The Trucking Adventures of "Katwoman"

A Rock and a Hard Place

2009-12-13T14:42:00.001-08:00

Truckers are oftentimes squeezed between the proverbial "rock and a hard place". On one hand, there is the pressure to deliver the load on time, and the desire to remain compliant and drive the freight legally. On the other hand, you have
your bosses, managers, and dispatchers saying, "You had two days to get it there, why are you running late"?

Wintertime driving opens up the Pandora's box of delays and connundrums. The rule, "Snow, drive slow. Ice, no dice" applies here. One driver recently told me that after getting into the thick of the snow storms out West, that he had no choice but to hold his speed down to 15 miles per hour. So, he managed to drive a whopping 60 miles in four hours. That now translates to four hours out of your 11 hours of federally mandated driving time. So, now the driver has a dilemma.
Should driver "log by mileage", or "log it as you do it". If you "log by mileage", it is legal, ON PAPER. The DOT won't harrass you and they send you on your way. On the other hand, if you drive strictly by the RULES, you will be very late for your delivery or pick-up, and trust me when I tell you this....Your bosses/managers/dispatch, will NOT be giving you an "Atta boy", or "Good job, ladytrucker" when you drive COMPLIANT.

If you feel the roads are too treacherous to traverse, and you inform your bosses/managers/dispatch that you feel it is unsafe to continue, you will get the standard reply, "Well, the OTHER drivers aren't 'complaining' ".
Now, YOU are the one out there. YOU are the one who sees with your own eyes the devastation out on the snowy roadways. YOU saw experienced drivers on their side in the ditch, jack-knifed, rolled over, rear ended into another vehicle. Yes, WE are the professional drivers, but we are surrounded by many other drivers who cause the wrecks in that type of weather. Funny, how we are considered professionals, but regarded by many as though we are a bunch of unskilled "dumb-asses".

Yup, we are between the rock and the hard place.

I worked for one of the top five freight carriers in the US for five and one half years. My terminal was in New Jersey, which was also the State I called 'home'. New Jersey had a rough couple of Winters back in 1993/1994. We barely got dug out, and our boots never got dry, before we got slammed with another snow storm. On this day in particular, the weather report was warning of 33 inches of snow. Big fat, fluffy flakes, in copious quantities, started falling early in the day. A few inches has already accumulated, and it was the kind of snow that stuck. The salt trucks were already out, frantically trying to keep the major highways clean, and a few hours later, I began my usual one hour drive to work.

One and a half hours later, I was halfway there. Being that I did not have a cel phone in 2003, I stopped at a pizzaria along the way, and while standing outside, freezing my butt off, I fumbled for the change to use the payphone. I called my boss. The conversation went along these lines, "Hey Karl, I'm fishtailing all over the place in my pick up truck. I'm having a helluva time getting into work. They're calling for another 29 inches of snow. I don't think it's safe to take a T/T out in this mess, if I can't even make it into work". His reply was a firm and emphatic, "Get in here! We have drivers who are already on their way delivering, and more going out."

OK. Told boss I was on my way, but didn't know how long it would take to get there. Another 45 minutes, I figured. But I had it set in my mind, that once I actually made it into work, without wrecking my own personal vehicle, I still
would refuse taking out a load. Oh, it is important that you should know that I drove a DAY-cab. NOT a sleeper truck. I was LOCAL, home every day, or every night...depending on when your shift started.

I creeped, crawled, white knuckled my way into the terminal. It snowed like I had never seen it snow since 1994. The roads were already so slick, and my little Ford Ranger was fishtailing all over the place. People assume if you have a pick
up truck, that it must be four wheel drive. My Ranger had rear wheel drive, not four wheel. I was limping into work with a top speed of 10 miles per hour, if I were lucky.

Upon arrival at the Distribution Center for Home Depot, I saw that many of the day cabs were gone already. I get into the office, stomping snow off of my boots, and clothes, and again, told my manager that I did not feel that it was
safe to attempt to deliver a load while we were being battered by a Winter No'easter. "Look how long it took me to drive into work?!", I said. "Nearly two hours to go 33 miles"! "Karl, it's not SAFE to go out in that"!!!

Karl picks up the office phone and calls a boss out in Philadelphia, who at the time, was running the distribution center out there. "F.A." gets on the phone. I explain the whole scenario to him, and get this: "Well, it's not that bad
HERE". !!!! I can see I was going to get zero co-operation from the people who worked for a company who brags, "SAFETY FIRST". Infuriated at this point, I call Corporate Safety. Now, I have "F.A", "Mike B", and a man from CORPORATE SAFETY from ARKANSAS ganged up on me on the phone. I'm being pressured from every side to take that load out in weather conditions that were calling for 33 INCHES of snow. I was nearly in tears. In the meantime, a male co-worker told them flatly, "I ain't doin' it. Pound salt"!! and left. His name was Lenny. Had seven years w/ the
company. I had only 4. Lenny leaves,flat out refuses to drive in unsafe conditions....no male manager questioned his decision....yah...no problem, while I'm choking back tears from being ganged up on and pressured by my "superiors".

