was right: state workers are required to reside in the state in which they work.  In other words, our plans for happily-ever-after are basically f*cked. It wouldn’t matter if he worked in Pennsylvania—the state of Philadelphia, of me, and of all things wonderful— but he works in New Jersey and having grown up in New Jersey, I have less than no desire …

The Real Reason I Want(ed) to Go to Europe

You want to know the real reason I love to travel?  Sure, I’m into museums and history and discovering that my way of doing things isn’t the only way but really I like the girl I become when I travel: fearless, self-sufficient, confident, and—get this!—I almost never get lost when I’m somewhere else. I still get turned around on my way to New Jersey (which is bad, seeing as The Wedding Date lives in New Jersey) but give me a passport, a plane ticket and a map?  I’m fine. (Seriously.  I spent nearly two months on my own in Europe when I was seventeen and I only got lost once.) The new-and-improved me that suddenly springs to life when I’m abroad, however, is only half the story.  Because with it comes my new-and-improved ability to meet people and by “people,” I mean of course men. Even when I was seventeen and had a boyfriend, I met all sorts of men when I was abroad.  There was my flat mate in Sevilla, then the Polish student …

So Yeah… About Friday Night

Given my inability to find my way out of a paper bag, I’m glad that there’s a landmark just before I have to make the turn onto The Wedding Date’s street.  I know this because the last time I met The Wedding Date at his house (back before Thanksgiving) I missed the turn, pulled over a few blocks later and called the man in question to ask, “Where are you?” This prompted the obvious “Where are you?” to which I was forced to reply, “I don’t know.” “Do you see the house with all the Christmas decorations?” he asked. “Yes.” “Well that’s my street.  Turn by the house with the Christmas decorations.  I’ll head out front to look for you.” As such, it was with the utmost confidence on Friday night that I turned off the highway into the residential zone where The Wedding Date lives.  Yes, I was running late.  And yes, it was already dark and therefore harder than usual to read the street signs, but all I had to do was find …

Friday with The Wedding Date

I’d forgotten what a pain in the butt it can be to prepare for a picnic when you live in the city and don’t own a car.  I’d also forgotten that I have amassed a collection of approximately six million water bottles over the years, any of which I could have filled for my afternoon with The Wedding Date on Friday; instead, I bought a liter of bottled water at Whole Foods (in addition to sushi, a load of bread, three different types of cheese, chocolate and hummus), which I then proceeded to lug all the way home, stopping for a bottle of wine halfway down South Street and a quarter pound of prosciutto at the new deli on 2nd and Christian. (Note: I did not consume said bottle of wine.  The wine was for our hike, as was the prosciutto, but I was definitely tempted to “lighten the load” on more than one occasion during the fifteen block trek from Whole Foods.) Fortunately our third-date “hike” was more of third-date “stroll” so it didn’t …

Part 2: Lost and Found

I’ve been really looking forward to seeing The Wedding Date, but I’m also a bit nervous.  This is for several reasons.  Firstly, I’m meeting him at a restaurant I’ve never heard of in a town I’ve never been to.  This, given my lack of navigational prowess and the renowned recklessness of New Jersey drivers, is a recipe for disaster. Secondly, I’m wearing a sleeveless blouse.  And because I hadn’t planned on wearing a sleeveless blouse, I didn’t bother to shave my armpits earlier that morning.  I’m determined to keep my arms down by my sides but what if we end up making out?  What if he sees that I haven’t shaved?  What then?  I will die of embarrassment. Last but not least, I want to be completely honest with him about next weekend’s wedding.  I know that he checked out my blog after our first date last month but I don’t know how much he’s read and the way I’ve come to see it, if you can’t be honest with someone right at the start …

The Return of the Wedding Date

Unbeknownst to me, there are three separate establishments bearing the address “312 Haddon Ave” and only one of these is the restaurant where I’m supposed to meet The Wedding Date for dinner.  Ordinarily I wouldn’t care about the numerical incongruities of some New Jersey suburb but seeing as I’m already running late, this is a problem. Why am I running late?  Well, I had a bit of a wardrobe crisis.  I’d planned to wear my purple empire waist top—the one with the sweetheart neckline that I was wearing when I met senior year boyfriend back in college—and I’d even painted my nails to match but lo and behold, the top was nowhere to be found. This prompted a frantic search through my mother’s closet, not because I thought she’d taken it but because I needed a replacement, fast, but she’s recently rearranged her drawers and I couldn’t find a thing to my liking. After much rummaging and flinging of bras, I settled on the black sleeveless blouse I bought to wear to my grandfather’s funeral …