Tracking My Time in Florida

[E-mail to friends on June 21]

So, just a heads up, I will have very limited access to e-mail for the next week.

I don't know if I told you all, but GE is flying me to Florida to celebrate the good job my Florida region did last year when I was still part of that team (my last Louisville job).

From Friday to Sunday I'm staying at a resort south of Tampa, and on Saturday I'm going deep sea fishing. I anticipate getting sick, but I'll make a good show out of it.

I'm flying down tomorrow to spend Tuesday - Friday with Nana and my relatives there.

The weekend will be nice but a little weird because all of my co-workers in the Florida region are older guys with families. I am going to be the youngest person there by at least 20 years. And I haven't worked with these guys or talked with them for about 6 months.

At the same time, I have to treat this kind of like an interview, because I did leave a good impression on these guys when I worked with them, and I think I would be high on their list if one of them ever retired. So I would be in line to take one of their jobs and move to Florida.

Maybe.

Not any time soon, though.

Then I return to NY on Sunday at which point I work and clean and prepare for the arrival of Duchess Petredis and the 4th of July.

So, in a roundabout way, I'm bragging, dumping my anxiety on you, and apologizing in advance.

I hope everyone had a good weekend.

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[E-mail to friends on June 22]

So, quick update:

Y2J and I both had our luggage lost by some ignorance at Laguardia. As soon as the next flight from NYC lands at TPA (7 p.m.), it is being shipped to us each at our homes. His will ship to Clearwater. Mine will ship to Nana's in Seminole.

In the unlikely event that our luggage gets switched, I will put on his outfit (tights and all) and I assault a random passerby on the beach. Nana will photograph. And I will e-mail the pictures to you.

So after the snafu with the luggage, I went to rent my car for the week: a full-size sedan. I was about to sign for a 2010 Honda Accord when I was reminded that my GPS was in my luggage, and I don't have my luggage, so I would be driving aimlessly around Florida unless I got a car with a GPS installed ($40 upgrade through Hertz). I explained this to a nice guy that had been dealing with me.

Initially, when I got there, he asked if I was in Tampa on business or pleasure. I explained that I was in Tampa for both, but the leisure was to spend time with my Nana, not anything wild or sexy. This must have struck a chord with him, because when I got the upgrade to a full size sedan with a GPS, he upgraded me what must have been at least 4 steps up to a Mercedes-Benz E-class sedan (http://www.mbusa.com/mercedes/vehicles/explore/overview/class-E/model-E550W).

I explained that I really didn't need anything so fancy, but he insisted, and he insured me that this came at no additional charge.

So I drove out of TPA ballin', pimpin' hard. My grandmother is having a hard time grasping what her grandson is doing with this car in her driveway. And I think my aunt and uncle might have thought that anyone other than their nephew was hanging out with Nana this afternoon. The last time they saw me driving around down here, it was the summer that Duncan and I had moved down here, and I was driving the '93 Carolla.

I still haven't figured out how to sync my iPod and Blackberry to the dashboard/stereo, but the simple fact that I can makes me feel incredibly hard.

So I've had a good day. Got to the airport, hopped right on the flight, landed, made friends with a professional wrestler, and rode off with a hot car.

Mike and Taylor, I'm going to spring a surprise Walls of Paulicho on you when you're not looking. Mike, I may or may not poop on you when I get you in this hold.

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[E-mail to friends on June 23]

So I fell asleep last night by the front door of Nana's house, sitting in a recliner, reading a book.

There's something about Florida that turns me into an old man.

I fell asleep sitting upright, reading a book.

To be fair, though, I was also waiting for Delta to deliver my luggage, and they told me that they could deliver as late as midnight.

But they didn't.

I called this morning to get a status update on my luggage.

Again, it "has been located." This is very vague, and apparently it means, "your bag is somewhere in this dimension" (not necessarily NY...or Florida....or even the United States). "Located" just means that the number it registered to is in Delta's system as having been scanned once upon a time.

And apparently, it is supposed to be delivered some time between 8 a.m. and 10 p.m. this evening.

