Thursday night April 22nd I moved from my Greenwich Village apartment to my parents suburban New Jersey home (why take the day off when your Dad is the equivalent of a professional mover and your life’s contents fit inside a Toyota Sienna minivan?)Friday, April 23rd I moved seven of twelve bags and boxes from the garage to the bedroom I’ll now inhabit and then stared at them for a few hours contemplating unpacking. Sometime around 7pm I figured out how to open just enough bags and boxes to assemble my clothing, shoe, accessory and bag needs for a week in LA. 25 or so of those minutes were spent trying to locate the purple suede peep toe wedges I needed for three of my five dressy outfit options, but then I remembered we took photos of my shoe-packing process so I went to the tape and there they were in bag two of three (that was a good idea Geanna).

Saturday, April 24th at 7am I flew to LA for a week of work with some vacation in the mix.

• LA friend: “So where do you live?”
• Me: “Well, actually, I moved home to New Jersey recently.
• LA friend: “Oh wow, when?”
• Me: “Yesterday.”

So my first real day as prodigal daughter wasn’t until Sunday, May 2nd when I flew back from LA and drove south not north in the Skyline town car.

• Driver: “You go where?”
• Me: “Freehold, New Jersey.”
• Driver: “Oh, whoa – I thought Freehold, New York.”
• Me: “No sir, there is no Freehold, New York.”

And there is officially no New York in Freehold.

I grew up in this bedroom community of 35K situated 60-or-so miles from Manhattan, so it’s by no means foreign. After my freshman year of college I commuted in to an internship with a fashion house on 56th Street and for the first six months of my post-grad life I lived home and traveled in to the temp and freelance jobs I had before my first, full-time gig – so the route 139 bus from Freehold Mall is not new to me, nor is the intricate dance that is the morning commute to Manhattan.
But much like what I’m told about childbirth – you never quiiite remember how bad it is until you’re going through it again.
First of all – it’s a bus not a train which means it’s subject to traffic. Unpredictable, non-sensicle, makes-you-want-to-tear-your-hair-out traffic. You can, for absolutely no reason at all, sit for 30 minutes inside the Lincoln Tunnel at 8:35 in the morning (Tuesday). Or spend 18, that’s right, 18 minutes in the EasyPass line of the Parkway Toll Plaza (Thursday). And if – heaven forbid – moisture falls from the sky in any form at any time, it can take you up to three and half hours to go sixty miles (Monday…).

• Bus Driver: “Listen folks, this isn’t gettin’ much better, and frankly I’m not gonna make it, so we needa’ take-a’ pit stop.”
• Fellow bus riders: “WHAT?! NO! THAT’S CRAZY?! THAT’S ILLEGAL!! TURN THE DAMN READING LIGHTS ON!!”

So far this week I’ve gotten home at 9pm, 9:30pm and 10:45pm, but in fairness that’s because I’m unwilling to abandon my city life and friends during this money-saving stint. I’m sure that will change with time, as will the amount of nights of spend on friend’s couches, but as far as week one goes, my life maintained normalcy; I just slept 50% less hours.
On the very positives side are a few key items:

• My Mom insists upon making my lunch. She makes herself a lunch (and the other two of my three sisters who currently live home), so what’s one more delicious chicken and swiss with lettuce, tomato and raspberry dressing wrap? she says. I will never stop feeling guilty about this, but I’ve relented. Those wraps are damn good.
• Someone picks me up from the bus every night and says, “hi, how was your day?” I imagine this is what being married or having a caring live-in boyfriend is like. Really lovely.
• There is everything I could ever need ever in that house. A pantry stocked with food. A washer and dryer. A closet full of office supplies and arts & crafts. And four sets of female clothing in a range of sizes, shapes and styles. I have yet to unpack a thing and yet I’ve gone to work clothed every day. On Tuesday I assembled an entire outfit from the clothes Sara’s didn’t take to London and Wednesday I grabbed some cute top out of the laundry room. I don’t know whose that was, but thanks.

This weekend I fully intend to organize my belongings, donate the clothes I no longer need, and get myself officially situated into my new, temporary location. The entire fam is being incredibly gracious about helping me through this process…

• Mom: “Oh…you haven’t unpacked anything yet..Ok…I’ll help you this weekend. We’ll handle it.”
• Dad: “Let’s take a trip to Sam’s Club and get some extra plastic containers for you.”
• Alex: “Jess, there’s room in the basement for some of your stuff. We can put it there.”

..which seemed like just the warm welcome my life-changing deserved from the greatest support system in my life. Until this:

• Me: “So I figure I’ll start this week, but I have over a month until Sara comes home from England.”
• Dani: “Um, Sara comes home May 22nd.”
• Me: “No, June 22nd.”
• Dani: “Nope, May 22nd.”
• Me: “WHAT?!”
• Dani: “Yeah, that’s like two weeks, top.”
• Me: “WHAT?!”
• Dani: “Yeah, and she’s going to flip a shit if your stuff is all over her room.”
• Me: “WHAT?!”
• Dani: “Yeah, like crying style. You need to get that in order”

So. Week one: check (…ish).
Stay-tuned. Wish me luck. And don’t worry Sara – it’s totally under control.