Andrew J. Lenza

Wonderful place to live and raise a family, Colts Neck New Jersey 07722.

A favorite activity of local Colts Neck residents is walking or jogging on the Township complex paths located on Cedar Drive in plain view of the Colts Neck Police Department. The town installed fitness stations so folks can stretch and exercise specific muscle groups as they saunter or lope or sprint towards a healthy lifestyle.

Every ten feet another Hallmark greeting card jumps into the lens of the camera, even if that camera is handled by an amateur like myself.

Between the agricultural panorama that captures the simpler elements of a bygone age and some wonderful Colts Neck homes for sale, this is a place that merits attention for any buyer considering a move to Monmouth County, New Jersey.

Enjoy the slide show :-)

Interested in Colts Neck New Jersey homes for sale? E-mail me today!   Or call me on (732) 580-0822.

Andrew J. Lenza, ABR GRI MBA Broker Sales Associate
Coldwell Banker Residential Brokerage
              

While exiting Dunkin Donuts in Colts Neck a dapper stranger held the door open for me.

“Thanks,” I demurred.

“Hey, can you do me a favor now?” the gent asked. Not a single salt-and-pepper hair out of place. He reminded me of a sixtyish JFK; certainly his light gray and powder blue pinstripe suit projected Presidential regalia. He inflected the word 'now.'

'Now' sounded complicated. So I, dressed in a stained Saint Peter's College hoody and mud-caked running shoes, stopped.

“Car broke? Need a ride?” If so, he held the door open for the wrong guy.

“No, I’m good.” He glanced with a boyish smirk over his shoulder in the direction of glossy, black CLS550 coupe, the Batman-inspired Mercedes. You're more than good I said to myself. What could I possibly give to this dandy?

“Can you recommend me?” he asked.

I squeegied up my face with confusion, scrunching both cheeks into my bent nose. I must have looked like a Charpay fighting Bells’ Palsy.

“You know, recommend me online. Do you have a phone with email capability? I’ll shoot you a link.”

He leaned in closer. I smelled Clive Christian “C” for men, retail $400 per ounce. I only know that because my eight thumbed cousin Shalootz got canned from his job in the Men’s Department at Macy’s for dropping a bottle and he came home reeking of the gack.

“So just go to www.stik.com. When you’re done there, jump to www.mixtent.com. What’s your name and e-mail?” he asked.

“Hey, mister. No offense but I don’t know you,” I said.

He raised a sophisticated eyebrow.

“I appreciate you holding the door open, but ...” I stammered. “But I don’t even know what you do.”

“It’s all there on my Linked-in profile. There are recommendations from other people. Read theirs. That’ll give you a sense of what I’m looking for. Oh, and when you’re done, hit me up on Facebook. My fan page. Like early and like often as they say at the polls.”

He finished his pitch, threw his angular shoulders back. I’d rather get to know your tailor, I thought.

“Good luck,” I nodded and continued to walk past him.

“Just like that?” he yelled back, holding his hands open and slightly annoyed. He wore a thin gold pinky ring that would have glinted under sunnier skies.

“After all we’ve been through together,” I muttered underneath my breath.

A cold drizzle started to fall as I walked the two miles to the house. Then the wind slanted from the west. Raw, the elements nearly froze my coffee in the cup.

When I got to my driveway I found the mailman, Paulo, waiting for me. Paulo wears his hair military short and once explained to me that he goes for two haircuts to two different barbers: first a trim to shed the excess and then a shape-up to edge the sides and back.

“Do I have to sign for a registered letter or something,” I asked.

Paulo shook his head.

“Don’t tell me the dog chased you again?”

Another shake of his head.

“Per favore mi puoi seguire su Twitter?” he asked. Bewildered, I again folded the second half of my face up into my mile high forehead.

“Sorry, English, English, English,” he chanted low and Monk-like. “Please can you follow me on the Twitter?” he said, recovering.

"Twitter?" I asked.

"Si."

I didn't see a CLS550 coupe in Paolo's future.

“The computer inside,” I said, raising my voice and gesturing with both hands to the front door. “It’s broken!”

He knew I was lying.

I started a guest blogging gig over at Epic Public Relations Group located in Alexandria, Virginia.