I would be kind of put off by this, but when I'm spending time with Nana, we get along fine playing Scrabble and double solitaire for upwards of 8 hours. So having another excuse to be housebound is a-ok with me.

Not being showered or tooth-brushed or deodorized is not ok, but I can deal with it as long as this stuff does show up today.

Also, it wouldn't be conducive to being "cool," if I rolled up on some Floridian honey in the Benz, got her attention, and rolled down the driver's side window to reveal what looked to be a homeless man from NJ.

"'Sup, baby?"

"Ew! Jerk! Who's car did you steal?!"

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[E-mail to friends on June 23]

LUGGAGE WATCH 2010:

30 hours and still counting.

Sooner or later my bag will be delivered to me.

I call Delta about every 1.5 hours to see if they have any more information.

They don't.

But they DO employ a call center of what sound to be nice young women.

And they're all appreciative that I'm not a d!ck to them.

I explain that I used to work in a call center, and that I know they didn't personally mismanage by luggage.

A manager called about 3 hours ago to confirm that I would have my bag within the next two hours.

I said thank you.

And waited.

Had a couple beers with Nana while we took turns beating each other at Scrabble.

I'm moving on to bourbon.

If I take a ride on my bourbon time machine (get blasted), maybe I'll wake up and have my toiletries with me.

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[Facebook status update - June 23]

3 hours after I land in Tampa, a mysterious man arrives to deliver my luggage. He was obese, and his man-boobs were impressive. I could not fault him. He drove a mini-van.

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[E-mail to friends, June 25]

You know that resort that Jason Segel checks into in the movie
Forgetting Sarah Marshall?

I just checked into the Florida Gulf equivalent. F'n beautiful.

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[E-mail to friends, June 28]

I arrived in that swank resort in Sarasota, FL on Friday and enjoyed cocktails and dinner with co-workers. I had one cocktail too many and fast-forward to 11:00 p.m. when I tolerated drunk neo-fascist conservative wives of my co-workers that told me that they wanted Obama assassinated. Being drunk and feisty I tolerated them and steered them in conversation to the point that we agreed non-tax-paying Christians should be deported amongst other wild things that they wouldn't have said without proper instigation.

Later that night I was walking alone on the beach with a bourbon and coke, trying to take pictures of the full moon with my camera phone. When I figured out that it was damned near impossible to get a decent phone pic, I looked at the clock on my phone and realized that it was already 1 a.m., and the chartered deep sea fishing boat was leaving at 7 a.m.

So I stumbled back to my room, slept like a rock, and woke up right on time. I took what I thought would be an adequate amount of Dramamine and proceeded to the shuttle to the boat.

The boats that picked us up at the resort's dock were two tiny things. One man described them as kayaks with motors. I would be generous if I told you they were half the size of the Petredis' boat. We were taking group pictures, and one shocked bystander asked us again what company we worked for that would put us on such small boats.

To be fair, the boats were decent, because we didn't go out far into the ocean at all. In fact, we stayed in the bay the entire time. The worst waves we encountered were the result of some speed boats passing about 400 meters away.

I was the boat leader in catching more than a dozen fish. Only one was a trout, and we were only keeping trout. I caught a lot of catfish and blue fish, the longest 21 inches. It was fun and hot and I'm glad I can say that I've done that now. We saw dolphins and stingrays and a shark.

I never felt an inkling of sickness.

But when we got back to the resort, I had the terrific sensation of being tired. Pat Brumley warned me that Dramamine didn't prevent you from feeling sick so much as it made you feel too tired to feel anything else. And I could not stay awake despite all of the bourbon and cokes I drank to stay awake.

So I slept through most of the early afternoon and into the US-Ghana game. I stumbled down to the resort's pool to watch the tail end of the game, then stumbled back to bed. Then I stumbled to an Italian dinner with a bunch of my co-workers. Then I stumbled back to bed.

That's how Saturday and Sunday went. A whole lot of me stumbling around, half-asleep, trying to take advantage of my surroundings but mostly just pissing paradise away.