The end result? I stuck to my guns. But I was made to feel like an abysmal failure for "being safe". Every day-cab local driver who went out in that blizzard got stuck, got stranded...in a day cab. No place to sleep, except uncomfortably across the seats, hopefully they carried a wooden board to use. Hopefully, those drivers packed enough food and water, and an extra blanket, (in case their truck stalled out, or mechanical problems). Is that what you call "SAFETY FIRST"??? Is THAT why that particular company has put on my DAC report, "Unsatisfactory Performance"?

Why was my male co-worker given the respect that I was not given? Why was I psychologically "gang banged" over the phone? By the grace of God, not one of my co-workers had a weather related "incident" or accident that night.
Because if they had, the first thing CORPORATE SAFETY would have said before they terminated them would have been,
"IF YOU DIDN'T FEEL IT WAS SAFE, THEN WHY DID YOU ATTEMPT TO DELIVER THE LOAD"? and "CLEAN OUT YOUR TRUCK, YOUR TERMINATED".

You can't tell me this isn't the most corrupt and hypocritical industry in which to work. Until I see otherwise, I am a firm believer that we are truly the "Last American Sweatshop". If we are Professional Drivers, then why are we paid ridiculously low wages, pushed to drive illegal, and no matter what we do, we are "the bad guys".

Talk about being between a rock and a hard place!

New York City Insanity

2009-11-19T01:07:00.002-08:00

NEW YORK CITY INSANITY!!!
Current mood: aggravated
Category: Jobs, Work, Careers

No matter how many times I am dispatched to drive a 18 wheeler in New York City, it always feels as tho I am going there for the first time! I am just as terrified of getting lost or stuck under a low underpass as I was on my very first trip to the Big Apple back in 1996. Nothing has changed, except there are five times more vehicles, and still too many one way streets that you can't turn down. U-turn a big truck in New York City? GOOD LUCK! I don't think so!

Driving 70 feet worth of vehicle, in New York City, whether it be the Bronx, or Brooklyn, or Manhattan, can and WILL prematurely age you! Can anyone explain why, how it would take me 45 minutes to manuever my way to another part of Review Street, which was 1/2 mile away? Well, lets re-enact the nightmare, shall we? After delivering a load to 30-20 Review St...my next delivery was on 20-10 Review St. Sounds simple enuff, right? Well, I drive down to the corner and hang a right turn, narrowly avoiding a car that was parked too close to the corner, IE: parked ILLEGALLY....next corner, I need to make a right, but can't. It's a one way street. So, we go down another block....too narrow to turn unto. So, we go down another block, and see a "no trucks allowed" sign. OK....no big deal...I'll just make a left and another left....and well, to make a long story short...by the time I'm done lefting and righting and squeezing under a bridge marked 12'2 when I'm 13'6...good grief Gawd Almighty, I'm just plumb freakin' lost at this point, and our brave and spunky "Katwoman" has just become the poster child for road rage! PS....New York bridges are generally posted one foot lower than they actually are. This information is absolutely useless if you don't know it when you first go Big Apple bound. Ask any trucker about their first trip into the city, I'm sure you will get an earful. Grown men have been known to cry when dispatched to the City. Many companies will offer an "incentive", like $100.00 more in your paycheck to "cross the bridge"...your OTR (over the road) drivers see this extra moolah....most local drivers do not receive any extra pay for the extra hazards of driving in the city. We just get more wrinkles, gray hair, elevated blood pressure, and deep frown-y lines in our faces. Oh, and increased stress causes increased belly fat! aargh! Oh, and where the heck does a lady trucker go to pee??? Do the dispatchers ever take THAT INTO CONSIDERATION?????? You big dumb dummies!!!

(Hey "Katwoman"....is your truck empty?

Answer: "Hell No! I've got a trailer full of DISPATCHER BRAINS!!!"

Oh yeah, let's not forget that New Yorkers just park where they want. They just stop where they want...right in front of you....they don't use their turn signals....nobody gets tickets except the truckers trying to make the deliveries to these people who wanted their goods yesterday, if not sooner. NY transportation authorities circle around truck drivers like hungry buzzards looking to pick the bills out of our wallets.

PS....and for those of you who are really naive enough to think that looking at a map will actually help you navigate a big truck in The City, well, I have three words for you.

THEN WHY THE HELL DON'T YOU TRY IT!!!

Poem: A Cancerian Reflection

2009-11-19T01:07:00.001-08:00

A Cancerian Reflection

Moonchild, Moonchild
Shining bright,
Loves the evening,
adores the night.
Enchanted by the silvery light,
of the moons' shine,
Moonchild.

Stumble bunny, acts so funny,
never knowing who'll she'll be.
She will charm you,
sometimes alarm you
when she's moody,
Moonchild.

Spoiled baby, sexy lady.
She will haunt you with her eyes.
And when she loves you,
she'll stand beside you,
Forever,
for she's
Moonchild.

