Ha Ha Roundabout

I'm listening to Fresh Air with Terry Gross and the author interviewed is Tom Vanderbuilt who has written a book called Traffic: Why We Drive the Way We Do. (He should, if he doesn't already, have a whole chapter on the Boston driver--a rare, thankfully, but highly vicious species of driver.)

Anyway at one point here in the interview he promotes "roundabouts" or, as we call them in these parts, rotaries. The Terry Gross asks him to explain what that is.

Ha ha ha ha. Isn't that hilarious?

Wait, you don't know what it is is, either? Oh.

Having driven to the Common Saturday from home and back, the idea that people don't know what a rotary is just strikes me as weird. How is it something I must face daily could be so foreign to so many of my countrymen? From West Roxbury to the Boston Common, I think there are 6 rotaries you have to take. How do I feel about them? Yeah, they work. I don't know if it'd be a good idea to, as Vanderbuilt suggests, replace all stoplights with "roundabouts". That might be bedlam. But it's funny that something I know so out of hand is foreign to many others.

Like the Californian who asks, "What's that?" in the New Englander's shed in summer, pointing at a snow blower.

The Places People Hate - or, Logan Airport Sux

Some people have a thing about hospitals. I've never really cared one way or the other. Some don't like public bathrooms--my bladder is too small for such fussiness. But I'll tell you what I do hate more than any place in the world: the effing airport. Not all of them. Just Logan, to be specific.
First the signs to go in. It's like Sanskrit or something. I get turrets just apporaching in the tunnel. Missing entrances and driving around in circles like the Griswolds on the roundabout in London. Today was beautiful in the tunnel, by the way. For absolutely no reason whatsoever, in the afternoon, it was bumper to bumper and took an hour to get from the entrance of the tunnel to the terminals. For no reason. No accidents. No closed lanes. Nothing. Just because.
Then there's the friendly personnel--oh wait, there is no such thing as a friendly person at Logan. It's like, "Welcome to Boston, land of the major db's. They don't call us Massholes for nothing."
Then there's the delightful people who are definitely in a bigger hurry than you so they cut you in the TSA line of bull. Why the line of bull? Because my moisturizer and my hand sanitizer, even though they meet the very tiny sized liquid container standards, must be in a plastic bag, otherwise they need to be thrown away. And why was I going through security in the first place? Because of the UNMR (unaccompanied minor)- my cousin - I brought to the airport. For some reason, she successfully boarded in Raleigh, without anyone, and without paying the UNMR fee, and with three tubs of shampoo and conditioner, without any problem. But her shampoo and conditioner clearly needed to be chucked in Boston, because they're not putting up with that crap. Nor could she get on the plane without first paying the $100 fee. She was literally held hostage at the airport, not allowed to board until the credit card of her grandfather's made it through the system to pay the extra money.
Then I wasn't allowed to leave the boarding gate until her plane took off. However, no one was able to notify me precisely when that was. So, after about 15 minutes after she got through the gate, after I stood in line to find out the status and watched everyone be as nasty as possible to everyone else, I just left. It was crap.
I especially loved the woman who went to the ATM machine and blocked the entrance to the ATMs with her 2 suitcases, as if she was the only person who needed to use the area. I just stepped to the sideof them; my purse almost knocking one of them over. I wish it had.
Also, I love the people who are constantly on their cell phones as they're also supposed to be boarding the plane or getting their tickets. Seriously. That's not rude. That's really rather lovely. It's liek Carrie said in SATC when she gets shoulder bumped on Wall Street, "Ooooohh. YOu're sooooo BUSY!" I wanted to say that, but I refrained. I refrained from saying a lot of things. That's why this blog entry is so long and pointless. I am venting. It feels good to get it out.
I especially would like to mention the lovely people at the ticket counter. THey're so helpful. And parking is easy. Just go up to the 5th floor but be sure to pay in the terminal beforehand and it's 5 dollars for every hour.
And be sure to have the 3.50 in tolls to merely leave the airport.
Not to mention the awesome people who run you over to get to the same elevator or escalator and you all end up at the same place at basically the same time anyway.
My favorite phrase today was when a disgruntled American Airlines employee started yelling at a distraught foreign passenger and told him to call a phone # to reschedule his flight. He asked if she would call for him, you know since he's foreign and perhaps doesn't have a cell phone and doesn't understand English that well. He asked, "You will not call this for me?" "No, sir, you call the number." I don't know what he said back but he wasn't happy. And she yelled, to her boss, "How is that my problem?" Um, because that's what you do as part of your job desciption--get people to their flights. A-hole. That was just so indicative of the entire sordid affair.
Honestly. I think you have to be a jerk to work for American Airlines. No wonder they're going under. Customer service is crap, crap, crap. CRAP.
I much prefer flying from Providence. It's more laid back. On balance, it takes about the same time to get there, considering the lack of traffic down there as opposed to up here, and I'm usually flying Southwest or JetBlue if I'm going there. Those airlines are down-to-earth, basic but--in my experience--incredibly friendly, too.
Anyway, thank goodness Macy's Liquors doesn't close until 11 on Thursdays. Today is the type of day that, once I get home from the lib, I don't just need a glass, I need a giant bowl of red.
Here's to not having to go to the airport--until August--and again in October--oh f*&^k.
THE END

