"Go forth and rant, young grasshopper..."

That's what she said..."she" being the better half of the PB&J duo that is Tara and Maureen. I was a little peeved about some things and she advised me to make a blog post out of my dis-ease, so that's what I'm doing.

First it was the library overbuild - if you are a non-Stocktonite, you will have no idea what that means. Well, simply put, it looks like this: you demolish an outdoor, nicely sunlit patio in front of the library-wing entrance and replace it with an "eco-friendly" new wing with exposed, recycled steel beams.

Then, it was the plowing down of these beautiful, massive oaks to make way for a spiffy new college center, which for some reason is pictured in the plans as having a bizarre head-shot of Shakespeare in one of the front windows.

A few weeks ago, it was the unveiling of an upgraded, "more aesthetically pleasing" website with pictures of shiny, happy students galavanting about under trees (some of which are no longer here because of the nice new college center).

And now, at my most delicate moment, when I have been pushed to the very limits of discomfort at realizing just how much my beloved school has changed over the years...the bookstore. The hallowed aisles, once lit with scathing fluorescent bulbs and filled to the brim with junk food into which I could drown my professional sorrows around 3-ish every day, are now carpeted and surrounded by dark wood shelves, professional racks of clothing, and...gulp...INFORMATION desks. It looks more like a Barnes and Noble than the old Follett bookstore. And this, my friends, is the last straw.

There is nothing wrong with getting a makeover once in awhile, wanting to look good for all the new freshmen that will eventually traipse through your halls, admiring your interior (need I remind you to get your mind out of the gutter?). But this is not a makeover - this is a chemical peel followed by a facelift followed by a full-body transplant.

All because we can't be happy with what we have.

The transformation of my old stomping grounds and current workplace is merely a reflection of society at large. Except it usually doesn't cost many millions of dollars for people to get nipped and tucked...but I digress.

I find it disappointing and sad. I suppose I'm an archaic old relic who hates change. More than that, though, all these "improvements" have done nothing more than turn Stockton into a run-of-the-mill state institution. We look pretty, run inefficiently, and find more and more ways to prostitute ourselves to the public for a few bucks.

When I came here 11 years ago, this school meant something. It was on a beautiful tract of land which, while not entirely untouched by progress, still offered unmarked walking trails through the woods, places undiscovered (or unmarred by discovery) that you could find and claim as yours. As soon as you got on College Drive, you wondered how far you were from civilization as you drove...and drove...and drove until you found the parking lots.

Now all the trails have signs with arrows because everyone's afraid to leave the beaten path. The entrance is paved over, making way for a large traffic light for the many cars that will travel down Vera King Farris Drive (meh...far be it from me to speak ill of the dead, but...). New freshmen won't wonder where the parking lots are - first they'll pass the newly paved "back" roads going into the woods, then they'll pass the LED sign that tells them where they are (and the newly planted grove of trees that will never make up for all the ones chopped down), and finally they'll see the huge blue building with the ospreys and the school seal screaming the new-ish school colors. The parking lots are bigger and there are no longer rustic old wooden signs with yellow painted words directing you where to go.

And if the students happen to come in from the other side of campus, they'll see signs along the edge of the campus that tells them where they are. They'll pass the new "sports complex" - fake green fields and shiny new bleachers ready for action. Eventually they'll pass all the new-new and old-new housing complexes.

Somehow, through all this development, we became New Jersey's Green College. I think, though, that the green stands for something else. The trees left behind after the massacre aren't really green so much as they're covered in the sawdust from all their fallen compatriots. But there are more classrooms and parking spaces and places to eat...there will even be a large food court in the new college center, expanding the already plentiful ways students can become obese on campus. Yep, the green sure will roll in...

I miss the old school and my old friends and the old way of doing things. At least things mattered back then...now we're just another school in the crowd. I'm thinking about writing the Stockton Bible - you know, to memorialize the old times. I envision a section somewhere around the middle (let's call it Tara 9:6) that will go like this:

"For unto the Pinelands, an urban university will be born, a paved paradise will be given to us; And the fate of South Jersey will rest on Its shoulders; And Its name will be called Extinguisher of Poverty, Mighty Institution, Eternal Ivory Tower, Prince of Capitalism." (If you'd like to see the original verse, feel free to hop on over here. Call me a spiritual satirist, if you will.)

Fearless

Here's how I found out I'm no longer afraid to live. Last night, my mischievious little husband told me about a series of break-ins happening around our neighborhood. I say mischievious because I think he likes to see me squirm sometimes - in other words, he thought by telling me about this new development, I would flip out.