Poem: The Sparrows Sing

2009-11-19T01:05:00.000-08:00

I gaze past a dusty sill onto a cacaphony
of yard debris.
Gaudy plastic pinwheels spin joyously
in the afternoon bright.
Sparrows chatter unceasingly,
arguing endlessly over favored plots
and tidbits of soil bearing pearls.

A chimney stands stoic.
Plastered against an era of forgotten architecture.
Two small windows lie to it's left,
barely framed, as if in afterthought.

In awe, I gasp as the bravery of the day thunders
through.
The sun whispers it's secrets, then it roars.
Like a tigress, her lust will be fed.

Without malice, the wind lies her subjects low.
Bushes bow in deference.
Flowers surrender their petals to Mother's
succulent breast.

In the distance, sirens howl in sympathy with the dogs.
Yet, without remorse,
with no recourse,
With joy,
The sparrows sing.

A Trash Pickin' Success Story

2009-11-19T00:59:00.000-08:00

I come from a middle class, blue collar background. My Dad was a restaraunt owner, and later, a postal worker. We were never "rich", nor did we own our own home, but on the other hand, I ate Filet Mignon three times a week, did not know what "left-overs" were, was adequately clothed, and I was the envy of every child come Christmas time. As the only child, and "Daddy's Little Girl", there was not a toy or kiddie product advertised that I didn't receive in any given year.

I didn't really see my Dad too much when he worked for the Post Office, at least for the first few years. He was a "sub", and the hours varied wildly. When he was home, I was admonished to "SSshhhh!!! Be quiet, your Daddy's sleeping". So, I had no friends come over to visit, and I kept a low profile...usually spent reading a favorite Nancy Drew or Bobbsey Twin book in my room. But, come Sunday...Oh boy! That was me and Daddy's Day together! I would eagerly anticipate a fun day spent with the one man I dearly adored above all others....My Daddy, the "light of my life".

Daddy had his morning routine, as do most Daddies. After his shower, he would carefully lather up, and I would stand slightly behind him, to his left, and emulate his every move, his every facial expression, as he carefully shaved the stubborn Greek stubble that is the bane of any man of Mediterranean descent. With his hair still wet from the shower, he would carefully comb some Vitalis through his enviously thick, Greek head of hair, and I would mimic his grimace from the sting of whatever it was that he would use as an aftershave lotion. Then, with his hand in his right pocket, I would hear the constant jingling of change and keys, as he would pace around the apartment for fifteen minutes, while he decided the next course of action. The first big decision would be, "Where to go for breakfast". White Rose? IHOP? Hit our NJ route 9 and head South to the shore? I never knew in advance. Every Sunday was a new surprise! After breakfast, there would be another new fun quest....do we go to the park, and throw a ball around? Maybe we'll take the Staten Island Ferry into NY and stroll around, enjoying the solitude of the business section. Perhaps visit one of his many best friends? How 'bout we just go feed the ducks at the local pond?....
Or simply stroll around the neighborhood and go

TRASH PICKING??????

"What? Trash picking???" as most people might sneer in disgust. Well, sure! Why not? Many a book, with just it's front cover torn off, was put out, that we proudly presented Mother with on our return home. A voracious reader, she cared little for it's fancy front cover adornment. It was the content that intrigued her. Like a Lioness, Mother was always pleased when her two "cubs" returned with prized meat! But, we found many objects of curiousity that we would gleefully scrounge out of a pile and we could barely contain our excitement about the "find of the year"!

There was the obligatory corner candy store in our little home town. The real old fashioned kind, with a soda counter, tall, round stools, and people who knew how to make a true NY "egg cream" soda. Occasionally, this said candy store would throw out it's old window display items. I would come home with some true treasures from this candy store. But the day my Daddy and I discovered "the frozen candy box" was a day that will live forever in my mind.

It was a thing of beauty, it was. A most delectable box of glistening assorted chocolates. I carefully lifted the lid off of the box....What an array it was! Some square, some round, brown swirls, some mounds....OH! The pure joy of finding such deliciousness put out on the pile of "trash". I was beyond thrilled! I grabbed it and ran to Daddy...."LOOK DADDY!!!! A HUGE BOX OF CHOCOLATES!!!!!" I immediately regretted sharing my "find", for I was already 'brain-finagling' how I could sneak all this wonderful candy home to eat at my leisure!

Dad was a pretty smart fella. He quickly surmised that this candy wasn't "real", and started poking and tapping on each and every candy to be sure that they were fake. They were! Each and every one of these succulent morsels were made of plastic. Oh, the horror! The abject horror of it all! PLASTIC!!! They were perfectly formed chocolate tidbits that teased and enticed the onlooker to enter the store and buy a box of the real thing.

I was heartbroken. Crestfallen. My anticipated solo chocolate orgy was dashed! As my chin dropped down, my lower lip quivered and my ten year old eyes welled up with tears. I looked up at Daddy. His eyes were twinkling, and he was chuckling.

"Let's play a fun joke on Mommy".

