The Junk Drawer

Maybe my Canadian friends could help me?

UPDATE: It’s a Junk Drawer miracle! My sister, Ann of the Shampoo Bag, was able to take a couple days off work so she could join me on a DRIVE to Toronto! No trains, no planes!

And by “join me,” I mean she can do all the driving and I won’t have to help much because she has a GPS and even if it doesn’t work, we’ll have maps. I have lots of trouble with those, too, but thankfully, her daughter is coming with us, so I’m putting her on map duty. If she was old enough to drive, we’d let her do that too.

Thanks everyone for your advice and offers of help! We’re crazy excited for this trip! I’ll catch up with comments later tonight.

If you got a kick out of this post, subscribe to The Junk Drawer feed!

Is it bad that I wanted to kill this thing because I was delayed loading my 4th of July foodfest gut in the car because my husband refused to leave until it leapt away, for fear that if it remained, the wind would blow it off and it would die a grisly death on the roadway?

Is it bad that my husband believes that it’s illegal to kill a praying mantis? (It’s not.)

Further, is it bad that I went to the 4th of July foodfest with the top button of my pants already unbuttoned, and that by the end of the day I appeared to be seven months pregnant and that all I wanted to do was dump myself in the car and speed to the emergency room because I was pretty sure I just ate my weight in picnic food and needed a good old fashioned stomach pump?

These are the things I’d like to know.

  Humor bloggers like their bugs crunchy.

If you got a kick out of this post, subscribe to The Junk Drawer feed!

On May 21 I posted this picture I took at a defunct gas station in my area, showing a ridiculously low price for gasoline. Someone in my area wrote to the local newspaper and asked why it’s still there and if any information could be found about the station’s owner.

Since many of you asked about the sign, I thought I’d fill you in.

Click here for the story.

It seems the owner is a fugitive from the law, trying to avoid “10 counts of issuing bad checks, two counts of theft by deception, and related charges.”

I guess taking down the old sign is last on his list of priorities. It’s estimated the station closed down in the spring of 2002. So that’s the last time we saw $1.29/gallon gas. And it can be safely said we’ll never see it again. 

If you got a kick out of this post, subscribe to The Junk Drawer feed!

If you got a kick out of this post, subscribe to The Junk Drawer feed!

Yesterday I had to take my car to the dealer and pay $400 to have a mechanic turn off a bright yellow malfunction light in my dashboard. That’s what I think when I take my car to the shop. "A light came on in the dashboard. I don’t know what it means. But make it go away."

I know the technicians root around in my car’s innards and do something. Whatever they do makes the light go off and that’s what I pay the money for. If you’re a mechanic, don’t waste your energy trying to explain it to my pea brain.

When I found out it would take the whole day to fix, I asked if they could give me a loaner to drive to work. They didn’t have loaners, but they offered a shuttle service to anywhere within 15 miles.

I wrote my name on the sign-up sheet and soon after, the shuttle driver collected me and three other carless people, and we all piled into a van. Excellent! I’ll be at work in no time at all. Or so I thought.

We exchanged pleasantries and got settled in, only to smell trouble immediately as our driver fumbled with his papers, mumbled to himself, and stumbled into gear. It was apparent we’d gotten the Don Knotts of shuttle drivers and this would be no ordinary trip. I fastened my seatbelt. HARD and SURE.

I shall refer to him now as Worse Than Me. Regular readers know that I’m the most directionally-challenged person to get behind the wheel of a car. Our driver wishes he were only as challenged as I am.

Worse Than Me had no plan, couldn’t read street names, and didn’t appreciate helpful instructions from his passengers. They only seemed to anger him ("I know where I’m going!") To add insult to injury, he TALKED ALL THE TIME. Sometimes to us. Sometimes to himself.

Worse Than Me chatted up the poor soul who got into the front seat with him. It went something like this:

So we’ll take you first since you’re close I know the back roads and you’ll have to tell me if you need a ride home and oh boy it’s been busy the last few days I had six people to deliver to work yesterday and all of them wanted to get there right away because everybody wants to get dropped off first you know and sometimes I have only one person in the morning but today is an average day with the four of you sometimes I have a lot of people to pick up at night the shop closes at 5 o’clock but sometimes I’m still out driving at 6 o’clock the mechanics leave at 5 o’clock but customers can pickup their cars until 8 o’clock so which building do I have to drop you off at?

