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.
Tuesday, August 12, 2008
Wednesday, March 12, 2008
A "Neveeerrrr Mind" Moment!
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.
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"
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.
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.
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