dear john

Dear Toll Guy Who Takes My Dollar Every Morning in Asbury Park,

I realized this morning that you recognize me.

I thought our brief, but cordial exchanges were fairly standard in the toll-taking world. There’s the “Good morning,” the “Thanks for costing me that bag of Cheetos that – had I not just given you one of my last dollar bills - I would have purchased from the vending machine when the 3 p.m. munchies strike,” and of course the parting “Have a nice day.”

I drive a nondescript car, sip coffee from a nondescript thermos, listen to nondescript radio programs (other than the Mexican-Polka of course), and am generally, nondescript. You probably see hundreds of me a week, maybe even in a day; so how could it be that you recognize me specifically? Why is it that your “How are you this morning” emphasizes the you in just a way that it seems you really know me? Do you gaze longingly at my strange still-out-of-state plates and slightly dented bumper long after I’ve been digitally thanked for forking up and pull away from your lane? Are you eyeing up the junk in my trunk?

Alas, Toll Guy, it will never work out for us in this crazy, crazy world. I…I have Super Yummy Boyfriend…and you…well, you’d never understand my fear of small spaces and anxiety over making change under pressure. Clearly, I’ve let this go on for too long. It’s time for me to be moving on. It may hurt for a while…when I speed past through the EZPass lanes; but this is our future, Toll Guy, we’re both just going to have to accept it.

I'm sorry if I've misled you. I only meant to pay my way.

I’ll keep the shiny dollar coin you gave me (cuz the vending machine won't take it). And we’ll always have that day when the backup made me linger.

Sincerely,

me

issue of national security

BACKGROUND: from approximately Asbury Park to the bridge that crosses over the Raritan River, the Garden State Parkway has EXPRESS LANES with only limited access to limited exits and LOCAL LANES with a lot of access to a lot of exits.

At least that’s the official story.

What they don’t tell ya’ is that there is yet another lane. When times get hard – and most often during traffic jams and the occasional sinkhole repair - I see the more adventurous travelers venture in this direction.

It’s the grass median between the express and local lanes, and here’s a news alert for Napolitano: folks are crossin’ over it faster and with more frequency than landscapers over the Rio Grande.

Now perhaps I just don’t understand - because I don’t have 4WD and therefore, this snap decision is not a wise option for me - but when I see grass I don’t automatically think of it as an exit strategy. I’m not risking my life, limb, and alignment for the chance of going 5 mph faster.

And here’s a little related insight from an experienced crabby commuter: most of the time that 5 mph is just an illusion – cuz the backup in the express lanes is 2 miles down the road and it’s going to hold you up 10 minutes longer than the one in the locals, and once you’ve cut me off to cross over…I’m not letting you or your grass stains back in my lane.

overactive bladder

Apparently the software that scans my blog for particular words/phrases/content to select and display advertisements relevant to my readers has noticed that I make considerable reference to coffee pee.
Well Google AdSense, how about you try holding in 24 ounces for 94 miles and maybe you'll be doing the potty dance too!

pass the burt's bees

Inspired by The Sassy Curmudgeon’s recent post - Scene From A Marriage: Blinkers Really Pump My ‘Nads, I thought I would treat you all on this Monday afternoon to a couple of things that really chap my ass.


CHAPPED past participle, past tense of CHAP (verb)
1. (of the skin) Become cracked, rough, or sore, typically through exposure to cold weather, jerkoffs with truck balls, and extreme commutes
2. (of the wind or cold) Cause (skin) to crack in this way: "chapped ass"


First, it really chaps my ass when…there is a two mile backup at the next exit and Prince Cannotbebotheredtowaithisturn in front of me in the right lane slows down about one mile in and suddenly realizes that he wants to be in that exit lane. Because he didn’t just pass the first mile worth of cars sitting entirely still on the highway. Then he comes to a complete stop just before the exit, and while waiting for some unsuspecting patsy to let him in, forces me to sit still as well. Thanks, Prince, for being such a self-centered douchebag. I’m glad that the world revolves around you.

It also really chaps my ass when…construction cones block whole lanes for weeks before any construction actually starts. It’s like the least they could do is have some bulldozers parked at regular intervals and some dudes in orange vests standing around scratching and pointing at stuff – you know, like the same props they have up “during the construction.” At least the illusion of my tax and toll money going to improve something that might possibly positively impact my daily life could ease the pain of having to sit still for a half hour while people learn to merge and the urge to spring a coffee pee leak mounts. Thanks, Missing Construction Dudes, because having to pee when the traffic is moving isn't bad enough…

And finally, it really chaps my ass when…I’m getting gas for the third time in a week (must be getting close to Friday!) and - because you can pump your own fist in NJ, but not your own gas – I gotta sit and wait for Johnny Summerjob to finally stop sexting before he notices that my tank’s been full and I’ve been waiting for the past ten minutes. Thanks, Johnny, I really wanted to put another ten minutes between me and my dinner. I appreciate that.