The flight back to NYC was uneventful and (surprise) I slept through most of it. I arrived around 3:30, my luggage was there (!!!), and I got home around 5. Cleaned up the apartment a little bit, watered some undernourished plants, and then fell asleep.

This morning I feel like I'm finally balanced out. I'm taking care of business, back in the swing of things, putting the world back on my shoulders, and committing all kinds of other proactive figures of speech.

So I'm out on a walk while participating in a nationwide conference
call for work. I found a sweet, sweet trail through a woods....but
somehow I got turned around and am completely turned around and lost.

Thank goodness I have GPS on my phone.

How is it that shoe companies make the best commercials?

Victory Brewing Company's Whirlwind Witbier

Hot dang! This beer is delicious.

Reviews on beer advocate are mostly positive, the most pretentious criticism being "almost too easy to drink." Beer snobs sometimes piss me off. "I like this beer a lot, but its almost too easy to drink." That's like saying, "This new band really speaks to me and the lyrics affect me on a personal level, but because they're popular I CANNOT enjoy them." I suppose snobbery is snobbery across the board, whether its beer or music or whatever. Irritating snobs.

The beer rocks and tastes like a delicious summer beer. I would be upset if someone tried to put some fruit in the pint I had it served in, but that's just me. Perfect for drinking while you grill, when you're done swimming at the beach, or while you're in the midst of running sales reports on a Saturday afternoon (me).

This is the kind of beer that makes me nostalgic for the days I had a porch and a grill. And it will definitely go well when college football returns. Not a "cigar beer," but not every great beer is.

To paraphrase Ricky Bobby: "Buy Whirlwind Witbier....or go fuck yourself."

David Lasoski - Unrequited Lover and Ultimate Tough Guy

Excerpts from the entry on David Lasoski from next book:

Main Entry: ¹sauce

Pronunciation: \ˈsȯs, usually ˈ>sas for 4\

Function: noun

Etymology: Middle English, from Anglo-French, from Latin salsa, feminine of >salsus salted, from past participle of >sallere to salt, from >sal salt — more at salt

Date: 14th century

1 : a condiment or relish for food; especially : a fluid dressing or topping 2 : something that adds zest or piquancy 3 : stewed fruit eaten with other food or as a dessert 4 : pert or impudent language or actions 5 slang : liquor —used with the

David Lasoski - The day I met David Lasoski I had no idea what I was getting myself into. An obliterated, skinny little guy wandered into my apartment and started harassing my roommate. I would never have suspected that some years later he would be my roommate. It is funny how that worked out.

Recently I was reminded of what a compact, little beast he is. Apparently, something has tricked his eyes into becoming blood-red globes of Cajun-spiced fury. David and his doctors like to claim that this is allergy-related. I prefer to think that the fiery, mean demon inside of David is slowly bubbling to the surface. However, to placate the red-eye, doctors/priests have prescribed eye drops.

Eye drops?! Seriously?! You think that can bottle the genie that is inside Dave?!

I digress. Somehow I was tasked with the responsibility of returning these eye drops to David after they had been left behind at a cabin we'd vacationed at. Needing money for cigarettes and liquor (two things I often purchase for myself at David's expense), I sold the eye drops to some drug runners that I know in Louisville. I did not tell David about this. Not many people realize the street value of black market prescription eye drops. Nothing elevates you to another plane of existence like prescription eye drops.

When David started texting me and calling me for the return of these drops, I knew what I had to do: replace the eye drops with Frank's Red Hot Sauce.

As soon as I saw him next, David snapped the small tube from me and proceeded to the nearest bathroom to calm his irritated eyes. And he never screamed or flinched. I do not believe he even noticed that he had put hot sauce in his eyes. And this confirmed what I always thought about David: he is no normal man.

There are a lot of supernatural qualities about David, and I constantly find myself referencing them when I describe Mr. Lasoski. But that's best left for another post.

But for as extreme and intense as David is, I can also confirm that he is a delicate, gentlemanly lover. I cannot confirm this through personal experience (fortunately), but I can tell you that the guy leaves women satisfied. He is the immaculate playboy. Whether it comes through with his singing, his dancing, his cooking, or simply his playful, giggle-filled storytelling, there is no denying his effectiveness.

