The Commute

Welcome to Friday. The day all is supposed to go well. And, for the most part, people are just relieved the weekend is so close. The work day sort of dribbles by, but as soon as the last minute is over, the pupils dilate, the pulse quickens, the senses tingle. It's either the heroin kicking in or the weekend beginning (for some, it may be both).

But, if you live in Connecticut like me, you know that the minute your car is out of the parking garage and onto public streets, the feeling dissipates. Gone are the ideas that were flooding you moments earlier with plans to start the weekend. Instead, brake lights are slapped in front of your eyes, as if to say, "Oh, silly you. You know this happens every Friday, yet you still anticipate me, whether you know it or not."

If you know back roads, you're at least moving along...but nine times out of 10 you're stuck behind someone who could care less about your need to feel the wind whipping through your hair, driving 45 in a 25 mph cop-less road. The car in front of you doesn't even has its brake lights on, yet you're still pumping your brake because sheer momentum seems to pull your car faster than the one in front of you. When they turn off you have a whole 23 seconds of freedom! You go for the gas pedal, you know these roads well enough, there are no brakes involved! And then, damn. Another one. These are YOUR back roads! How dare someone try to claim them for themselves and their slow vehicles.

The luck is no better on the highway. In fact, as you're inching along, plans for the weekend begin to be replaced by listing things you'd rather be doing than sitting in traffic. None of which are even remotely close to giving you the same misery going 11 exits in an hour and a half does. (This is Connecticut we're talking about; I realize that in some states where 11 exits in an hour and a half is a miracle and should be praised--I'm looking at you, upstate New York!) Somehow, you would trade your right hand to be on the floor of your bathroom using whitening toothpaste on grout instead of stuck in traffic.

An hour into your commute home, you go through the same weekly questions in your head: Should I move closer to my job? Should I find a job closer to me? If I went back to work at Carvel, could I somehow still pay my mortgage? (OK, the last one may just be me...)

You make a pact to look into your options when you get home, if you get home. This is, of course, in vain because once you get home, you're so happy to be there, the thought of looking for another job just seems ridiculous. You enjoy your job (or at least tolerate it). The commute only gets to you one day out of the week. How hard is that? You survived it before you'll survive it again.

Then you see the clock. It's two and a half hours later than you actually left. Your Friday night had such hope, such promise. But, now it seems wasted. Your energy level is shot. You don't even have the energy to think about trying heroine, just to see if you can bring back that fresh 5 o'clock feeling instead of the sloth-like 7 o'clock slump.

You wait for your third wind to hit. 7:30. Nothing. 8 p.m. Nothing. The phone is starting to ring with offers for the night, but nothing really gets you up and going. You'd rather sulk about your commute just ruining everything.

Three hours since work and what have you accomplished? Getting yourself home. In one piece. Without causing a lawsuit because you threw your water bottle at an old woman going one mile below the speed limit. (I know, I know, she totally deserved it. Especially when she stopped right before the light ahead turned yellow when she could have easily run it, with you on her tail.) Without even being that guy who decides he can't wait any more and drives five miles on the shoulder, almost careening into a Jersey barrier when the shoulder unexpectedly ends.

Well, when you put it that way, you've accomplished a lot! You deserve a reward for your hard work and effort! You didn't have to let people merge onto the highway from the on ramps. You could have been the four out of five asshats on 95 who don't let anyone get in front of them, thinking they're saving themselves seconds off their rides home. Yeah! You have good karma coming to you! It's time to celebrate! It's time to get up and change out of your work clothes, which you realize was one of the things holding you back...slave clothes, more like it.

OK! You're ready! You're in the car! You pull out of your driveway and get onto the highway to visit some friends and...oh shit...Of course. No longer is the highway full of commuter traffic, it's now full of former-commuters like yourself who went through the same after-work slump you did and are now ready to go downtown and enjoy themselves.

And, once again, that old lady is in front of you. However, now she is, clearly, high as a kite on medical marijuana (not legal in Connecticut, by the way, but it's not like anyone would suspect her for possession). And you know this because she throws your water bottle back at you, only she has used some Popsicle sticks and a glue gun to turn it into a bong. Sassy bitch.

Fruit Salad

Right before work ended today, I started getting that warm, heavy feeling in my temples. Then I realized my muscles felt a bit sore. And my heating pad was all the way up and I was still shivering (we're worried about an economic crisis, but my building can't seem to economize on keeping the top floor cold enough). Then it hit me...

I was getting sick!