Daddy outlined the whole scenario:

"We'll tell Mommy that these are 'frozen candies' and that she has to keep them in the refrigerator to defrost slowly, so that they don't turn bad".

It all sounded pretty good to me, and we returned home, excited again, at this new prize. I remember Mom listening to Dad explain about these "candies" and what to do with them. Dutiful wife that she was, she took what he told her to do to heart. Into the refrigerator they went.

Every day, I observed my Mother, going into the refrigerator, and open the box of chocolates. She would lift the lid, and with the tip of her fingernail, gently tap the tops of a few chocolates. Feeling that they were still hard and "frozen", she would return the box to the frig. Dad's sweet tooth was reknowned in our family circle, and Mother was to inform him as soon as they were ready to eat. At least three times a day, she was poking at these candies.

It was about a week and a half later. As usual, Mom was in the kitchen, Pop was relaxing on the couch in the living room, and one room over, I was in my bedroom. Out of the relative quietness of the apartment, I heard my Mother's voice hollering to beat the band,

"LOOOOUIEE!!!! OH FOR GOD'S SAKE!!!........LOOOUUUUU!!!!!!!

!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

It was nearly an hour before my Dad calmed down long enough to stop laughing, and once Mother stopped weeping, it was even funnier!

You know. until the day she died, I don't believe that Mother ever looked at a box of chocolates the same way again.

Drat the Haz-Mat!

2009-11-19T00:55:00.000-08:00

As a commercial, or professional driver, I am required by the current Federal and DOT regulations, to maintain any endorsements that I may have on my driver's license. Presently, I have the tanker endorsement, and I am licensed to pull doubles/triple trailers. The one endorsement that I had, was Haz-Mat. Even when not hauling hazardous materials, many companies require that you have this extra letter on your DL. The reason being, is that you may have one skid of a reportable quantity of laundry detergent...or batteries...etc. Usually, the only thing hazardous on my truck is my lunch, or leftovers from the previous nights dinner! There are some who may consider the contents of my purse hazardous, and, on occasion, I may be inclined to agree with them.

Having to take the dreaded haz-mat written test fills me with tremendous anxiety. In order to pass this written test, which I have to take every year, I have to stuff my head full of useless information, like: "If your truck catches fire, what do you do? Pick one answer". With a multiple choice questionaire, I have only one answer which I find appropriate, but, unfortunately, it is not one of the answers on the test. My answer is always, "I would grab my purse, and run screaming away from the burning vehicle." Another question was, "If your truck is leaking a hazardous liquid, and it catches fire do you: A) open the trailer doors and find the leaking package? B) Try to control and contain the fire? C) Warn others of the hazard? D) Grab your purse and run screaming away from the vehicle? FYI, the correct answer in this case, would be D!!!

Another source of consternation is the NJDMV requirement of having 6 pts of ID. So, plan on bringing your current birth certificate, (they might not accept the original one...if it's too old!) Social Security card, utility bills that go to your HOME address and not your P.O. Box, the letter from the TSA that states you are NOT a terrorist, marriage license, (if you are a woman, and don't tell them you got divorced, or they want to see the divorce papers too!) your current drivers license with your picture on it, and the receipt from when you got fingerprinted. I'm surprised that they don't require the trucker to get fingerprinted every freaking year...after all, don't those "expire" after a year??? Next year, I think I'll bring them a vial of blood and a print out of my DNA. Oh, and maybe some hair samples would be good. If I had a first born son, what the hell, I'd bring him too. I would surely give them more information than any terrorist would do. I think the bad guy would simply get in his explosive laden truck...(with the balls to drive without his Haz-Mat endorsement!) and do what the bad guys do best. Which is make it harder for Joe Schmoe and Frilly Jill to get their damned Haz-Mat endorsement!!! Aargh!

Well, I took the dratted test. Passed it by the skin of my teeth. I knew the hard stuff, flunked on the easy questions...no matter, I passed. Huge sigh of relief. I rolled my eyes heavenward in gratitude. Whew.

After a furtive glance in my pocket mirror, and a quick, but careful fresh application of lipstick, the best part is that they didn't take a new picture of me after all. Instead, they used the one on my current license that had been taken two or three years ago. I'm thinking, if they do this every year, I'm gonna look fantastic when my license states I'm a 70 year old ladytrucker. It'll save me a ton of money on face lifts and eye tucks!

"Hey Lady, That's a Funny Place to Park"!!!

2008-08-12T22:11:00.001-07:00

How often do you make a wrong turn while driving your car? Even if only occasionally, you know you can easily get turned around, and get yourself back on track. Imagine, if you will, trying to get turned around to the correct direction when you are driving an 18 wheeler...a tractor/trailer. It's not so easy. I have gotten MORE lost trying to get back going the right way. In fact, while somewhere out in the Mid-West... Idaho, I believe it was, I drove close to 50 miles before I could find a place large enough to turn around in.