Epic is a boutique PR firm, specializing in launching, implementing and maintaining consumer-focused public relations campaigns for corporations, nonprofits and associations. Epic is owned and operated by Adele Gambardella Cehrs.

Here's my first online article for Epic. (My next "column" will be a spoof on narcissistic Italians.)

Social Media Losers: Average Dogs and Cats

Growing up in the seventies I’d pass many a creosote-soaked telephone pole on Victory Boulevard on Staten Island, running home as fast as my Chuck Lapchick black ankle-high Converse sneakers would carry me. That's how the word got out back then, stapling a bulletin to an oil, sweaty log.

Clutching a paper flyer in my sticky hand, I leapt into the living room to pow wow with the big Bow Wow.

“Dad, can I adopt this puppy?” I said, gulping for air.

“He’s free!” I yelped, grenading the flyer over the newspaper he was reading while he sat in a lopsided easy chair.

Anticipatory pause.

“Nah, I don’t want a dog,” the old man would drawl, “but he is cute. He’ll find a home.”

Try to put an average dog or cat on Facebook today. Poor orphans don’t even get a “Like.” Post that Pekingese twice on your Status Update and you could get hidden from several friends’ walls.

To continue reading the rest of the story click --> HERE.

I love the Netflix radio spots where the contestant attempts to correlate meaningless clues. Reminds me of the blog as a medium. Writing in the first person on a blog is akin to talking about yourself constantly.

Everywhere.

Blog long enough and you'll talk about yourself to inanimate objects. You'll talk to the electronic EZ-pass reader in a Turnpike toll plaza. You'll talk to a train of shopping carts in front of Wegman's. ("Hey, you! Don't roll away from me. I'm not done talking to you yet!")

Lonely enough a tree. Wood -- not the best conversationalist.

One of my hobbies is taking pictures of flowers. Especially if there's a critter on the flower. Sort of like my Aunt Tessa at the Venetian hour dessert table at my cousin Gus's wedding. She ain't moving.

Easy shot.

One hope is to catch a hummingbird mid-flight atop a flower.

Hard shot.

I've come close to that shot in Colts Neck, New Jersey three times in seventeen years.

So in honor of Springtime, the seasonal savior of our discontented Northeast winter, I present a montage of my second rate flower photos. "Second rate" because I lost my primo shots.

Spring is the season of second chances, though.

No one had the heart to tell her the toast was burning in the demonic toaster frugal Aunt Fanny gave them for a wedding present. The smoke flipped her switch.

"I need a pedi!" screeched Mom, brandishing a spatula after making eggs for the family on a cloudy Saturday morning. 

"You need more than that," Pop wanted to say but checked his tongue.

Miraculously.

After oodles and oodles of snow and a groundhog with a perverse sense of timing, they were all winter cooked. 

Fried and grizzled like Mom's eggs.

Cabin fever gave way to Bieber fever over two months ago. A winter so long even Bieber was shaving. If one more brat announced "I'm bored," Pop was going to take him into the garage, build a raft and make Junior wait for the spring thaw. 

Right beside the rake.

"Wash them. Dress them. Take them," she ordered, swooping across the table and grabbing Pop's cup of coffee. The one with the Rider University logo.

"Where? I'm broke," he complained, "I'm heating this house with oil above a hundred dollars a barrel. I can't afford my Giants' tickets let alone regime change in the Middle East."

Mom double wrapped the belt of her checkered bathrobe around her waist, blew a shock of graying red hair out of her eyes and -- taking a deep breath -- whispered in Pop's ear.

"The Monmouth Museum at Brookdale University is seven bucks a head. Lincroft is right around the corner. Even you oh February Scrooge can Marley up a few shillings to get them in."

Aaaahh, Pop said with a smile. She really was the smarter half.

The Museum is open on Tuesdays to Friday at 2PM to 4:30PM. Saturday from 10AM to 4:30PM. Sunday from 1PM to 5PM. Closed Mondays.

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To read specific information about the Monmouth Museum like directions, art exhibits, future programs and a Calendar of Events, please head over to my Wordpress blog called Garden State 360.

Interested in Lincroft New Jersey homes for sale? E-mail me today!   Or call me on (732) 671-1000.

Andrew J. Lenza, Broker Sales Associate
Coldwell Banker Residential Brokerage