By the time I was stuck in traffic, it had turned into an "oh-I-just-want-to-go-home-and-get-in-bed" all-out fever. And, of course, I had to take back roads because they had to close the highway right before rush hour.

On my way home, I ended up listening to a bunch of music, mostly because I was skipping around so much because I was so impatient with the day. I noticed, though, that in my song choices I listened to the whole way through, I had inadvertently ended up listening to enough fruit-inspired bands and songs that I could have gotten my anti-oxidant content from my iPod:

Raspberries-Go All The Way


The Cranberries-Dreams


Harry Nilsson-Coconut


The Lemonheads-Into Your Arms


Bananarama-Last Thing On My Mind


Fiona Apple-If We Kissed
(Because there isn't an official video for this song, I had to look through the many interpretations on YouTube, mostly featuring WB teen crap--this one made me laugh, though, so I had to post it.)



And, of course...
The Beatles-Strawberry Fields Forever


Bonus
Because it's my favorite fruity flavor (I hate the actual fruit itself, though...), I thought I'd add just a little more to the fruit concoction.

Five Songs That Should Have Added A Pick Slide

I have to say, I get very nostalgic for the '90s whenever a power ballad comes on and I hear a pick slide. I think it's one of the most underestimated "techniques" in music, to be honest. It's like that random burst that re-focuses me on whatever song I'm listening to.

When I was driving home from work, I was listening to Rod Stewart's, Bryan Adams' and Sting's All For One (no joke, really) and I realized why I always felt so anxious and let down listening to it: It needs a pick slide!



Then, when traffic started moving, I found myself singing along to Michael Jackson's Black or White (watching the video just now definitely made me smile, too):



Then, I was switching highways when I decided Joan Jett's I Love Rock 'n' Roll needed a few pick slides, although with her random outbursts of "OOOOW!", Ms. Jett might feel threatened:


When I was almost home, I was worried I wouldn't have a good collection of songs to add to this blog...but luckily ZZ Top's Tush came on:


You may be wondering about the fifth song. Well, I saved the best for last. When it came on, I was thanking the iPod gods of Shuffle Songs. As if this song didn't have enough cliches (musical and otherwise) attached to it already:

Fun in the Car

I keep a drumstick in my car. Just one. I have told the same story that my cousin (drunkenly) stole it from his band's drummer because they were in a fight and decided to hide it in my car and that's why it's there. At this point, I don't remember if I made that up or if that's what actually happened, because the more I think about it, the weirder the story sounds...but I've been telling it for so long, that may just be the reason. So, it's just hanging out in my car. The Kia, the drumstick and me.

This afternoon during my commute, I was out of cigarettes and needed to keep my hands busy. I decided to put it to use, other than using it as a reaching stick when my purse falls on the floor. I started keeping the beat to the songs on my iPod. I tapped on the steering wheel only for a few seconds before the (supposedly irrational) fear of the airbag spontaneously going off hit me, so I percussioned (I can turn what I did into a verb, oh yes I can) on the dashboard instead.

Soon, Howard Jones came on, and before I knew it, I was doing that washboard sound using the heating vents. Although a small accomplishment in my life, I got a thrill from the ingenuity to work with the resources I had.

Just in case you happen to be around a vent of some sort and have a drumstick handy (who doesn't?):

The Ride-Home Song

A classic from either 1989 or 1993, depending on which version you listen to:

Moxy Fruvous - King of Spain

Two Cars, One Driveway

No, it's not a video; it's a lifestyle. It's a little after 6 a.m. and my husband just left for work. I don't have to leave until 8:30. However, I come home in the afternoon after he does so, unless he happens to be out, I have to park behind him...that is if he didn't invite company over before I got home and someone else is parked in the driveway and, god forbid, they pull their car up a bit so I wouldn't have to park in the parking lot down the street.


This may prove difficult for some, but we get along just fine. Think I'm sounding cocky? Come on, imagine sharing the road, let alone a driveway, with this creature:















I mean, honestly! Not only do I not care to look at feet when I'm stuck in traffic, but in driving her SUV, I have a feeling this position is not as comfortable as she would have liked it to be. Here's my interpretation of what was going on inside the car:



















No matter what the truth of the matter is (a terrible thing for any journalist to say, I know...), the fact remains that this person is official deemed TOOL.

Currently Playing

I heard it on the way home from work today. It's been stuck in my head ever since.

Ironically, it's the only song I like from Lenny Kravitz. No, not like, LOVE!