Not one to disappoint, I did flip out a little, thinking about ridiculous possibilities like What if they break in during the day and let the cat and dog out? What if they break in at 2am and my insomniac self is hanging out in the living room watching infomercials? What if they decide to take all of our ::GASP:: food?!?!

Mid-mini meltdown, however, I realized my heart really wasn't in it. I was just acting out my typical response without really thinking about it - in other words, it was an automatic response.

I then proceeded to disappoint my husband by saying, "Oh well, we don't really have anything worth stealing anyway." Because in my head, what I was really thinking was Wow, I have actually managed to quit my unhealthy attachment to all our STUFF. The chief concern in my mind was the safety of my pets (and of course my hubby). I'm not too worried about me, though. I have a feeling that if someone knocked on my door at 2:30am (which is how the intruders approached their first victim's house), I'd just invite them in for coffee. What's the harm in being kind to common burglars? Either way, they're going to take my stuff...at least if I offer them coffee, I have a far lesser risk of ending up unconscious on the floor. Who's gonna turn down free caffeine at 2:30am when they clearly have to stay awake long enough to finish the job and evade the police?

Still, why wasn't I bothered by the thought of someone invading my home, privacy, and sense of safety? Shouldn't I be more concerned about losing my precious iMac and way-too-large T.V.? But all I could think about was what a burglar's face might look like if I was waiting at the door with a mug of coffee and some cookies. Like waiting for Santa Claus, right? Except instead of a white beard, red suit, and sack in his hand, you're facing some dudes in ski masks, possibly armed, sacks in hand for a whole other reason. Wouldn't that just completely throw them off if I welcomed them, asked them to come in and take what they wanted? That's why I've got insurance, right? (Though I'm not so sure our insurance company would want to fund the replacement of stuff I essentially gave away.) Anyway, what could they possibly steal that would mean anything to me to lose?

I slept pretty good last night, despite my best attempts at reliving that awful, gnawing fear I've lived with forever. I did have nightmares about burned cookies, though...

t.

Redemption at Bobby Dee's Casino

The blue neon "Redemption" sign dangles over the cashier's counter at the back of the arcade, behind the machine that sucks up your hard-won tickets and spits out a receipt you will ultimately trade in for a cheap plastic water gun or rubber ball.

It surprises me. As we parade up to the counter to redeem the $14.85 earned through an hour of game-playing and quarter-wasting, I look up and all of a sudden...BAM! There is this crazy blue sign. The synchronicity is funny in a humorless sort of way - really more sad than anything. Still, the sign is there and I can't help but think it's meant for me, the many thousands of other Wildwood visitors be damned.

I don't like the tackiness of the boardwalk or the tourist-trap shops. I can't stand throngs of people pushing you every which way as you trudge across the boards, occasionally tripping over a nail that needs to be pounded back in, carrying a 40-lb bag of beach goodies that will probably not get used. I especially don't like the humidity of the salt air, how it makes your skin sticky and your hair frizzy. The only thing I like about going to the boardwalk is the promise that eventually, I will get to go on the beach. I don't go in the ocean any deeper than my ankles because I can't see the bottom and I know there's a killer jellyfish waiting for me somewhere under there. But I like the wet sand and the white-capped waves that go haywire when a storm is coming.

A storm is coming today, only I don't know that it's going to be both weather- and marriage-related.

Everyone knows I hate the boardwalk, but I go anyway because Syd and Alex enjoy the rides and the bizarrely entrancing foods like Chipstix and pistachio fudge. But I make no secret of my distaste for the whole scene, which makes me feel worse because at some level, I know I am not-so-secretly trying to ruin their day together.

Things get worse when the two of them trudge off to Mariner's Landing, leaving me in a shop where I am searching for a non-tacky headband to pull the sweaty hair back from my forehead. I think he's waiting outside when really he and his kid have gone off to ride the rides, thinking nothing of my impending panic at having to search the entire boardwalk for them. I am angry and I get progressively angrier with each circuit around the pier. No Alex, no Syd. They don't care that I'm carrying around a bag full of flip-flops and beach towels.

I finally take a break on a bench in the center of the pier, under a pergola that barely spares me from the sun. I can see the bathroom, I have water, I have crackers, and best yet, I have the keys to the truck and all the money. I think things are fine.

But after five minutes, I get angry again and start another circuit around the pier. 