There are too many aspects of David Lasoski to adequately describe in one entry. Similarly, one book would not in itself give him justice. Even the Encyclopedia Davidica would surely omit parts of the legends.

He is the sound a tree makes when it falls in the woods and nobody is around to hear it. The tree, in its dying breath, whispers, "David Lasoski."

Aint Afraid of No Ghosts. AM Afraid of the British Pound.

So, I'm an idiot.

I just blew $100 on accident.

This all started last weekend when I watched Ghostbusters 2 while I was folding my laundry. Without telling a long, drawn-out story, I got nostalgic and decided I wanted to play the Ghostbusters game on PS3. So I impulsively hopped online to buy it. That game came in on Thursday. I've been playing it like gangbusters, and last night I decided to hop online to see what kind of Ghostbusters toys were for sale on eBay.

When I was a kid, I never had the officially licensed plastic proton pack or the PKE meter. And I found them online. So just screwing around, I put in a bid for $30 for this proton pack and PKE meter that I never had as a child. Impulsively. I didn't think I'd win the auction, because there were tons of other auctions for similar pieces that were going for upwards of $100.

I just got a message telling me that I'd won the auction. SWEET!

But I hadn't bid in dollars. I had bid in British pounds.

Oh well. Kind of a pain in the ass, but nothing terrible.

But I did the math, and its almost $40. Nothing terrible, but I thought "dammit, I just lost $10."

Then I looked at the price for shipping.

For shipping to America, this thing costs me $45.

Damn it to hell!

That was my first thought.

Then I looked again.

45 POUNDS! Not dollars!

So its more like 60+ dollars for this goofy toy.

TRIPLE DOG DAMN IT TO HELL.

So, for the low, low cost of $100+, I'm getting a toy that originally cost less than $20 that my parents never thought I needed.

Now I'm thinking I'm going to strap this bad boy on and never ever take it off.

New York City never saw me and my proton pack coming.

I'm going to get at least $100 worth of fun out of this thing....

http://cgi.ebay.com/ws/eBayISAPI.dll?ViewItemVersion&item=320533818998&view=all&tid=0

(to be continued)

I Just Forgot What I Was Going To Blog About

Oh well.

Random notes:

• I'm working on the perfect Memorial Day Weekend mix cd to share with friends, lakeside...shirtless. Holla at these nips. The actual track listing takes a long time to develop and then trim, but then sorting it out in the right order also takes a while. It is a long process that requires the utmost dedication to cosmic sonic fuzziness.
• Land of the Lost was a much better movie than most critics gave it credit for. It was never meant to be taken seriously, or as an action comedy. Instead, if you watch it as Will Ferrell and Danny McBride dicking around for 2 hours with the back drop of a 1970's stoner camp series, it fills that role 100%. It's a movie that I hold up there with Anchorman, Talladega Nights, and The Foot Fist Way. (I also recommend Observe and Report if you haven't seen it yet).
• Its probably too early to say, but I think I'm going to enjoy a full week of vacation time in Kentucky with friends, family, lovers, and maybe a hater or two.
• Some new music that has me grooving something funky: Mux Mool - Skulltaste, Sleigh Bells - Treats, Dan Black - Un (thanks Dave), Broken Bells - self-titled, Gorillaz - Plastic Beach, and the new Reverend Peyton's Big Damn Band album (thanks Duncan).
• Iron Man 2 was good, and it has made me geek out on Marvel movies past (Incredible Hulk) and future (Thor, Captain America: The First Avenger).
• Wasabi-coated-anything is delicious. Granted, I've only had wasabi peanutes and wasabi peas....but I imagine you could feed my wasabi-covered-toenails and I would inhale them.
• Reading Kurt Vonnegut opens my mind to the weirdest dreams at night. I can't explain why. It just happens. I'm half-way through Mother Night right now, and I'm seeing the weirdest things when I sleep.

That is all.

You now return to your regularly scheduled program.

Dear God

Dear God,

I love my parents. I seriously do. Without hesitation I can tell you that I would do anything for them.