So those are some things that really chap my ass. What chaps yours?

outta my way already, geez

Dear Sunburnt Bald Guy and Windblown Wife Driving the Convertible This Morning on the Parkway,

6:30 in the morning is a bit too early for the Past Our Prime and Proud Parade. If your narcissism could please pull over to the side of the road, I'll be happy to take a passing glance; but forcing me to tapdance on my brake behind you while you coast along playing out your little Cary Grant/Grace Kelly fantasy is cruel and unusual.


Save it for the silver screen, or the Riviera, or anytime and place other than the Parkway at rush hour.

Au revoir!

Sincerely,
me

pee-pees and peas please

After a long day of driving and working and driving again, there are really only three things that I think about on my way home: (1) how I knew I should’ve peed before I left the office, because it’s so much more efficient than having to pull off at a rest area; (2) how no reasonable commute should ever pass multiple rest areas; and (3) how I am so hungry that I could be lured into a Whopper I know I’ll regret.

Oh, and how much I can’t wait to get home to see Super Yummy Boyfriend! (And how much I hope he already cooked dinner.)

While the nagging urge to pee starts pretty much as I pull out of the lot, the hunger is less immediate – from initial rumblings to a dull roar to desperate irrational thoughts like “I may even need to eat before I pee.” **

So…I thought I’d get personal with you on this Thursday afternoon and share the three things that I crave THE MOST during my evening commute:

FIRST: peas.


I love them. I even used to eat them as an after school snack when I was a latchkey kid with full reign over the pantry. I’ll eat them frozen straight out of the bag or heat them in the microwave with a scoop of Cheez-Whiz and some salsa. Butter and parmesan works too.

SECOND: sour cream.


So not on its own, but maybe on top of peas? Or chili? Or chips? Or quesadillas? Or baked potatoes? Or French fries? It doesn’t really matter. I love sour cream.

THIRD: tomato soup with scrambled eggs.

THIS is my ABSOLUTE FAVORITE comfort food. Whip up some eggs, plop ‘em in the bottom of a bowl and pour cream of tomato on top. Okay, quit it with the gagging noise; I can hear you through my computer.

Anyways, so now that we’ve bonded on this intimate gastronomic level, the next time you see me headed south on the parkway, please do me the favor of staying out of my way: I’m starving, I gotta pee, and I’m taking no prisoners (leaves more peas for me!).

Now you know.



**NOTE: For those of you with genuine concerns for my health - I am neither diabetic nor pregnant, nor do I have a UTI. I just drink a lot of coffee and like food. But thanks for checking! Love ya!

much anticipated tolling update

For those of you who have been following the vacillation of my decision to EZPass or not to EZPass, I thought I’d provide you with a tolling update so you can relax into your weekend without the anxiousness of not knowing which lane I’ll be taking on Monday. (I know you were starting to sweat it.)

So here it is…

I’m still carrying around enough dollar bills and quarters to be mistaken for a college-town stripper moonlighting at Chuck E. Cheese. And that’s the situation.

get beach sexy with commuter calisthenics

Something about long hours spent in the driver’s seat makes me kind of feel like Quasimodo. It’s not that I’m actively trying to protect my ponytail from increased disheveldom, but every few miles or so I realize that the upper half of my body is leaning awkwardly forward in a posture no Sketchers athletic moonshoes are ever going to resolve. Add some crows’ feet and this is my inevitable future:


I can’t let that happen. So I’ve come up with a few moves to get my duff back up to snuff. Jane Fonda and Michelle Obama would be proud. (note - clicking on illustrations will enlarge them)

FIRST: the BUTT SQUEEZE. This one is a favorite of kegelers and weekend booty shakers alike. Also useful for holding coffee pee, this move strengthens the glutes while forcing you to sit up straight! I love double-dipping! Especially Ruffles in Hidden Valley Ranch!


Squeeze and release. Repeat until you get involved in whatever's on the radio and forget what you were doing.

