I remember my first trip to “the North,” to find a place to live, really live, with a permanent job. I travelled up to the great state of New Jersey, with my dog no less. For those of you who didn’t have the privilege of meeting and knowing Shelby, you missed out. She was the best dog in the world. But you might have also had a nice, hard chuckle seeing Little Miss South, travelling along the New Jersey Turnpike, with her yellow lab who was five months old. We probably resembled a Saturday Night Live skit; Shelby in my lap, helping me drive the car down the busiest highway I’d ever embarked upon (and some might argue my driving skills needed improvement, too, to be nice).

Shelby never really liked cars, and I never really liked New Jersey, so perhaps this is the experience that really bonded the two of us. As she tried to steer my Jetta (probably back to the South, subliminally), she barked and slobbered incessantly. Looking back, it was probably a miracle we didn’t both die on that weekend excursion. I can’t believe I actually took her along with me on that house-hunting mission.

After touring the area in Northeast Jersey, I settled on Montclair; because I thought the area was pretty (good reason, yes?). And it was closer, geographically speaking, to New York City than Madison, the lovely town where I worked. Looking back, I showed my complete and utter ignorance of geography. Not only did I not realize that Northeastern traffic did not remotely resemble that of Charlotte or Richmond, but a “short distance” to New York City in a car is like the last six miles of a marathon. But that’s a whole ‘nother story. How could I have not realized that Madison actually had a train to the City? How could I have not known that a commute to work, especially in a year that marked record snow levels, would suck? But that’s a whole ‘nother story, too.

It’s hard to know where to begin, with my apartment or my experience with New Jersians. My friends in the South had me convinced that every person in New Jersey was in the mob; as a result, I initially traversed the area in fear of my life. If I picked up a pizza to go, I thought I’d get shot getting into my car.

The people? The first time I took Shelby for a walk, I had no idea of what a poop scoop law was. She pooped. I walked. A lady ran out of her house and bawled me out. I cried. No one had ever talked to me that way in my life. Welcome to the North.

My apartment? Well, it was actually pretty nice, even if it did devour 50% of my paycheck. (God forbid I think of this when I agreed to my salary with AHP when hired/living in the South. The company made no cost of living adjustment when I was transferred North, and I had no idea how much more it cost to live in NJ than Richmond). Unfortunately, it was the first floor of house with electric heat. Electric heat in a record snow winter for a girl who’d never lived in the North spelled disaster. To put in bluntly, I nearly froze to death. Even with electric bills that were typically $400/month, my apartment was frigid. I learned how to start fires in my fireplace that year (thank God), and I would come home from work at night and sit in front of the fireplace with Shelby in my lap, with layers of clothes and blankets. But I’m serious. The place was really cold. One night I had some sort of water leak in the kitchen so I mopped it up with a towel. The next morning, the towel was frozen. It was COLD, even by Yankee standards.

So my first trip to NYC. I had a blind date – with the police commissioner’s son no less – and was driving over to meet him at Madison Square Garden. Problem #1. It was a Friday night. But I was so excited to drive to NYC for the first time in my entire life, my first REAL City outing, I was nearly peeing in my pants on the drive over. Well, at least for the first fifteen minutes of my adventure. Until I encountered the endless line of traffic that took me nearly four hours to get through. By the time I found the Garden, I was more than three hours late to meet my date. I had no cell phone (yes, these were the pre-cell days) and no way to contact my date. Being the police commissioner’s son, the poor guy thought I’d been murdered. And hell, it was amazing I hadn’t been. Driving around a “not so safe” area of “town” with no idea how to find the tunnel to get me back to Montclair – oh Lordy, it was a miracle I made it home safely.  The only happy camper from this whole escapade was Shelby, because “Mom” was back sooner than expected.

These experiences are a small microcosm of my entire NJ experience.