Smoking Kills

I realize you are a senior citizen and set in your ways, but the stench of stale cigarettes coming off you is going to kill me. Can't you see how I am clinging to the edge of my seat contorting my upper body away from you in a futile effort to refill my lungs with fresh air? Second only to stale urine (another all too frequent commuter encounter,) nicotine and tar-infused wool -- er, wet wool -- is highly offensive. I also suspect this particular gentleman has not brushed his teeth in a while. Well, at least it does not appear that he is incontinent. That's a small favor for which I shall be grateful.

Move

Hey, New Brunswick Parking Authority, the Jersey Avenue lot is a sheet of ice which makes it extremely difficult to manuever around the pedestrians who are similarly rushing to catch the 7:55 at 7:53. Leave it to me to decide not to wear my wellies this morning, so once I actually parked, I had to run on the ice in heels. Wheeeeeeee! And falling was not an option because of a weensy road rage confrontation I had with some schmuck who got dropped off in a car that blocked my access to the upper lot. (I had my pride to consider; falling in front of the guy would not be an option after my show of cool.) Yes, our parking lot gets mucked up a lot by spouses who take their Breadwinner to the train every morning. Each vye to get said Breadwinner as close as possible to the platform, which at 7:55, means clogging the already narrow upper deck with a parade of Caravans and Accords (or, a "Caravan of Accords..?) that stop, deposit passengers, then negotiate through the back-in parkers while they turn around and try to exit through the narrow corridor where I am trying to pull in. It's "kiss and go", my friends. Kiss and GO. When I have but a minute to spare and you are coming between me and a parking spot, I would appreciate it if you discussed what's for dinner, the weather or your prostate issues at another more appropriate time. Yeah, so, here's Honda Husband, taking his sweet time with the farewell to the missus while I can see the conductor on the platorm walking back towards the train to close the doors. Opting to channel my intensifying rage/panic to my hand, rather than the foot on the gas pedal, I laid on my horn, and of course that compelled this common man to stand in place and glare at me so he could effectively hold me up for another full 25 seconds. We had the staredown showdown, but our hearts weren't in it because neither of us wanted to miss the train and be stuck looking at each other in the station for twenty minutes waiting for the 8:17. (Awkward...) That was my bad, actually - I didn't plan that well - I should'a waited till I was in the clear before getting my crazy on, then we both could hollered a little and then moved on without risking the ride. Happily, though, I did make it on board and apparently he did too. Mercifully, he was not lurking inside the car, waiting to come at me with a claw hammer. Uneventful the rest of the way...

You are Delusional, NJT

The NJT board meets today to discuss a proposal to cut service and hike fares 20 to 30 percent. I know this because I am listening to the radio news on my iPod as we are at a dead stop outside of Secaucus. Regular readers know that my ride into the city every morning routinely comes to a dead stop and it's always one of two problems - overhead wires or a disabled Amtrak. Today it's Amtrak. I took a 7:15 train to be sure I will be at my office for a video conference at 9. You would think this would not be a problem. But it is. Because the only thing you can count on with NJ Transit is agita.

Don't Touch Me with that Thing

The commute is a machine, and frankly, I think it zaps our individual consciousness at least for the period when we are actually in transit. There is an element of savagery and selfishness; for the most part, it is understood that this is an segment of society that - for the rush hour - does not consistently observe common courtesies or social standards for things like personal space. People RUN, SQUEEZE and ELBOW to get to a platform, an empty seat, the elevator down to the tracks. There are no standards for personal decorum. The standard is, "Get there first."

Case in point, some large person today propelled me off the train and into the queue for the escalator and right up to the concourse using the force of his beer gut. And he knew what he was doing because I looked over my shoulder to convey to him the enormity of the skeeve of it all. He had jutted out the belly, held his head back slightly and moved me along. There was nowhere to go and his size, combined with momentum would not allow me to dig in my heels and come to a stop. I had to go with it. And it was disgusting. He bullied me with blubber. And sure, I did feel violated because it was so deliberate and it was a highly disgusting and inappropriate way to motivate me. What the hell was he thinking? He had no modesty whatsoever and probably got a little satisfaction out of it. Don't touch me with that thing, ya horse's ass.

Clearly, that annoyed me but it got me off thinking that men who don't give up their seats to women on a crowded train are the cretins of the rail. I have never, ever seen a man do the chivalrous thing and offer his seat to a woman. These are largely 30-something men who have to know better. Granted there is a lot of diversity on that train, but you cannot tell me that the majority of mothers in this world do not make an effort to impart the concept of respect and courtesy to their sons. I'm going to make a point of inquiring of the next guy I see who lets a woman stand in the aisle and doesn't offer up his seat.