Repost: The County, Boston Drivers & The Way Life Should Be

Repost: The County, Boston Drivers & The Way Life Should Be

August 10, 2006 @ 1:01 pm

Mom is up in The County. The County is Mainespeak for Aroostook County. It’s called The County because it’s ginormous and about four people total live in the County. My mother goes up to visit a friend who used to work with her down here. The friend lives in TS16-R4 or some other alpha-numeric town. (Township 16, Range 4: these are large areas of Maine that aren’t populated enough to have formal town governments. They are mostly forest. Seriously.) (Side note: To create the link that had a Maine township, I googled “maine township” and it turns out there’s a town in Illinois called “Maine Township, Illinois” and one in Minnesota! Weird.)

She called on Tuesday.

“What have you done?” I asked.

“Nothing,” she said.

This is what the County is good for. “Nothing” is actually: taking walks to the St John and coming back; swimming in a lake; reading a book; playing board games, like Scrabble, which my mother is psychotically good at.

“Actually, we went to Governors in Presque Isle,” she said.

“Oh I know that one. I’ve never been, though. I was outside of it.”

It reminded me of my one visit to the County when Jenny was dating Br ad, and B rad, M ilo, Jenny and I stayed at Bra d’s parents’ house. B rad’s family had a family reunion at Governor’s and me and M ilo weren’t welcome, which I still find weird. That would never happen here.

In the really rural parts of Maine, there’s a palpable (unwarranted?) suspicion of people that aren’t from there. It’s like they’re part of an ancient African tribe, so they put up a wall for outsiders that one must work decades to chip away at.

People in Boston aren’t very friendly to strangers, especially strangers in cars

Side Story as Example - If one more mofo beeps at me when I don't turn on the red arrow red light, I'm going to get out of my car and beat them. This caravan beeped at me today for not going right on the red arrow red light. THE COMMUTER RAIL WAS DRIVING BY. I rolled down my window and pointed at the red arrow. Then, I pointed out the train going by. Then I gave her a nasty look when she passed me when the street went to two lanes. THEN I SAW THE "BABY ON BOARD" SIGN ON THE BACK OF HER CAR and lost my shiznit, gyrating and swearing into my dashboard. 'Baby on Board: must run red lights and get run over by speeding trains.' WTF WTF WTF I HATE BOSTON DRIVERS!!!!!!!!!)

However, in Boston, as soon as you're a friend of a friend, you’re a best friend. If it were the reverse and Jenny, Mi lo and B rad had come to Weymouth and my family were having a reunion, they would welcome my friends at the party and engage them right away.