But seriously. This apartment is not big enough for the three of us.

Tonight I got pulled over by a cop because I didn't have my vehicle emissions test stickers on the front of my windshield. Not because I was speeding. Not because I ran a yellow light. Not because I sped up and ran over an innocent-but-gelled-up-Guido-child. But because I didn't have updated vehicle emissions test stickers on my front windshield.

A random, young cop that did not have a Jersey accent politely pulled me over because he found me, a needle in the proverbial metropolitan haystack, without a sticker that showed that my two-year-old-car does not pollute as much as a 13-year-old Buick LeSabre does.

And then he politely ticketed me because I had my GPS in the center of my windshield instead of the "lower-center of the windshield or lower dashboard area" of my windshield.

And that rage that slowly turned and fired inside of me was only amplified inside of me because my father was in the passenger seat. And this rage was triply amplified because I had just explained to my parents that I needed to get a new vehicle emissions test sticker for my car, but I could not get one because I didn't have a NJ driver's license, and I didn't have a NJ driver's license because I don't have proof of residence in NJ, and I don't have proof of residence in NJ because my landlords still haven't sent me an updated lease, and...............RAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAGE!!!!! <forgetaboutDuncanandhisinabilitytogetanewjobIjustgotaticketbecauseofsomeoneelse'sinabilitytobeadecentGodfearinghumanbeingcompletelydeficientofcompassionandcommonsenserrrRRRRAAAAAARRRRRGGGGGGHHHHH!>

At this point my hands started to shake (to be honest, this happens every time I get pulled over), and I wanted to open my door and step out of my car and walk towards the police car JUST to see what would happen if the cop freaked out and decided to taze me. I was ready to be that redneck on COPS that just wanted to talk but ended up getting pepper-sprayed, tazed, and handcuffed...shirtless, of course.

[See, this is what happens when my friends talk about this stuff. It slowly gets absorbed into my conscience. Osmosis. I absorb what I accept as decent actions of my friends. You all talk about tazing civilians, and suddenly I wonder what would happen if I, of clear and decent mind, decide to play Devil's Advocate and run and just antagonize the boys in blue.] Again, all of my emotions were amplified because my dad was in the car with me. If there is anyone who I want to impress with my sweet driving skills (and delicious bass-catching skills) its my dad. For whatever 1950's coming-of-age, impress-my-dad reason, its my dad.

So, $200+ later....

Actually....let me back up.

My dad and I went to Target tonight because my mom decided to reorganize my apartment. My dad and I left for approximately 20 minutes to fill his tank up with gas and then figure out how to sync his new iPod up to the Kia Soul. This took all of APPROXIMATELY TWENTY MINUTES. When we got back, my mom was midway through a redecoration of my apartment. What I found out after this 20 minutes was that my bar needed to be in my dining room, my pictures all needed to be re-hung in a different arrangement, my couch *obviously* needed to be tilted at an angle, and my chair/throne needed to be in a different corner of my living room. My book case needed to be re-arranged closer to my TV, and my TV needed to be in the center of the wall it was on, and so it goes.

AND I needed another book case, a plant stand, and a floor lamp.

To be fair, my mother has a knack for rearranging rooms and making them better. "Unlocking their potential." And I have given her permission to rearrange whatever she wanted to. I just didn't anticipate her trying to accomplish all of this while I was out of the home.

So my dad and I were on a mission after dinner to go to Target to buy the new furniture.

I would not have been on the road tonight, sans an updated vehicle emissions test, -WITH- a GPS in the middle of my windshield, if I didn't need a bookcase, plant stand, and floor lamp.

So I got home, sufficiently miffed at having TWO tickets for no other apparent reason than passing an eagle-eyed cop with nothing better to do than collect tickets from innocent bookcase buyers. I started to put together a floor lamp and a plant stand while my dad put together a bookcase. In case you were wondering, plant stands from Target are pieces of sh!t, and they fall apart at a moment's notice.

Moment: Hey, what are you doing?

Notice: Nothing much, how about you?

