And no, asshat, I don't know my exit

I’m headed to the motherland today. I haven’t been in years, several, to be exact. I’m pretty sure Bush was president, at least one of them, but like the thought of Steve Guttenberg having sex, I try to put that out of my mind. I’m excited for taylor ham, egg and cheese sandwiches, infinite jughandles, and being in the passenger’s seat as my mother drives by the cul de sacs where I used too much tongue in parked cars. I’ve always been a classy girl.

I’d like to say that I’ll welcome running into old pals, but I’m much more of an introvert. The avoidance will start on Amtrak, when I board with strategy in mind. All who travel the northeast corridor by train know the drill: find a seat, look disgruntled, perhaps diagnosable, and don’t make eye contact. Insert iPod buds, begin reading a pamphlet on “Menstruation and You: Perfect Together”* and hope to sweet Jebus no one starts telling a life story that necessitates a trip to the café car for a bottle of white zin. I’ve done otherwise before. I’ve been forced to listen to tales about visiting a new grandkid outside of Philly, about how the guy from spring break in Richmond was SO AWESOME, about how the Man doesn’t respond to repeated letters and how he’ll get his from a shack in Montana. No one ever wants to join the foot-high club on the Acela.

The avoidance will continue on Saturday at the SuperFoodtown, where I’ll whine when my mother asks me to run in for a loaf of bread. I’ll unsuccessfully feign first cramps and then an aneurysm. She’ll force me inside with a five, stopping just short of calling me a pussy. And I’ll make a beeline for aisle 3, dodging anyone who looks remotely like the weenie who dumped me a month before the prom, or the 11th grade English teacher who denied flirtatious eye blinks made over the top of a hardcover Great Gatsby. Ah, Mr. Lamb, where art thou now?

And this Jersey girl wonders why she’s single.


* Please tell me someone else is old enough to get this Garden State reference.