It was Wintertime, and there was a great deal of snow on the ground in Idaho that day. I was on what the truckers commonly refer to as "a skinny road". A skinny road is one that is not a major interstate, but is OK for truck traffic to use. And they look just like that on the map....skinny roads.

I was going the wrong way. I can get lost in a parking lot, so I was used to making some funky U-turns, but out in the middle of Potato Land, there were no U-turns, or "jughandles" in which to get myself turned around. I drove for miles and miles....seeing vast acres of snow covered farm land. I was on a little two lane road that was heavily trafficked by the tractor trailers trying to avoid the toll roads and "chicken houses"....another trucker term for a weigh scale. After an hour of driving, I finally see a large open expanse with farm equipment parked out in front of a building with a large "John Deere" sign on it. I breathed a huge sigh of relief...."I can get turned around in this guy's semi-circular driveway", I thought.

I pull in, and as I'm heading toward what I thought was the exit, I notice that there seems to be a fairly large, snow covered incline, so I gassed the truck, and roared up the hill.

The truck was doin' pretty good, but suddenly, I came to an abrupt stop. Perplexed, I put her back in first gear, and gunned the engine. Put her in reverse and tried again. Nothing. I wasn't moving. Just making lots of loud engine noise. I look over at the building, and there's 6 men, standing in front of the large storefront window...staring at me in amazement. "Geez....haven't they ever seen a lady driving a 'big rig' before", I was thinking. Even as recently as 10 years ago, ladytruckers were still sort of scarce, and a bit of a novelty.

Well, I climbed down out of the truck to get a better look. To my horror, I saw that I was just plumb stuck....the fuel tanks were halfway buried in the snow. It was deeper than I had realized. And the rear tandem tires were OFF of the ground!!! I had been spinning my tires in the wind! AAARGH!!!

Humiliated, I sheepishly walked toward the building. All of the men were still standing in the window, one old feller was scratching his head, looking as perplexed as I felt.
"Good afternoon, Gentlemen", and I introduced myself. "I was a little lost and found that i was going in the wrong direction, so I thought I'd get turned around in your semi-circular driveway, but somehow, I got stuck".

I look over to my right and see an old farmer, chewin' on a long piece of straw. He spat into a coffee can spittoon next to him, and started to guffaw. "Hey, Earl"! He bellowed, "When y'all gonna finish puttin' in that semi-circular driveway y'all started?!" At that, all of those farmers got to belly laughin' so hard, I feared that the old man was going to keel over from apoplexy. To say I was mortified would be an understatement.

One fella in particular was real nice. He and I walked outside to get a better handle on my predictament, and he explained what I did wrong. "Thar's a big ditch right thar, little lady. It's all filled in with snow. That's why you didn't see that it were a ditch. Git in yer truck and try to back 'er up".

I climb back in and put her in reverse. Gun 'er good. Nothing. Just a lot of noise. And to make matters worse, I hear the truckers cackling over my CB radio..."Hey lady! That's a funny place to park!" They're all having one hell of a good laugh, and no doubt, I gave those fellers many miles of entertainment as they drove down the road. Truckers love to yammer on the CB, and especially out there in potato land where there is not much to look at. To them, a blonde stuck in the ditch was great fun indeed!

A few of the fellers trudged out into the snow to offer "assistance". No matter how I tried to move that truck, it wasn't budging. Finally, they called a farmer buddy from "up the road a piece". I can only imagine what they told him, because it didn't take to long for him to get there on his farm tractor.

He hooked up some cables to the back of the trailer, and started to pull me out backwards. One middle-aged feller, name of Ed Kitchen, and I, hunkered down and stared at the back tires to see if it were actually moving. When I tell you that grass would grow faster than that truck was inching back, we're not exaggerating. "It's movin', little lady, can't ya see the snow bunchin' up on the tire?" If I weren't already so mortified, I would have started wailing. "No, the truck isn't moving, Ed! I'm stuck here forever. I'll have to call my boss!" Being homeless AND unemployed was a calamitious scenario running through my brain at that moment. The last thing I wanted to do, was to have call the boss who was of the antiquated mindset who thought women didn't belong behind the wheel of a "big rig". I sure didn't want to be the gal to "prove him right".

Ed gave me a good look up and down, as amusement twinkled in his eyes. "So, how long you been driving this big ol' truck, little lady?"

My head down, and my voice barely audible, I whispered, " 'Bout four months now, Ed".
"Well, I supposin' y'all ain't doin' all too badly, then." he growled.

The truck moved at a snails pace, and it took over an hour, but that tractor pullin' farmer freed me of that snowy fuel tank grave....backwards, of course. Reaching down into my half frozen jeans, I gratefully grabbed at all the cash that I had in my wordly possession. Yuppers...He got the princely sum of $36 bucks and 80 cents!

I was delirous with joy! Lots of hand-pumping and hearty thank you's and good natured laughter all around! I just couldn't thank them enough for all they did for me, and no, never did tell my boss about that one....nosiree bob!

Though, to this day, I can't help but wonder how many folks read about it in the local paper. I have no doubt that I was the biggest story in that "blink and you'll miss it" little town for a long time after.