Somewhere in the middle is every-day Maine: mostly rural, slightly urban, where -- generally speaking -- people are friendly to start off and really kind once you know them, AND KNOW HOW TO DRIVE. Hence the motto, Maine, The Way Life Should Be .

Repost: RMV- the epilogue

The Way the RMV Should Be

So, I wrapped up the Mass RMV story but I needed to repost the finale...

The Maine RMV: The Way RMVs Should Be

VI Chapter 5

What it’s like in Maine:

Bring title and old registration to town office.

Pay for registration transfer, excise tax, and sign up for transfer of inexpensive vanity plate (only $15, hence the five year reign of POETREE). Pay. Get new sticker and new registration.

The end.

This is what they mean when they say:

“Welcome to Maine. The way life should be.”

Repost: The Odyssey of the RMV

The Odyssey at the RMV, cont.

So, I registered my car and all that, but I still had a few more weird-assed things happened while at the registry. Here's the continuation of my Odyssey to the RMV of MA. At the time I wrote this, I was working at Old Slavery (Old Navy) for The Man (aka Gap Inc):

V. Chapter 5

Here’s the random story: I talk to customers at ON all the time. A few months ago a woman came in to exchange shirts she purchased for her daughter because they didn’t fit. ON didn’t have the right size, so the woman came back in my line and just returned the shirts.

She ended up telling me that her daughter works at the RMV and that it’s her first full-time job, so she wanted to get her some nice clothes. After her return was finished, she went shopping some more. She came back with new shirts. She told me she was sad that she wouldn’t be able to bring her daughter the new shirts until after the weekend because she was on her way to the Cape to go camping at her seasonal spot at a campground.

Perhaps it’s because I am a writer and have done journalism work, but people open up to me with ease.

As I appraoched the customer service desk at the RMV, I noticed the girl at the desk was wearing a shirt from ON, so I just knew it was the daughter of my customer. I didn’t say anything the two times I went through her line, but I saw her out in front of the office on my way to parking lot and figured, what the hell.

So I said, “I have the most random question for you.”

She was skeptical, because people leave the RMV pretty pissed, so she probably thought I was going to complain about something.

Instead I said, “Does your mom shop at (ON) a lot and does she go camping in the Cape all the time?”

“Yee-es…”

“And did you just get this job a little bit ago and she bought you shirts that she had to return because they weren’t the right size?”

“Yee-es…”

“I thought you were the daughter. I know this is totally random, but I work at (ON) and I remember when your mom came in and told me all about your new job and stuff. And I figured it was you because I recognized the shirt you’re wearing right now from work and you’re younger and she said you were nervous about your first job.”

She was laughing and sort of pleased at the quirky coincidence. She asked if I were working later today because she planned on going after work. I told her no, probably not until Monday. Then I asked her how she liked work because her mom said she was shy. She laughed, probably exasperated that her mom tells her life story to ON cashiers, and said she liked it. I told her she did a good job and said thanks.

Random.

Repost: RMV purgatory

Registry of Motor Vehicles in Massachusetts: Hell on Earth?

When we last left off, I had rushed to the bank, through the Quincy Center Street Fair, to get cash for the RMV. I made it back and then...

IV. Chapter 3

Hop to front of line, thanks to my “return pass.” This is a nice innovation.

My serve: All the previously processed paperwork.

New RMV worker’s serve (I guess we’re playing mixed doubles): The staggering $170 total.

My return: A blip overhand to end the match with the cash turned over.

I have my new plates and my new registration.

IV. Chapter 4

FINAL: 5-1, no more POETREE (my personalized license plate in Maine) but a MA license plate with generic numbers. Poo but at least it’s done. I survived.

They should give out stickers, like when you vote; I survived a trip to the RMV today.