Moment: Watching "Dancing with the Stars." Did you know that Pussycat Doll Nichole is from Louisville?
Notice: I did! Did you see how she's so serious-looking all the time? Its like, "You're the lone Pussycat Doll in a rotating cast of Pussycat Dolls which consist of dancing, quasi-talented singer/smilers. Lighten up."

Moment: I know, right?

Notice: DROP ME

Moment:

I feel really gay for having just typed that.

My dad was hard at work putting together a new bookcase when suddenly there was a knock at the door.

Dad: Paul, you have company.

Me: No I don't

Nobody, for the two months that I've lived here, has ever knocked on my door.

Tonight proved to be the exception.

Dad: Paul, someone is knocking on your back door.

Paul: Well, hell, answer it.

At this point, my downstairs neighbor is at my back door for the first time in two months. I have talked with him many times, chatting about sports or the weather or cigars or the city, and at LEAST 50% of the time I check with him to make sure I'm not making too much noise upstairs. And ALWAYS he insures that he, nor his wife, nor his 10-month-old son Dave can hear me at all.

His name is John. His wife's name is Danielle. His son's name is Dave.

I hear Dave every once in a while crying about things babies cry about. I have only heard Danielle one time. I hear John often because he has the kind of booming voice that could be singled-out in the crowded NYSE.

On the eve of the first night I stayed here alone, I heard Danielle for the first and only time. John and Danielle had gotten into the kind of shouting, door-slamming fight that led to the police responding to the kind of domestic disturbance that required me to put on pants and come make a statement at the front door. I heard Danielle screaming things like "&^$& YOU!," and "HELP ME!," and "WHAT THE &%@#?!" through the floor. I heard John even clearer responding to these questions and statements. Later that night I witnessed Danielle get escorted away in police cars. Later that week I watched her move back in. Later than that, even, I heard John responding with the kind of adult statements, through the floor, in the booming kind of voice that only comes from a man when he's receiving oral sex.

Since then, John and Danielle have been a model couple.

And we chat about everything. They are truly my favorite neighbors. We talk and laugh about lots of subjects.

I've never had the nerve to ask what happened on the night of March 9th (the night of the screams and fight and police), but I admit that I considered moving back to KY that night, paralyzed from fear, because I thought everyone in NJ was either a wifebeater or an abused wife. And I want nothing to do with either.

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So anyways, John (the supposed wifebeater) was at my backdoor (no jokes) asking if everything was alright. He was talking to my father because I was in the midst of putting together some God-forbidden cheap-Chinese-manufactured plant stand from Target. My father insured John that all was good. I popped my head into the back door to show John that I was indeed alive and well and not suffering any torture sessions from the hands of any Mafia.

I assume that John thought some violent torture was being conducted by the Mafia upstairs from his apartment.

I make these assumptions, because any time there's something I come across that is inexplicable, I blame it on the Mafia.

For as long as I've lived here, with the exception of when Pat, Dave, and I moved myself in here, this apartment has been really quiet. It's always been just me up here. Working and cooking and cleaning and gaming and lounging up here. Occasionally writing self-flagellatory blogs about my experiences, but overall being a quiet neighbor.

Neither John nor Danielle were used to hearing three sets of feet operating up here, and I'm sure they weren't used to hearing someone re-arrange furniture up here, nor were they used to the banging and clanging and hammering that are associated with putting together new furniture.

So John made his way upstairs for the first time since I moved here to check "to make sure everything was ok." I don't know if he assumed I was midway through a fight, through a violent gang bang, torture session, or what. Nor was I sure how he was prepared to intervene.

To me, the sound of putting together a plant stand and a bookcase are completely remarkable and distinguishable. Apparently, to my downstairs neighbor, they were worth checking out.

John got his satisfactory answer, and he left back to his downstairs apartment, assured after meeting my father, that we were ok.

My parents at this point, took on the position of scolded children.

And for whatever reason, this completely exhausted me. I'm writing now, half-awake and half-asleep, but 100% agitated. I'm just bothered. I don't love anyone any less. I'm not any different. Just tired and temporarily agitated.