Yup, that sure was a funny place to park! LOL!

The Adventures of Katwoman, Chapter Two

2008-08-12T22:06:00.000-07:00

After 2 1/2 days of driving, stopping at nearly every truck stop from Wisconsin to Baltimore, I finally arrived at the receiver. My "first". Nice man. To my dismay, the receiving area was a small parking lot, and there was no place to turn around to get a proper "set-up" for putting my big "large car" OTR truck in the dock. I would have to "blind-side" it in. Blind-siding is manuvuering your truck from the right side, as opposed to the left side. If you were parallel parking a car, you know that you use your right hand mirror to park...Well, it's the same principle with a truck. Unfortunately, with a truck, especially one with a sleeper, it is 500 times more difficult, and not taught or encouraged by the S&S T/T school from where I graduated in 1996. If you have no choice but to blind-side, you really need a "spotter" or helper outside the truck to give you hand signals, and help you navigate safely. The bay door was open, and I could see the receiver was impatient for his freight.

I struggled for a half an hour...forward a few inches, back a few inches., The clutch was so tight that my left leg ached, and trembled from the exertion and subsequent muscle fatique. I cussed like a long-shoreman, and at one point, burst out into tears in abject frustration. It was an exultant moment when I realized that, finally, she's IN!!! Got the damned truck into the dock, and with slightly shaky legs, started to climb down out of the truck, when I heard the receiver boom out with, "HEY LADY! YOU FORGOT TO OPEN YOUR 'BARN DOORS'!!!" "Oh, Lord, NO...!",

I was mortified. Embarrassed beyond belief, I climbed back up, and did a pull-up...opened and secured the doors, and repeated the above process of inching forward and back. A few more tears snuck out, and my mascara was totally ruined. I quickly wiped the evidence of distress from under my eyes, and began walking into the warehouse. I was just a few steps short, when this man started bellowing again, "HEY LADY!!! THIS ISN'T MY FREIGHT"!!! This was not a happy customer, and I was confused...I TOOK the load that "Marc", the dispatcher told me to take. Naiive little newbie "trucker" that I was, I believed him, and didn't double check my paperwork before I left out of Wisconsin. Lesson number one: Dispatchers are notorious for telling you one thing, and doing another. I remember calling the 1-800 number for the company. Spoke with another dispatcher. I tried to sound "manly" by cussing assertively, (or so I thought the way I perceived a 'burly, manly' trucker might speak). This did not gain me favor, I assure you. In no uncertain terms, I was told to "RETURN TO THE TERMINAL IMMEDIATELY".

After numerous and heartfelt apologies to the receiver, (and blaming the dispatcher for the screw-up), I was on my way back to contented cow land. I agonized the whole trip back. Used up the rest of my Kleenex tissues. The loss of this new job was a real fear in my mind, and I doubted that I could even collect unemployment if I were to be terminated, which was a certain possibility. I believe that being a woman, and a very blonde one at that, saved my butt. They also took into consideration how "green" I was, and gave me another chance. I was most grateful for that, and vowed to "do better" with my next load. Being that I had the gumption to stand up to tougher adversaries in the past, I truly wanted to succeed and excel in this new-found profession. I may not have had "man-muscles", but I learned that I surely had the heart to try.

My employment with them was over 10 years ago, and I know for a fact that they still use me as an "example", when doing their in-classroom training for the new drivers. "Double check your paper-work before you leave" and "Don't be like that woman who..." I know that they are still laughing at that incident.

Even though the passage of time has soothed a measure of the sting of humiliation, my learning process was still far from over. This was late November. It was Wintertime, and I had many unfamiliar, snow covered roads to traverse. The dreaded "black ice" beckoned. Another learning experience awaited me. I stocked up on more Kleenex, checked my State maps, and aimed the truck toward Route 69 in Illinois.

A "Neveeerrrr Mind" Moment!

2008-03-12T17:31:00.000-07:00

Had a "helper" in the truck with me today. A most pleasant young man, name of Jose. He's an invaluable asset, what with reading the maps, helping me navigate, doing inventory sheets, and paperwork, and his youth and muscles make up for the lack of my own when it comes to lumping a heavy or difficult piece of freight. Well, no good deeds go ignored or unrewarded by me, so I always make it a priority to ensure that this young fella eats breakfast and lunch when he's been given the role of "the Katwoman's right hand man" for the day. And, the Kat buys, of course.

Driving back from Pennsylvania, we stopped at a "Mickey D's" (MacDonalds in trucker talk) to grab a quick lunch. After receiving our burgers and fries, we sat and munched in silence for a few minutes, and Jose, for some odd reason, starting studying the receipt. After a moment, he nonchantly mentions,
"Hey, did you know they charge you tax to sit here and eat"?