Stay tuned for the final installment, the epilogue. I lovely little tale about the mere 3 degrees that separate folks in the South Shore of Massachusetts.

Repost: Registry of Motor Vehicles, or Hell on Earth

Repost: Registry of Motor Vehicles, or Hell on Earth Secton II: Chapter 1 "The Match"

II. Chapter 1

When you get to the RMV window, it’s like a tennis game: I have all my paperwork, so I’m like a pimped out Williams sister with fashion forward skirt-dress thingy and titanium alloy racquet or whatever it is they use.

My serve: a State Tax Exemption (MSV-29) form since I paid excise in Maine, completed and signed.

His return: Car was purchased in MA. The form is no good. You have to go to the dealer to get proof of purchase on their letterhead. He’s about to dismiss me but

MY return: a fierce backhand with BAM! the bill of purchase

1-0

My serve: The Maine title. It’s good.

2-0

My serve: The registration, complete with proof of insurance, filled out in its entirety at the insurance company. Except I forgot to write in the mileage but remembered right before I went up to the window and wrote something feasible in. Ha ha.

3-0

My serve: The old Maine registration. It’s good, again.

He has the new potential plate out, he’s filling out numbers and other paperwork, I’m almost there.

4-0

My serve: I pull out the debit card.

His return: Cash or check only.

I look around to see if it’s 2006 or 1986. It’s definitively 2006, but the RMV hasn’t stepped up to the debit card plate (oh crap I just mixed my metaphors).

4-1

His serve: There’s a Bank of America down the street

My return: I’ll be right back

His return: I’ll give you a slip to slip to the front. (Foul out, serve to me.)

Repost: Series - Hell, better known as the RMV

The Registry of Motor Vehicles, or Car Purgatory

July 21, 2006

I.Preface

Have you ever watched Judge Judy? You know the people who are really organized and have file folders? They’re always the ones who win. It takes some effort.

That’s what it’s like at the RMV. You have to have every piece of paperwork ever generated regarding your vehicle and it needs to be spotless.

It’s like a combination of Judgemental Judge Judy and the Soup Nazi.

“This isn’t notarized; no registration for you!”

“The DOB is written wrong; no registration for you!”

“You don’t have insurance yet. No registration for you!”

But they’ve really smoothed out the waiting part: they have a customer service desk to give out numbers and answer preliminary questions. I have the most random story about that, too. And coming soon, I shall explain it all. Stay tuned.

Ladies and Gentlemen, Mrs Gwenyth Pemberton-Smythe (GPS)

Santa's big present this year was a Garmin GPS device. It's quite lovely. I was able to get my food shopping for the New Year's Eve party done by knowing precisely where the closest grocery store was off of the highway on my way home from work.

I have it set to the British accent. She's quite lovely, too, actually. Very polite and articulate.

"In 200 yards, make a RIGHT... Turn RIGHT."

Sometimes as we're going along and the traffic is ridiculous (rare occurence in Mass, as I'm sure you can imagine) I imitate her.

"Move into the RIGHT lane because the f&^king idiot in the LEFT lane is only going fifty miles per hour. He obviously doesn't know how to drive in the fast lane. This is unfortunate."


My friend Anthony suggested I name her; something with the initials GPS.

On the way home from work, Alicia and I pieced out the perfect British sounding name as we bobbed and weaved through not-so-bad traffic.

B: Some sort of hyphenated name. Like Pemberton-Smith. What's a good G name? A British sounding one?
A: It's hard to think of any kind of G name.
B: Yeah. There's Gloria, but that's not British enough...Gretchen sounds too German. Ooh, how about Guinivere?
A: No, Gwyneth.
B: Yes! Gwyneth Pemberton-Smith.
A: I feel like it should be Smythe.
B: I was just thinking that! Okay, so, my Garmin lady is Mrs Gwyneth Pemberton-Smythe.

Alicia, by the way, has a TomTom. Her British Lady GPS voice is simply Emma Thompson, and there's no way around it.