Wow.

He did not take a breath.  He wasn’t expecting responses. More importantly, he wasn’t exactly watching the road.  And then his cell phone rang. Oh, dear God. Please don’t answer that.  Luckily, it rang only once and he never got to pick it up.  Eyes on the road, buddy. Eyes on the road.

Worse Than Me keeps talking to Poor Soul #1 all the way to the first drop-off point. I have remained silent thus far and intend to stay that way, even if I’m the last person to be dropped off. I’m kind of into him concentrating on his driving and the not-getting-in-an-accident part of this expedition.

When we get to Poor Soul #1’s workplace, he exits the van and now the driver has to figure out how to get Poor Soul #2 to her destination, a house in the middle of nowhere.

We continue through towns I’ve heard of, then through towns I haven’t. Traffic gets thinner and thinner and I don’t know where I am. Neither does Worse Than Me. Poor Soul #2 tries her best to direct him to her house and a very long discussion ensues about where he’ll find the Burger King he needs to turn at.

Apparently the driver thinks he knows where to turn, but Poor Soul #2 has to correct him at almost every intersection. He argues with her about which way to go, despite her objections about the path he’s taking. She indicates there is a much faster route, but he repeatedly states "I don’t want to mess up." All I’m thinking is — Then let her help you! I’m very uncomfortable at this point because two people who have just met each other are arguing already. This does not bode well.

Poor Soul #2 abandons her effort to guide our driver and let’s him do whatever he wants. He mumbles something about "I know all the back roads from when I was a kid," and Poor Soul #2 announces "You know, I’m really not feeling well and I can’t comprehend what you’re saying to me." I laugh very loud at that in my head.

We eventually make our way to Poor Soul #2’s house in the boondocks and she quickly slips out of the van, to presumably go inside and scream her head off. I consider briefly getting out with her, pretending I live there, too. I could have always called a cab from there. Darn! Why did I think of that just now?

I allow her to exit the van, and against my better judgement, I get into the empty front seat. I’m now inches from the driver, but I’m still silent and I don’t plan on making eye contact. My only fear now is that he’s dropping off Poor Soul #3 next, and I’ll be left alone with him in my quiet misery.

My fear washes away as Worse Than Me announces he taking me to work next. Poor Soul #3, a woman in the back seat, sighs "Oh my God. We were closer to where I work when we were back at the first place. By the time I get to work, my car will be done!"

Worse Than Me says nothing and proceeds to drive further east towards my workplace and much further from Poor Soul #3’s destination. I silently pity her, as I realize that she’s going to be alone with him for another hour, at least.

I’m blessed that our driver knows how to get to South Mountain, which is about two miles from where I work. This means I can continue my vow of silence and not have to give him directions from Timbuktu. I have absolutely no idea where I am at this point. I ask myself repeatedly whether I should have just stayed back at the dealer and waited for my car right there in the shop, instead of here in Wayward Van.

Traveling past more places the driver recalls from his childhood ("I remember that park from when I was a kid." "I remember that’s where I used to hunt as a kid." "I remember that little house from when I was a kid."), we finally approach South Mountain and I realize it’s time to speak soon. I have to tell him which street to turn on at the base of the mountain.

On approach I finally utter three words: "Turn right here."  Worse Than Me jabbers away about how he remembers dropping off some passengers at one of the big buildings on campus and asks me when they put up that sculpture near the front of it. I reply without opening my mouth, "I-hmm-no" (translation: "I don’t know.")

I give up a couple more words: "Turn here." We have two more blocks on the journey, and I insist I won’t speak any more than is absolutely necessary, so I just wave him on with my hands. We approach my stop and I allow a final word to escape: "Here."  I have successfully been driven to my destination, not engaged the driver once, and said less than ten words in 57 minutes. I don’t know any monks who could do that.

As I reach for the door handle and Poor Soul #3 prepares to make her transition to the front seat, I look at her with all the sympathy I can muster. I silently mouth the words "Good luck" as I step onto the curb. She looks at me with a pained expression, her eyes the size of saucers.