SECOND: the CREEPY DATE STRETCH. A patented move that has been around for ages. Not only does this reach over the passenger seat stretch out your arm, shoulder and back, its also perfect for when you're starting to doze. The only drawback is that you can only do it with one arm.


Stretch and hold. NOTE: Going in for second base with your carpool buddy during this exercise is not recommended nor endorsed by Crabby Commuter.

and THIRD: the RAISE THE ROOF. SPECIAL NOTE: best to do this one while stopped at a light or in a traffic jam. Secure steering wheel with knees and put your hands flat on the roof, pushing them back behind you as far as you can reach.


CAUTION: may cause strange stares from neighboring drivers, but forget them cuz they totally pick their noses and belt it out to old school Hanson.

free beer and hot wings

One of the many annoyances of a 94-mile commute is that Rice Krispee noise that the radio starts making when I get about 44 miles in and know that I am about to miss the conclusion to the call-in debate over whether or not McDonald’s charges an extra “tax” for dine-in service all over the country or just in Michigan. And while I shouldn’t care about this issue, I am anxious to hear the DJs mock those callers who are particularly passionate.

I have a bond with my morning DJs. I feel like they really get me, you know? They make the most out of the mundane, stretching it across hours with only the limited interruptions of news, weather, and traffic, and commercials about balding, female rejuvenation, and accelerated admissions at Pace. I blog about commuting with only the limited interruptions of, you know, work and stuff. We’re basically soul mates.

It’s hard to let them go, knowing that soon, I’ll have to switch over to either celebrity dirt or some sort of Mexican-Polka fusion that I thought only existed on the Phoenix airways but has apparently followed me here from the desert like the sweat on my back. And while I can appreciate accordions á la Urkel, I’m just not sure if I’m digging the mariachi remix. It’s like beer with Yoo-Hoo. So I just know I’m going to get sucked in to some trash about Lindsay Lohan or Bieber hair; and considering the fuzzed-out rats’ nest on my head, that’s. just. not. fair.

Anyway, what I’m trying to say is, my dearest morning DJs, when I pass that certain exit and you fade away into the pines…I miss you…and I’m dedicating this one to you:

it's not my imagination

I’ve been thinking, folks, now that I am a solid 15 posts into this little blogging trek, that I may just be a little b*tchy in the morning. It struck me that maybe it’s not the commute after all, but rather a serious case of under-caffeinated, evening-showered, bagel-deprived stinky morning attitude. (I hang my head in shame.)

But then again, maybe not.

Apparently, it’s a scientifically-verifiable completely-objective fact that in addition to being extreme by mileage and duration standards, my commute is shared with folks from THE TWO STATES WITH THE WORST DRIVERS IN THE COUNTRY! (see this Huffington Post link)

I take absolutely no ownership in this problem – I learned to drive in the 39th worst state and learned to text while driving in the 17th worst. So CLEARLY it’s not ME.


So reassuredly it’s not just the fact that my overgrown layers won’t fit into my uber-professional ponytail without enough bobbypins to alert the entire TSA, nor is it the fact that I’m down a coffee machine and am slurping powdered chai out of my Bubba Keg rather than the silky French Vanilla Green Mountain Coffee that I so desire, nor is it that Super Yummy Boyfriend is still in bed looking so warm n’ cozy when I have to leave…and is still there…where I want to still be…for most of my drive.

Nope, it’s none of these personal problems keeping me from enjoying life’s daily little journeys. It’s that for 1/8th of my day, I’m in the company of people who want to kill me. And that’s bound to make a gal feel a little bit crabby.

ducking and dodging

Dear Person Who Put the Hit Out on Me,

I managed to foil the attempts on my life of all three of your driver-mercenaries this morning. Looks like that defensive driving course paid off.

Anyway, do me a favor and call off the dogs, okay? I'd rather not have to pay that much attention on a Monday morning.

Thanks bunches!

Sincerely,
me

empty tank

running on empty,
nerves in bunch; person behind
is not helping much.

gas break in cheesequake.
know what that means? gotta fork
up all of my beans.

still lots o' miles
left to go. this here commute
is starting to blow.

miss muffet

Dear Little Spider hanging around in my car,

Making your presence known while I'm going 75mph down a five lane freeway is quite frankly, impolite. I would have been happy to say hi to you first thing this morning before I left the driveway. But when you're two inches from falling on my face or in my coffee while I'm trying to drive, I'm not going to be as pleasant. Now you've got me flailing around, batting at you like a pinata and it's just not safe for either of us. Should we meet again, just keep in mind that you're really hanging by a thread.

