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!!!
Thursday, November 19, 2009
Poem: A Cancerian Reflection
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.
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
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.
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
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.
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!
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!
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!
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