All I could do was wish her well for the next hour I’m sure it’ll take her to get 20 miles west of here. I half expected her to put her hands up on the inside of the window as they drove away, in a Edvard Munch-esque silent scream and a face that said "Save me." But I never looked back. I didn’t have the courage. I failed as a human.

Godspeed, Poor Soul #3. Godspeed.

If you got a kick out of this post, subscribe to The Junk Drawer feed!

Dear Poopy Head Truck Driver:

I know you didn’t mean it when you had an accident on the bridge I cross to get to work. But I just have to tell you what you were responsible for this morning.

1. You made me 45 minutes late for work.

2. You made about 2,500 other people 45 minutes late for work. That means the world lost 1,875 man hours of work, about a year’s worth of a typical job.

3. You forced me to look death in the eye and try crazy stunts to shoot off the last exit before the bridge in an effort to get away from the traffic jam.

4. You made it so that 1,000 other drivers tried the same thing and caused us to get in a second traffic jam on side roads.

5. You made my office have to make a pot of Disney Mickey Mouse coffee that’s been in the refrigerator for about a year, since I had the supply of new coffee in my car.

6. You caused all the people who could finally get moving again to gun the accelerator and violate every driving rule known to man, trying to make up lost time.

7. You made me hate the innocent cyclist who I saw whiz by me at one point, getting to his destination on time.

8. You made a thousand people, who just finished their morning coffee, wish for a Port-o-Potty on the side of the road.

I hope you totaled your truck, don’t have insurance and have to take a bus to work for a month. I hope you were cited and fined for your incompetence. I hope everyone flipped you off when they made it past your stupid accident. You should be lucky they didn’t kill you. I know I wanted to.

P.S. Poopy Head isn’t what I was calling you that whole time, but this is a G-rated blog, so that’ll have to do.

If you got a kick out of this post, subscribe to The Junk Drawer feed!

One of life’s greatest indulgences is flying first-class. I had the opportunity to do so in 2002 when my husband Dave and his brother Dan got the idea in their heads that we should leave a freezing cold November in Pennsylvania and take a trip to Las Vegas and splurge by flying there in style.

Here’s how we were punished for wanting to live a little.

If you have never flown first-class, you absolutely must try it once before you die. The entire experience is a ridiculous display of lavishness that only a $1,000 ticket can buy. From the time you set foot on the plane, people are waiting on you. The ratio of flight attendants to passengers is about 1:3. Back in coach, it’s 1:3,000,000. There is a reason the tickets cost so much. You’ve bought yourself a servant.

Seated comfortably in cushy, wide leather seats, you can really kick back, breathe easy, and relax. Since first-classers are seated before anyone else, you have the pleasure of watching all the coach- and business-class people salivate over your seats while they walk back to Sardine Land. You know what they’re thinking as they pass you. "I hate you and if the plane crashes, you’ll die first."

But we soldier on and ignore the stares, grunts and eye rolls from the less fortunate passengers, and prepare to be waited on by one of the five attendants dedicated to us. The first thing they do is take your coats and hang them up in a closet so that you are completely unencumbered by your travel paraphernalia. Next, they put your bags in the overhead compartments for you so that you are not inconvenienced by common folk duties. Up next, real pillows and real blankets. You can put your seat back just about all the way without disturbing the person behind you.

Were we not flying at ten thousand feet and had a remote control for the TVs in the seats ahead of us, we would have thought we were laying on our couches at home in our living rooms. And even there, you don’t get someone asking you every ten minutes if you’re comfortable enough and whether you need anything. They ask you all the time if you’re cozy and how they can make your trip more enjoyable.

Once we’re in the air awhile, we are served the first course of our meals. Yeah, first course. There are more to come. We’re given a selection of cheese and fruit, served on a restaurant-quality plate with real silverware. There is no plastic in first-class.

After we finish our fresh fruit and cheese, we are served our second course of chicken cordon bleu with rice pilaf and warm bread. Again, served on real dinnerware with real knives and forks. The suckers in the back are handed sandwiches with meat-of-questionable-origin in plastic wrap, and if they’re lucky, a pack of crackers. We finish up dinner with an assortment of cheesecake, mousse and more fresh fruit. So this is how the other half lives…..