Sincerely,
me

stick it to ya

So I saw a Mercedes, not unlike this one:



It was shiny, and pretty, and the color of sparkling white grape juice: and I love sparkling white grape juice. So I maneuvered myself over three lanes of traffic to take a closer look…to drink it all in, so to speak. When I pulled in to the lane behind it, I discovered this:



Now I could be wrong, but in my not-so-humble opinion, you just don’t put stickers and decals on a Mercedes. It’s like putting powdered creamer in your coffee – don’t ruin a good thing with cheap tasteless stuff.

[Sidenote: I love when people tack up their resumes in their rear windows. Like this one guy I saw who had a very old Volvo plastered with both law school and medical school stickers, along with presumably his undergraduate alma mater. It reads: (a) this guy has too much student loan debt to get a newer car, (b) dude can’t commit (no one goes to law school AND medical school), and/or (c) this guy is two pencils short of a GED and thinks his sticker collection will get him laid. Irregardless…ain’t gonna happen, and I’m not impressed.]

go away, come again some other day

Surely you’ve heard the nursery rhyme “it’s raining, it’s pouring, the old man is snoring…he went to bed and he bumped his head and he couldn’t get up in the morning.” It’s a flat out lie.

It is raining. And it is pouring. God only knows if he was snoring, but he sure as heck was up early this morning - along with everyone else and their mother, jockeying lanes and clogging up all 94 of my crocodile miles. (Remember that thing? A slip n’ slide with a splash pool on the end? So awesome!)

You know what’s not awesome? Driving in the rain. People have mental breakdowns when they try to drive in the rain. I thought it was just Phoenician commuters…because, well, they live in the desert. They have that excuse. But in NJ? Come on, folks. NJ gets an average of 40 some inches of rain a year (compared to Phoenix’s 7 inches). Shouldn’t you be used this by now? It’s not black ice, it’s a puddle. Check your treads, put on your big girl panties and DEAL.

That's all I have for now. Dreary days make me want to nap. Someone wake me up when it's nice out again. Maybe we'll go for a drive.

frank and beans

I have yet to really address my evening commutes. I discussed this with a colleague, explaining that I'm at my crabbiest during my morning commutes, when I'm revving up my cynicism for the day. During my evening commutes, my commentary typically degenerates into cussing. It's sort of like extreme-commuting-induced Turrets' (but of course, that's not an official diagnosis). Anyway, it's not pretty and it doesn't really make for a good read.

But last night, heading south towards home, something really sparked my attention and distracted me from my verbal tickage.

The dually in front of me was wielding his mojo, proudly displaying a pair of truck balls that swung freely from his rear bumper. And these suckers were big! Bigger than this pair I googled up for your viewing pleasure:

And more of a Caucasion hue. I just don't get why people do this. Okay, it's swell for an initial snicker, I'll admit it. But isn't four wheels on your rear axel and your cunning ability to drive across the grass median or up on the curb when you just don't feel like waiting for traffic to accommodate your traveling progress...isn't that sufficient enough to prove you've got cojones? Do I really have to see them?

And what I really want to know is - if I crashed into you there would it really, really hurt? Because you're going the speed limit in the passing lane, and although your hangers-on distracted me for a moment, I really just wanna get home you, big fat poopystain (cussing censored).

doughy inside with a crisp outer crust

Perhaps it’s because it is Friday, or perhaps it’s because I had an incredible apple cinnamon bagel with my coffee this morning, but I’m in a good mood. I even managed to maintain my good mood for the entirety of my 94 mile morning commute. I know that you must be incredibly disappointed that my pH is so balanced, but have no fear – I’m sure that next week’s entries will be acidic enough for a Pepcid.

In the meantime, I thought I’d update you on the status of my tolling: I haven’t yet procured that EZpass. Besides my tendency to procrastinate on all things that require research, I actually enjoy the sound of the clink, clink, clink of exact change hitting the basin. It’s strangely gratifying, not unlike those fabulous Wheel of Fortune quarter slot machines. SPIN! “BIG MONEY, BIG MONEY, BIG MONEY!” I know I’m spending money. I know I’m not really gonna get anything back for it in the long run (though the parkway feigns improvements). But it’s something to occupy my time; and just like gambling, queuing up to pay a toll can be just entertaining enough to throw a few quarters at it.