I'm like, "Wha? Let me see that thing!" I snatch the receipt, and see that yes, they DID give me a "road warriors" discount, (professional drivers can get a little break on the price of their food, which is nice, considering how often truckers grab food and go, at these service plazas). but they also charged me .56 cents for an "eat in" tax. The more I thought about it, and in my case, it wasn't more than two minutes, the more my fur started to rise up on end and I started getting a little "hissy".

"Well, the NERVE of these people, fur cryin' out loud! What the hell are they doin'? Penalizing people for wanting to simply sit down and eat like a human being?" I was practically sputtering, while steam started to seep from my ears..."And ANOTHER thing....!!! Truckers are always gobblin' down a sandwich in one hand, while trying to drive with the other! Charging them MORE to sit at a table is....is....well, it's just wrong, dammit!!!"

In the meantime, Jose never stopped chewing, and I took his appreciative grunts and nods as encouragement and support...so with that, I marched up to the counter, and asked to speak with someone in authority. A young man, with pimples, wearing a "Manager" button proudly emblazoned on his left shirt pocket calmly sauntered over to the counter. As I silently loaded my furry muzzle with verbal ammunition, I was fully prepared to go to battle, claws extended if neccessary, over this terribly "unfair" and senseless tax.

Boldly, I sallied forth with: "So, how do you explain THIS, young man???" as I pointed to the .56 cent tax on the receipt. I surely expected a more complicated explanation than the one he gave to me........

"Oh, that's nothing, Ma'am. We just do that as an 'internal' thing so that we can keep track of how many people eat in, or take carry out: We don't actually charge anyone extra to eat in."

..................doh!................

!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

"Oh, very well then........"

With that, I slinked back to the table, kitty fur all smoothed down, and feeling just a bit contrite, and the words of the most famous "Emily Pettila" from the old Saturday Night Live TV shows rang in my ears.....

" Ooooh........neverrrrr miiind!!!! "

Sheesh.....ya know,...sometimes I make myself giggle...... I really do.

The Adventures of Katwoman, or "How I Got My Start"

2008-03-12T17:24:00.000-07:00

The Adventures of Katwoman, or "How I Got My Start in the Trucking Industry"

The class consisted of 11 men and one woman. Me. They were a motley crew of assorted characters, most of which were rather burly, and unshaven. With my carefully blow-dried, curled and coiffed pretty blonde hair, and carefully applied cosmetics, I looked and felt very out-of-place. After three days of company policy in-classroom truck driver training, these experienced truckers were very eager to get into their newly assigned late-model Freightliner and Peterbilt tractors and start making the big bucks. And then, there was me, Little Miss Fresh Out of Smith and Solomon School for Tractor Trailer Drivers in New Jersey with the ink still wet on my CDL Class A drivers license. All the men wanted Peterbilts. I just wanted a tractor that was big enough to hold all my stuff which consisted of about 10 pairs of panties, 12 pairs of socks, five pairs of jeans, an assortment of T-shirts, 4 brassieres, a couple pairs of jammies, warm slippers for my feet, my line of "don't leave home without them" cosmetics, hair-dryer, curling iron, shampoo, conditioner, apricot facial scrub, razor blades, shaving cream, panty liners, hair-spray, manicure set, some stuffed teddy bears and kitty cats, a 13 inch television, and a full comforter set which included matching sheets and pillow cases. Oh, and my CB radio and Wilson antennae. I figured that as long as I was going to be living in a truck for God only knows how long, that I would make it as much like home as possible. All that was lacking was my recliner, 52 inch television, knitting needles, and my comfortable life and home in the suburbs of New Jersey that I once knew.

In the politically correct terminology of these modern day times, I was considered a "displaced homemaker". One day I was married and living in the burbs, working part-time driving a school bus, and suddenly, I'm living in a cockroach infested battered womans shelter with a bunch of urban, poor inner city type women, each of whom had three or more kids and not much else. All my precious possessions, antiques, collectibles, pictures, family mementos and heirlooms, furniture, basically everything that I owned, including my two beloved 10 year old cats, two cockatiels, and my little Yorkie puppy, "Dixie", were still in the lovely little home that I once shared with my abusive, pot-headed, degenerate gambler ex- husband to be. My head was spinning and I was still in shock at the rapid turn of events that turned my life upside-down. Other than some occasional day trips to PA, and two trips to Florida, I had never really been outside of New Jersey. Now, I'm sitting in a classroom at a trucking company in a state that had nothing but cows and cheese. And snow. Large, copious amounts of snow. Beautiful home of a gazillion cow-pies Wisconsin. Finally, I was assigned a 1994 blue Freightliner and given a set of keys and told, "Go see Marc down in dispatch and he will give you the paperwork for your first load"