Origins of GPS:

Gwyneth - Welch, poss. from the Welsh word "happiness"; other meanings: white, fair

Pemberton - variation of "Pemberley", where Mr Darcy lived (with me)


Smythe - topographic name for someone who lived by a forge, or a metonymic occupational name for someone employed at a one, from Middle English smithe, smythy ‘smithy’. (from here)

Real origins of GPS - Global Positioning System.

http://www.garmin.com/garmin/cms/site/us

Traffic, anyone?

It took me 3 hours to get to work on Friday and two hours to get home...

It was because of a freak accident on I-95 North (AKA Rte 128). A tractor trailer truck ran over a storm drain cover which made the cover fly up and hit the car behind it. The photo below is from WBZ Newsradio.

They closed all but one lane, so it went from five lanes down to one during the height of morning traffic. I took all back roads for half of the trip to avoid the parking lot that was I-95, but it was still backed up EVERYWHERE.

You see, lots of other people took backroads. And when a red light turned yellow, oncoming traffic kept going, so traffic in the opposite direction got backed up. It took two to four turns of the light before you got through it. And this was every single traffic light for ten miles of suburban street traffic.

However, the alternative was the wide open highway which went along at about 2 miles and hour. Thank goodness I didn't go on the highway because my car overheated. I simply pulled onto the side of the road and waited for it to cool down then drove with the heat on. In 90 degree weather. For miles of bumper to bumper traffic. That was on the way to work.

For the way home, I was rushing because I had to work at good ol' ON for the first time in a month. I think I would have enjoyed it more had it not taken me two hours to get there. The traffic was bad for everyone going in every direction for the way home because they still hadn't opened up the roads and everyone knew to avoid it. I stopped by my house for five minutes. I microwaved some TJ's curried rice (which I ate at stoplights while driving to work). And then, since my car's air conditioner doesn't work and it was 90 degrees of bumper to bumper two hour traffic, I peeled my clothes off to take a minute long freezing cold shower before getting dressed for work at Old navy. I was gross. I had even sweat through my underclothes. I swear my sports bra made a "scchhhhllllluuuucccckkk" kind of sucking sound as I pulled it off my disgustingly sweaty skin. It was truly truly awesome.

I did make use of my time and worked on my homework while in the car. Write a little, move 10 yards. Write a little, move ten yards.

And I thought I couldn't hate this traffic any more than I did before Friday...

LOST

No, I'm not talking about the TV show. I'm talking about my romp around MetroWest/North of Boston today. I missed a turn to Somerville in Belmont and went straight to hell in a handbasket after that.

MapQuest this and remember this was from 4:45 to 6:00 PM IN BOSTON.

Instead of going East on Rt 16, I continued on Mt Auburn St to Memorial Drive to Massachusetts Ave to ??? to ??? to Somerville Ave, missed the turn to Central St, turned all the way around once I got to Massachusetts Ave, back down Somerville Ave to Summer St to Highland, but after Central St, so I had to turn around again and finally, finally, finally to the Davis Sq.

So, I know my way around Harvard, Inman Sq, Central Square, Porter Sq, Union Sq, Town of Belmont and city of Waltham.

Seriously.

Now I'm at over-priced pretentious Diesel again. I shall be here with all the hipster and hairy armpit and ambiguously gendered baristas. I would say that this was far from Maine, but it's not that different from place in Portland and the Fogler Library cafe. There's less Urban Hipsters and more Dreadlocked White People.

So, the new job. Yeah, mad props to the copywriters of the world out there. Tisn't easy to write good copy.

The weekend of five parties was successfully concluded with the arrival of dad's brother, Uncle Billy, at midnight from Greensboro. It went like this for me: shower, shower, grad party, birthday party, birthday dinner.

I need a weekend to recover from my weekend.

As it is, I think I'll just go on a cruise for a week.

Just 6 more days until Bermuda!