One or two things I know about her
- It may be that Zillow lies. It tells me houses have just come on the market, and when I go to actually look at them they’re already gone. This is discouraging, because I would totally have bought that house.
- In Pennsylvania, the shirtless douchebags start driving shirtless much earlier in the season, pumping out a much worse type of music. This may be the downside to a warmer spring.
- The worst part of moving is having to break up with my hairstylist. I’ve been with her for more than 20 years. I feel like I’m cheating. It’s even worse, really, because every time I’ve gotten my hair cut it’s been by someone different, so it’s like I’m slutting around on her.
- The move south means I get to experience something akin to those people who move to Australia and get summer twice in a row: I get to have spring allergies twice in rapid succession. The dogwoods and magnolias are already in bloom down here in greater Philly. (After all, why do you think they call it “greater”?) And so’s a lot of other stuff with pollen. Then it’ll all die down and I’ll go back north and experience it anew in three weeks.
- While I do get to experience the commercial genetic superiority of a Wegman’s, which all of Albany is clamoring for, there is no such thing as a Stewart’s down here, and no local equivalent. The best I can hope for is a Wawa, whose new stores are all clean and presentable and have decent bathrooms. But seriously, it’s embarrassing just to say its name.
- I can’t say that I’ll necessarily miss living in a place where I can kill a mosquito, hatched from the April warmth, in my bathroom on the same morning that I then had to go out and scrape a significant amount of ice off my car. I’m fairly sure that’s a sign of something.
- This whole thing about no self-serve gas in New Jersey: I don’t care that it’s 20-30 cents a gallon cheaper, AND someone pumps it for you. I think those of us who can remember full serve have a romantic memory of rolling over the gas station’s bell hose and having Chip come running out to serve you, filling ‘er up while cleaning the windshield and checking your oil (in a hot engine), and making change with a smile. The current reality is sitting in line and waiting while one overworked immigrant plods from car to car, putting your credit card into a very sketchy card reader, starting the pump and then walking off to tend to 10 other cars, leaving you to sit for seven minutes after your tank is full before he gets back to you to hand you your card. The whole process takes a minimum of three times as long as pumping it yourself does, and makes you feel like you’re exploiting undocumented labor in the process.
Oh, I know your pain in re losing Stewart’s . . . . and then having to deal with an embarrassingly named replacement in the new home region, namely market leader Kum n’ Go out here in Iowa. (Quik Trip and Git n’ Go are equally annoying for people who know how to spell).
Yeesh!
Fortunately, we also have a regional chain called Casey’s, which I feel good about. They don’t have Stewart’s quality ice cream and dairy, but they’ve got excellent pizza, coffee and donuts, and are generally predictably laid out and clean.
I have yet to find a substitute for Stewart’s deliciously disgusting rubbery pale steamed hot dogs, though . . . which may be a good thing, though I keep looking . . .
In re shirtless douchebags, yes, they come out earlier here, too. And there are no helmet laws in Iowa, so a lot of them ride around shirtless in their shorts on their motorcycles, sunburned invitations for road rash and cranial injuries . . .
Somewhat ironically, I don’t even like Stewart’s ice cream. Being hyperlocal, I don’t think there’s any excuse for the preservatives and gums and such, but that’s just me. But no, there is NO chance I’d stop at a Kum n’ Go, and they certainly know why. I tell myself that at least Wawa is less ridiculous than Piggly-Wiggly.
I’ve always been mixed on the helmet thing for motorcycles. On the one hand, we thin the herd more quickly and let Darwin do his work. On the other hand, our tax and insurance dollars have to scrape all those brains off the pavement.
Personally, taking a bug to the skin at 20 mph on a bike is at least mildly annoying; having one whack into your shirtless torso at 60 on a motorcycle has to be a little more than that. I’ll keep a layer on, thanks.