This morning, for example, as I sympathetically decelerated by those waiting in the “I-don’t-have-EZpass-or-exact-change-and-I-am-basically-completely-unprepared-to-be-commuting” Cash lane, I witnessed a driver neglecting to maintain the customary toll lane distance of 1 foot from the car in front of him as he dug up his bills. Meanwhile, no less than FIVE cars pulled in to the lane in front of him. Now, had he been the last car in the lane, I wouldn’t have found this as entertaining; however, this guy:


was behind him, waving his New York turning signal with pride. I feel for you, buddy, I do. Have a bagel.

pissing calvin

It was a hazy summer morning, and the kind of humid that makes you feel like you bathed in Aunt Jemima and then had a good wrestle with this guy:



The last sludgey squirts of Wawa cappuccino sputtered into my 20 oz., as I searched my pocket for proper change. Already (TIME STAMP – 06:27:18am) the glittery excitement of another day had worn its welcome, and I was shifting down into mental autopilot for the commute ahead.

It wasn’t long before I crept up on the tail of a black pickup bearing this little gem:



A pissing Calvin decal on a truck window – how terribly original.

But wait! There’s more! Next to Calvin was an entire stick figure family complete with kids. Well that certainly complicates things…I wasn't sure if I could figure this guy out.

Obviously the pissing Calvin/truck combo indicates a male driver in his mid-forties or so, with a receding hairline and some misinformed patch of facial hair. He’s still married, though his wife is not the type of woman impressed by pissing Calvins. She’s just got bigger fish to fry so she lets that one go. He’s a self-proclaimed manly man’s man, but really…we know his wife has the control in their relationship. He senses it too, thus he feels the need to publicly piss on his family from the front seat of his only lasting shell of manliness – his F150. It’s a Freudian thing.

I pulled up in the passing lane. Low and behold, he had a ‘stache. Gosh, I’m good.

I let him have his moment.

brief memo

Dear driver of the champagne-colored Crown Vic with the ungodly large antenna traveling just over the speed limit in the passing lane;

Either you're a cop or you're a small guy clearly overcompensating for something with your CB accessories. Either way, you're not fooling anyone. Just thought you should know.

Sincerely,
me

public service announcement

I’m back from my holiday hiatus. You’ll be happy to know that I spent my four-day Independence Weekend indoors and off the road. There’s really nothing like HGTV and a package (or maybe two) of Double Stufs to make a gal feel relaxed, refreshed, and ready to reclaim the road for the shortened work week ahead.

It wasn’t until I was reminded of classic narrative conflict - man v. merge – that the crabbiness set in.

During my years of Phoenix commutes, I was regularly called up to serve in this epic battle. Oftentimes I could forgive even my most formidable opponents. Their license plates revealed their weakness: they were from Sonora or Chihuahua, or some other Mexican state where the laws or the unspoken rules of the road were perhaps different – I could give them a pass. Or they were from New Mexico or Wyoming where there couldn’t possibly be many cars, and they were likely unfamiliar with the rules of engagement – they too could receive a pass. But now I’m back in the Northeast and I have certain expectations for mergers: specifically, merge and let merge. If you can mastermind a jughandle, then this shouldn't be so hard.

I’d like to share this informative video with those of you who are perhaps…not up to speed on the subject, so to speak:



If you are in a stop-and-go traffic jam situation, please let one car from a merging lane, onramp, or McDonalds parking lot in front of you and your neighbor to the rear should do the same. Even the crabbiest of commuters lets one car in.

Note: ONE CAR.

To the over-friendly freakshow in front of me on the parkway this morning – just because your Xanax just kicked in and you’re feelin’ chill’er than a Rastafarian on a high holy day, you have no excuse to let the entire freakin' Macy's parade into our lane while you coast along like you're at the Six Flags Safari. If I get hit by one of these:



you're going down with me.

highway of the living dead

Yesterday evening it was pointed out to me that I tailgate, not so much that I couldn't brake quickly, but enough to annoy my passenger.

Then this morning, as I was cruising along I noticed it again. I really was tailgating. Why had I never noticed this before?

I looked around me: to my right, to my left, even to the rear. EVERYONE was tailgating. I suspect that most morning commuters tailgate. Lulled nearly back to sleep by sun glare and talk radio, we somehow latch our mental hitches and take a ride. Our collective unconscious propels us forth - four lanes of road zombies in each direction. I imagine rest area parking lots - overridden with the sleep deprived - mirroring a rehearsal for Michael Jackson's Thriller. Morning people steer clear, we might eat you AND your aggravating little tendency to be so damn chipper.



I really have no excuse for myself. Is it the weekend yet?