May I suggest the mussels?

With the cold weather comes nostalgia for all things New England. The glory of pretentious apple picking, designer flannel, and yelling at cows is sorely missed. Granted I do live near Amish country, but they would judge the stale scent of natural light and failure I radiate on weekends.

This morning I got ready for the beach with Danielle so she could art direct a sand castle for her book design project. G-d I love not having a real major.
After I got dressed and took a look at myself in my fabulous IKEA mirror, I realized three things:

a) all of my fall clothes are currently stashed in garbage bags four hours away
b) my mother could possibly donate or throw out said clothes again and I would be doubly fucked
c) I had put on a Michael Stars tee and Juicy hoodie without prior thought, which screams "jewish suburbanite" louder than any cheerleader without a gag reflex.

After some black coffee and Trader Joe's blueberry oatmeal (they were out of apple oatmeal yesterday, for shame) we headed off to the delightful land they call South Jersey.

I had never been to Cape May before, and it looked like a far less affluent version of a Rhode Island beach town. I could also be prejudiced against anything Jersey, but that goes without saying. On the car ride down we realized that any senior trip we could possibly afford would involve sitting in a beach house with copious amounts of liquor and mollusks. Seafood goes down best with friendship and a high alcohol content. Out of our circle of friends only the designers and med students are graduating this year, with the latter going off to more schooling, and the rest of us poor schmucks are thrown kicking and screaming into the real world.

However, such an event is unavoidable and I am getting sick of going to generically procured theme parties. When I was asked why I didn't dress up for the jungle themed party last night, my immediate response was, "I'm too old for this bullshit" and then, "you know I look like a cougar anyway."