Of course, we eventually find each other but I can't hold my anger back and ream Alex out for giving me a mild anxiety attack. When all is said and done, I've wasted a precious 20 minutes of the time we have with Syd cursing at my husband in the middle of the boardwalk. I stop mid-yell, think for a second, and apologize for flying off the handle. In the hopes that I can redeem myself a bit, I follow them down the boardwalk like a sulking puppy, still carrying the beach bag.

Bobby Dee's Casino is on a corner, the address a simple 3600 Boardwalk painted in small letters on the side.  Alex and Syd are happy again and ready to spend some cash on a few games that will pay out nothing but cheap orange tickets and maybe a few brass-colored tokens. But if they're happy, then I'm happy because I am still trying to work out how I'm going to save the remainder of the day. I am repentant for my outburst and repentance for me usually takes the form of silence.

In the end, when Syd is ready for her mini-shopping spree, I see the sign and stop dead. It makes me think of the word redemption and what it means in the context of a boardwalk arcade.

What does it all mean?! 


Does it mean anything?


To be continued...

It's complicated...

In the last few weeks, I've noticed that quite a few of my Facebook friends have changed their relationship status to "It's complicated." I want to preface the following soapbox speech by pointing out that I love and respect all of those friends and I do not intend to insult you with my witty comments. So if you find yourself getting insulted, buck up and think long and hard before you send me hate emails.

That said, what the hell is wrong with you gals?! (And yes, of course, it's mostly gals who wear their hearts on their profiles.)

Here's the thing...I've had LOTS of those "it's complicated" relationships. More than I care to admit, actually. But when all is said and done, I think it's a whole lot of camel spit, maybe because of my many egregious dating sins. When I think back on those halfhearted love affairs, there are only a handful of personality types that have caused me grief - and let's not neglect to take responsibility for our own flaws, too.

The Pushover: He would do anything for you, but you just can't find it in you to respect him. It's awfully hard to dump someone who's so nice.

The Egomaniac: You would do anything for him, but he just can't find it in him (or see beyond his own face in the mirror) to respect you. It's awfully hard to let go of someone who treats you like dirt.

The Liar: You're waiting with baited breath for him to redeem himself OR you tell yourself it wasn't that big of a tall tale.

The Cheater: He likes girls...and girls...and girls. Where do we even begin here?!

The Secret Homosexual: He tells you he likes girls...hell, he probably believes he likes girls. But guess what? He likes your short hair for more than one reason.

What it seems to boil down to more often than not is our fear of being alone or of losing all that time we might have wasted with someone who wasn't really in it for the long haul. That's valid. But here's what I think.

There's no such thing as a complicated relationship. You either love him or you don't. You either trust him or you don't. You either respect him or...you get the picture. And all the same must go for him, too. There is no in-between when it comes down to brass tacks, ladies. These simple statements are core reflections of who the two of you are as a couple, and if you're missing one or more of the essential relationship components, you might as well move on. Because if you think you're going to regret wasting time when you dump him next week, you're really going to regret it in a year...or a decade.

There is, of course, such a thing as relationships with complications. Emotions are complicated. I don't always ::GASP:: adore my husband. Today I had a camera shoved down my throat by a trigger-happy doctor, I had a wicked allergy attack when I got home, and my sunburned knee still doesn't move right...and yet hubby thought it was okay to take his kid to a demolition derby without me. Sure, he asked me if I was alright with it at first and, like the kind and loving wife that I am (read: manipulative and fickle), I said it was perfectly fine. And as soon as he left, I moped around the house thinking how much it sucked to take care of myself.

But at the end of the day, complicated emotions work themselves out. There should never be the threat hanging over your head of losing the relationship because of a disagreement or pouty moment. And when I think of all those "it's complicated" moments in my own life, I don't recall one of them in which I was confident that no matter what, it would all be fine in the end. Even as a happily married woman, I can't always be sure that everything will turn out alright - there's no reason at all that my relationship is more likely to succeed than a decent cohabitation. The difference is that at every turn, I know we have those three critical elements of a good relationship and that if ever one of them disappears, we will mutually agree to go our separate ways. There is no threat looming at the end of every argument, but rather the comfort of knowing that we will do our best to keep things moving along in an orderly fashion.

Wake up and smell the coffee - you don't need "complicated" in your life! And if he insists you can't survive without it (i.e., him), then get the hell out of Dodge and find yourself a real cowboy.

*The preceding opinion applies equally well to men in "complicated" relationships. No need to be sexist here.