Excited, elated, hyperventilating, and scared half to death, dispatcher Marc gives me my very first load, and one-hundred dollars in cash for toll money. Oh, and directions on how to get to Baltimore, Maryland. I'm thinking, "Where the hell is Maryland?" Damn. I could barely read a map, and when I drove the school bus, the kids were always so helpful and would gladly shout out, "Miss Christy, make a left at this corner and turn right at the next" I had thoroughly enjoyed driving a school bus and pleased to know that "my kids" loved me! They knew that every day was an adventure with "Miss Christy"! The children always came onto my bus happy and smiling, and bounced off to school the same way. They knew that I was quick to hand out candy or blast their favorite music on the boom box that I always carried. And they could count on having the most decorated school bus for every major holiday, including Halloween. Yeah, I know I spoiled 'em rotten! They were also aware that I could get lost in a parking lot! I really missed them and wondered how they were all doing. I was snapped back into reality when Marc said, "Your tractor is in the middle truck bay. You better get packed up and ready to leave out" At this particular terminal, there were three super humongous garages which fit 40 tractors each. With large and very loud fans to suck out the tractor exhaust fumes, the drivers at that terminal were encouraged to hole up in them when they were away from home. After 15 minutes or so, trudging over the cold, hard-packed dirt floor, I located my assigned rig. Two or so hours later, after cramming and squeezing all my essential belongings into every nook and cranny into this "Freightshaker", and unsuccessfully attempting to hook up my CB radio, I was nearly ready to rock and roll. My foot was trembling on the accelerator, and I was literally shaking all over, thinking, I can't believe that I'm actually doing this! I'm going to drive this gigantic truck, all by myself, all the way to Maryland. Pushing the cold, stiff clutch down as far as I could get it, and turning the key, the huge truck roared into life. It was November in Wisconsin, and so freaking frigid that you could feel your every little nose hair grow icicles, as your breath just froze and hung in the air in front of your face. I wanted to cry, but was afraid that my tears would freeze my eyeballs shut.

After some furious and frustrated wrestling with the gear shift, I managed to get it into what I believed was first gear, and drove hurky-jerky down a long road into "the pit" where all the trailers were kept. I must have stalled out that tractor at least four times before I finally made it down into the area where I was supposed to be. Surprisingly enough, I didn't have any problems hooking up, and before I knew it, I was driving through the terminal, grumbling past the empoyee parking lot, past a line of more parked tractors, past the truck wash bay, and as I started to pass the service bay, three of the mechanics came running out to give me two plastic gallon bottles of tractor alcohol, and with their Wisconian accents, "You'll need these to keep the fuel from jelling, 'Lady'" they warned. Huh? What? I was clueless. Fuel jelling? I had never heard of such a thing! As I drove away, they waved and yelled excitedly, "Good Luck and be careful,˜Lady'"! Suddenly, I was out on the "big road".

I didn't get too far. A brightly lit, huge TA truck stop sign in Russell, Illinois beckoned me in, reminding me to take yet another piddle and grab a few more "essentials", just in case there was something that I didn't already have.

Somehow, I made it through Chicago, though I thought the pot-hole riddled Route 94 would beat me half to death. Everything that I had so carefully hung, packed and crammed into the tractor, was now scattered all over the place. A pair of socks rolled under my feet, and my cute little stuffies were lying on the floor in a heap, along with my carefully made-up bunk with its matching pillows and comforter. A light bulb went on over my head as I realized, "Oh! THATS why the guys said I'd need to buy ˜bungee cords'!!" Up to that point, again, I was clueless.

It took me 2 1/2 days to get to Baltimore. I stopped at pratically every truck stop along the way. and then, somewhere on Route 30 in Indiana, I bought the requsite bungee cords, and another box of tissues. I remember stopping a lot. Usually to pee, get more directions, or take another cat-nap. The enormous stress that I was under was emotionally and physically exhausting.. I cried an awful lot...loud wailing and gut-wrenching sobs. I know now that it had to be God who kept me from driving off the road for my vision was often compromised from the constant bawling and the endless stream of tears that just wouldn't stop. Even though both of my hands were tightly clutching the wheel, I often found myself struggling to keep the big rig "in between the lines".

I dearly missed my beloved pets. I missed my garden. I missed my precious belongings, but the biggest ache in my heart was that I missed my Daddy, who was in a nursing home in NJ. Aside from my material possessions and pets, he was truly the light of my life, and the only family I had left that I had contact with. I knew he was missing me terribly and incapable of understanding why I wasn't there to see him. Pop was 77 years old with debilitating Parkinsons disease and the associated senility that came with it. I visited him three or more times a week. This frail old man, who barely kept breathing, would amazingly rejuvenate into the land of the living when I would enter the room. Always, the nurses would stop in the middle of whatever it was that they were doing and gasp in amazement, "Look at Louie!!!" His darling, sweet old face would light up, his lively Greek black eyes would sparkle and come to life and his weathered face would wrinkle up in a thousand places as he would purse up his lips to kiss me. Softly, he would murmur, "Yasou, Kori" ("Hello Daughter" in Greek) He lived for my visits, and I lived for him. No matter what, I knew that I had to make this delivery, had to get closer to NJ, had to "keep the rubber down," had to keep going, had to fight the tremendous and overwhelming grief in my heart and the mental suffering that made me want to drive myself and the truck off of a mountain just to end the misery.

I had to "hang in there" for my Pop. No matter what.