When do you become that person? I want to know.

Booyah

It's as if the commuting gods were welcoming me back to the train. Having missed the past two days of good material because of the blizzard, I returned to Jersey Ave, braced for a parking clusterfrick. But what I got was the best parking spot EVER. A coup of the highest order! This spot is generally the domain of of the most accomplished and experienced commuters. It calls for a celebration on the scale of a Manalapan bar mitzvah. For the uninitiated, this means I can pull right out of the spot onto the station egress. Nothing beats a fast get away from the station, particularly on a Friday. Awesome start to a commuting day which ended equally well...leaving the office at five and it was still light out. And even though the conductor just scolded us like children for causing a bottleneck between cars, nothing is going to ruin my high over what I anticipate will be the fastest departure from the lot ever.

Update: Speedy exit as predicted. However, not speedily enough to get ahead of traffic on Route 27. Home at my usual time. But wait? Was the carpet vacuumed by the 17 year old who stayed home all day? Er...no it wasn't. Oh, was the dishwasher emptied. Er...that would also be a no. And yes, I had a meltdown. So the momentary thrill of getting out of the parking lot fast was dashed effectively by the reality of life as a commuter. Those four hours spent chugging along cost. Gone are those extra hours (and the energy) to clean the floors and fold the laundry and get my nails done on my regular, semi-regular basis. Gone are the days when I could come home from work and make a comprehensive dinner that met most -- if not all -- of the dinner plate recommended food groups - meat, veggie, starch and salad. It takes tremendous effort to just get the meat and a baked potato onto a plate. Damn. I'm tired.

Double Frick!

The BlackBerry is out until Thursday and that is going to fudge up my attempts to post on my fledgling blog. Armenian Bettie Page at work insists that the new BlackBerry has to be ordered online and synced in-house and that takes days; the much more reasonable alternative of just walking down the street to the T-Mobile store and waiving my warranty to get a new BB (from its stock of nearly 1,000 BlackBerries just like mine) apparently constitutes either surrender of power on her part, or an assumption of power she chooses not to exercise. Either way, going to T-Mobile and simply asking them to replace my defective BB is not an option that will be available to me. Sigh.

Not that there was anything particularly interesting about the commute today. I was late, the train was late (you owe me a cocktail, Annemarie) and the doors were all fouled up on the 5:54 home-- blah, blah, blah. Oh - the ticket man said good morning and made eye contact this morning as he collected which is incredibly pleasant, particularly as I near the end of my Transit Check stash. Those tickets become increasingly dear to me as my supply dwindles and I am looking for any reason not to give them up. It makes me feel better to give it to someone who can put a little effort into his gig.

Expecting delicious tales of anxious people and overcrowded trains tomorrow.

Frick!

My BlackBerry died last night and that is going to constitute problems since that little device - paired with my iPod - is an essential component of my commute. It's already fouled me up as a major interview that was supposed to go off in Cairo at 6 AM this morning EST fell apart and I could not intervene. All the hustle to get online and try to communicate with my Cairo folks via prehistoric e-mail has set me way back.

I'll never make the 7:34.

Day Off

Nothing doing today, but I am gearing up to get an early train tomorrow. I remember our last significant snowstorm (more than a couple of inches, but not exactly a catastrophic event) prompted delays even days after the snow... I know I managed to clear my car and my driveway and make it down Route One to catch the train on time--how is it that that same snow was enough to interrupt a bloody train?

My friends at NJT tend to think that a punctuality is an option and that getting there "eventually" is acceptable to most employers. I'm one of only two out-of-state commuters in my Manhattan office (the other comes down from CT.) I don't like to have to continually text in my whereabouts and ETA when trains run late. Even though it's completely beyond my control, it makes me look bad. It adds another layer of stress, as if the cost and personal wear and tear of a commute are not enough...

Welcome to Commuted Sentence

Thanks for joining me on my daily commute.

Commuted Sentence is my homage to NJ Transit's Northeast Corridor line, and often, to the New Brunswick Parking Authority and its Jersey Avenue park and ride facility. I'll be posting commentary and observations on the people, scenery, and overheard conversations that make the commute the best or worst part of my day. You can also look forward to regular report cards on the personnel and equipment who can make or break my workweek efforts to get to and from my livelihood.

So, jump on with me. I've got a roomy three-seater all to myself (at least until we get to Metropark) and 62 minutes to kill...