whole week—but I want to get
started as soon as possible. I don't want to screw up next weekend.
Loser feelings wash over me when I think about the sad fact that I have to ask my friends how to go on a date with a girl.
But, hey, they're experts in the field. Why should I struggle when I can learn from their wisdom and experience?
I spend the rest of the night watching Bogie get the girl, lose the girl, get her again, and lose her again.
How You Doin'?
Exit 4
Sometimes, if the wind is blowing in the right direction, the delicious smells of Grandma's kitchen will carry clear over
to Ronnie and Lonnie's house next door. The next morning, Lonnie's on our doorstep on cue, his nostrils having pointed the
way.
"Cinnamon," he says definitively.
"The nose knows," I reply, and lead Lonnie into the kitchen.
'Ah, you're right on time, Lonnie," Grandma says. "I was just about to frost my blue-ribbon cinnamon buns."
Lonnie looks like he's waited his whole life to frost Grandma's blue-ribbon cinnamon buns. Grandma helps him get the hang
of it and the two of them work together at the counter while I watch with amusement from the kitchen table. If only Marlborough
Regional could see this!
Lonnie must be thinking this exact thought, because he keeps throwing me pleading looks. But he's got nothing to worry about.
I'll never tell a soul Marlborough Regional's It Guy may have a secret love of frosting blue-ribbon cinnamon buns. I wonder why he cares, though. I mean, doesn't Lonnie know anything
he does starts a trend? If Marlborough Regional knew their It Guy frosted blue-ribbon cinnamon buns, frosting blue-ribbon cinnamon buns would be the next big thing.
When Grandma and Lonnie are done with their frosting work, Grandma gives us each two buns, and we all sit together at the
kitchen table. Grandma opens her laptop.
"Now you have to help me with my mottos," she says.
"I got one," Lonnie says, stuffing an entire bun into his mouth. "New Jersey: What's That Smell?"
Grandma laughs.
I add, "Or how about, New Jersey: You Get Used to the Smell."
Grandma shakes her head. "Poor New Jersey. So loathed and so mocked."
"It's so bad, it's good," I say.
Grandma nods. "True. When you're that self-deprecating, you've reached a healthy self-confidence. Just like real life."
We both look at her blankly.
Grandma continues, "Identity, image, finding yourself. That's what it's about, gents."
While I try to understand this, Lonnie puts in, "We can make fun of it 'cause we live here."
I have a feeling Grandma meant something else entirely, but I don't interrupt Lonnie and neither does Grandma.
"New Jersey is actually kinda cool," Lonnie goes on. "We did invent the pork roll."
Grandma grins. 'And the drive-in theater."
"And the boardwalk," I say.
'And baseball," Lonnie says.
It's true. New Jersey may be America's armpit—and proud of it—but we did produce those things, not to mention college football,
Italian hot dogs, the lightbulb, Bruce Springsteen, Jon Bonjovi, Queen Latifah, John Travolta, Ray Liotta, Frank Sinatra,
and Kelly Ripa. And that's just a partial list.
"How about, New Jersey: Everything You've Heard Is True," Grandma says.
"Or New Jersey: We Can Have You Killed," Lonnie says.
"Or New Jersey: Most of Our Elected Officials Have Not Been Indicted," I say.
Grandma chuckles. "Well, gents, I think you've given me enough to work with. I hereby release you from further motto and frosting
duties. And, please, take these with you."
I take the tray of blue-ribbon cinnamon buns, and Lonnie and I go up to my room. When we get there, Lonnie grabs a bun, devours
it whole, and says, "Got your e-mail. You telling the truth?"
"Sure," I reply, a bit startled.
"Two girls, Reed?"
"Um, yeah, two," I mumble.
Lonnie shakes his head. "Unbelievable."
"What?"
"You ask out two girls and they both say yes."
"So? You ask out ten girls a day and they all say yes."
Lonnie gives me a withering look.