I was $60 in the hole already for buying cheap furniture from Target that I didn't really need, and now I'm at least $200 in the hole from the Bergen County Police Department. I have irritated my neighbors, and I have made my parents feel guilty for trying to make this apartment a better place.

I fell asleep almost a dozen times typing this.

I don't know that I love anyone as much as my family. They operate on a plane that exists separate from the rest of the world. I will tell anyone that I love my friends and will sacrifice anything for them, but my family is on another level.

That being said, "I need my space." I need to be able to walk around in my boxers again. I need to be able to load my refrigerator the way I want it. I need to be the only person with access to my bourbon and beer. I need to be able to make my own schedule and not drive when policemen are looking for vehicle-emissions-test stickers or GPS's. And I need to be able to not watch golf tournaments or Dancing With the Stars or the Amazing Race on my tv.

Ultimately, I would never trade the time I have with my parents.

Except now.

Please, God, help them get to North Carolina safely. And then please let them drive back to Kentucky safely.

And most importantly God, please let me decompress and deflate back into the space that used to be my apartment.

I miss my parents already, but please, travel safely, fast.

For David

My blood brother David recently brought it to my attention that he thinks I talk to much about farts and butts.

My mature, thoughtful response to this is the following:

Family in Town

My parents got up here last night. It took them just at 13 hours (including 5 stops for bathroom breaks and dog-walking).

It is awesome to have them up here and to share some of my new places with them. They shared my reaction of being starstruck with things that I now look at as commonplace. "Look at all this traffic!" "Where do all of these people live/drive to/shop/go for coffee/etc.?!" My dad, too, had the hell scared out of him when he was following directions to my apartment but found himself on a ramp taking him to the George Washington Bridge. Granted he had been driving for 13 hours, and he had four Mountain Dews in his system, but my mother tells me his hands started shaking when he got to that point. Bless his heart. I remember freaking out and telling David to check the directions at least a dozen times before I calmed down when we exited before crossing the bridge into Manhattan. It's not a mean place at all, but there's something distinctly terrifying about the thought of driving into a Metropolis for the first time.

He's also claustrophobic. I understand the bumper-to-bumper traffic freaks him out, too. I was showing off Hoboken today, and he got pretty freaked out when we were on a ramp to the Holland Tunnel. The thought of bumper-to-bumper traffic AND being underground in a tunnel made what's left of his hair stand on end. I felt bad, but it was also kind of funny.

I'm always learning different things about my parents. They, like most people I know, were worried about me moving up here by myself, and they continue to worry. They worry to a lesser extent now that they see I have a fitting apartment and know my way around.

However, my dad and I stayed up pretty late last night, drinking beers, catching up. He very rarely gets emotional, but last night he told me that he really misses me. Mom has hinted that he lets it slip now and then that he feels lonely without me around. Last night was the first time he's just come out and said it. But just like *THAT* he changed the conversation to something else, something completely unemotional or delicate. That is a quality I have always admired in him, but its also pretty scary. One of those blessing/curse situations that I am noticing more and more.

Later in the conversation, Dad and I were talking about moving for work. He told me that there is no way he could ever have uprooted and moved away like I have. That felt like a victory to some unspoken competition we've had since I have grown up. "I did something my dad could never do." AWESOME. There's probably something oedipal about the fact that I value this fact so much. I don't care, though. I'll enjoy this sensation while I have it.

Mom is mom. She's a breath of fresh air. Whenever she's around her children its like she's ingested her weight in extacy. She's just completely wired with love. Its endearing, and if anyone else acted the way she does, I would find them completely obnoxious.

Today has been a New Jersey day for them. I took them to Hoboken, Liberty State Park, and then around my neck of the woods. Tomorrow we're going to the city, and I'll show off some of the things I like about the Hudson River Valley area. And then Monday we're going to have a hodge-podge of things to do.

My only complaint so far is that they didn't bring the bourbon from Kentucky that I asked of them. To be fair, I only e-mailed them about it on Thursday, and they didn't get the message before they left on Friday morning. Oh well....just one more thing to look forward to for Memorial Day weekend.