"What?" I
started as soon as possible. I don't want to screw up next weekend.
Loser feelings wash over me when I think about the sad fact that I have to ask my friends how to go on a date with a girl.
But, hey, they're experts in the field. Why should I struggle when I can learn from their wisdom and experience?
I spend the rest of the night watching Bogie get the girl, lose the girl, get her again, and lose her again.
How You Doin'?
Exit 4
Sometimes, if the wind is blowing in the right direction, the delicious smells of Grandma's kitchen will carry clear over
to Ronnie and Lonnie's house next door. The next morning, Lonnie's on our doorstep on cue, his nostrils having pointed the
way.
"Cinnamon," he says definitively.
"The nose knows," I reply, and lead Lonnie into the kitchen.
'Ah, you're right on time, Lonnie," Grandma says. "I was just about to frost my blue-ribbon cinnamon buns."
Lonnie looks like he's waited his whole life to frost Grandma's blue-ribbon cinnamon buns. Grandma helps him get the hang
of it and the two of them work together at the counter while I watch with amusement from the kitchen table. If only Marlborough
Regional could see this!
Lonnie must be thinking this exact thought, because he keeps throwing me pleading looks. But he's got nothing to worry about.
I'll never tell a soul Marlborough Regional's It Guy may have a secret love of frosting blue-ribbon cinnamon buns. I wonder why he cares, though. I mean, doesn't Lonnie know anything
he does starts a trend? If Marlborough Regional knew their It Guy frosted blue-ribbon cinnamon buns, frosting blue-ribbon cinnamon buns would be the next big thing.
When Grandma and Lonnie are done with their frosting work, Grandma gives us each two buns, and we all sit together at the
kitchen table. Grandma opens her laptop.
"Now you have to help me with my mottos," she says.
"I got one," Lonnie says, stuffing an entire bun into his mouth. "New Jersey: What's That Smell?"
Grandma laughs.
I add, "Or how about, New Jersey: You Get Used to the Smell."
Grandma shakes her head. "Poor New Jersey. So loathed and so mocked."
"It's so bad, it's good," I say.
Grandma nods. "True. When you're that self-deprecating, you've reached a healthy self-confidence. Just like real life."
We both look at her blankly.
Grandma continues, "Identity, image, finding yourself. That's what it's about, gents."
While I try to understand this, Lonnie puts in, "We can make fun of it 'cause we live here."
I have a feeling Grandma meant something else entirely, but I don't interrupt Lonnie and neither does Grandma.
"New Jersey is actually kinda cool," Lonnie goes on. "We did invent the pork roll."
Grandma grins. 'And the drive-in theater."
"And the boardwalk," I say.
'And baseball," Lonnie says.
It's true. New Jersey may be America's armpit—and proud of it—but we did produce those things, not to mention college football,
Italian hot dogs, the lightbulb, Bruce Springsteen, Jon Bonjovi, Queen Latifah, John Travolta, Ray Liotta, Frank Sinatra,
and Kelly Ripa. And that's just a partial list.
"How about, New Jersey: Everything You've Heard Is True," Grandma says.
"Or New Jersey: We Can Have You Killed," Lonnie says.
"Or New Jersey: Most of Our Elected Officials Have Not Been Indicted," I say.
Grandma chuckles. "Well, gents, I think you've given me enough to work with. I hereby release you from further motto and frosting
duties. And, please, take these with you."
I take the tray of blue-ribbon cinnamon buns, and Lonnie and I go up to my room. When we get there, Lonnie grabs a bun, devours
it whole, and says, "Got your e-mail. You telling the truth?"
"Sure," I reply, a bit startled.
"Two girls, Reed?"
"Um, yeah, two," I mumble.
Lonnie shakes his head. "Unbelievable."
"What?"
"You ask out two girls and they both say yes."
"So? You ask out ten girls a day and they all say yes."
Lonnie gives me a withering look.
"What?" I
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