It’s impossible to be too full on a plane unless you’ve brought your own meals, but here we are, fat and happy in first-class. All this eating has made us a little tired. Propping up our pillows and pulling our blankies up to our chins, we lie back in our virtual beds and take cat naps. You can’t do that in coach unless you take coma-inducing drugs that make you forget exactly where you are — seated millimeters next to smelly, irritated people who, if given the chance, would kick you out in the aisle if it meant they could have five more inches of space.

After a thoroughly enjoyable flight that felt much shorter than it was, we deplane and begin our adventures in The City That Never Sleeps. For the first few days, we win and lose some money here and there. We vary our time between soaking up some sun, hitting the casinos and the pool and strolling up and down the strip taking it all in.

We’re having a great time until …..

Dan hails us a cab from one resort to get us back to our home base and we all pile in. The cab driver is chit-chatting with us about where we’re from and where we’re staying and whether we’re enjoying ourselves. Then he drops the bomb.

He mentions how there are hundreds of travelers scrambling to get flights back home because they just got the news that National Airlines, our airline, has just filed for bankruptcy and they’ve canceled all of their flights.

All together now….. Say WHAT?!?!?!

We go from zero to depressed in two seconds flat. This news means that we’re going to have to make other flight arrangements to get us back home and now we’re not even sure we can leave when we planned. Once back at our hotel, Dan makes a flurry of phone calls and secures us a flight on We’re Not Flying First Class Anymore Airlines. Because we had to take what we could get, we can’t fly back in luxury. We had been given keys to the Emerald City and now they want them back.

After Dave picked me up off the floor, I came to and got all the details. First, there’s the no first-class thing ("Stop telling me that!!!"). Then there’s the problem of seating. We can’t get seats together. Lastly, we have to cut the trip short and leave that night on the red-eye. It is called the red-eye for a reason. If you have been up since 5AM and have to leave town at 11PM, then take a six hour flight, you will have red, bleary, Marty Feldman eyes that will scare small children when it’s all over.

After I recover from this news, I try to make the best of our last day in Vegas by sinking a few bucks into a slot machine. Maybe if I pray hard enough, a first-class ticket will fall out. Later in the day, we sulk as we pack our things and prepare for what would become the worst flight ever.

Just a few days ago, we were secretly laughing at the people who filed past us on their way to coach. Now we were those people, cursing under our breath at the people who were going to get nice soft pillows and blankets, and delicious food served on real dinnerware. All we could think as we walked past them was "If the plane crashes, you’ll die first."

As we approach Sardine Land, we get into position for our separate seating arrangement. Dan got a spot next to a window in one row, while Dave sat in the row behind him in a middle seat. I wind up in the same row, but on the other side of the plane.

I am not a good flier. It is almost a requirement that I be allowed to dig my nails into Dave’s thigh during take-off, the part of the flight that makes me the most anxious. I doubt now that I’ll be able to dig my nails into the thigh of Random Traveler next to me, and now I don’t want to because I find out soon enough that my seatmate is a crazy person.

He is wearing a sleeveless camouflage T-shirt, camouflage pants, combat boots and has no reading material or other things to keep himself occupied for six hours. He begins talking to me immediately about where he’s from and how his girlfriend just dumped him. Sure, take away my first-class status and sit me next to Psychotic Nothing-to-Lose Guy.

Dan and Dave have their own little traumas over on the other side of the plane. Dan has the misfortune of getting seated next to a very large man whose body is spilling over the edges of his seat. I later learn that Dan was just about to reach into his pocket and pull out a wad of hundreds to make an offer to ANY OTHER PASSENGER to give up their seat so he doesn’t have to take the seat with half another person in it. But the lights go dim and he won’t be able to get anyone’s attention.

So he sits down in the little room he has left and curses National Airlines for hitting the skids. One of the only ways that Dan can get enough room is if he holds and bends his left arm over his head and scoots over so that he’s plastered to the wall. Dave is seated directly behind Very Large Man. I cannot count the ways that this will make for a bad flight.

In the air for a few hours now, I reflect on the fact that we’ve all been awake for over twenty hours now and are beginning to get Marty Feldman eyes. At some point, I glance out the window past Nothing-to-Lose Guy and see the sun coming up on the horizon. I’m in such a no-sleep stupor that I forget where I am for a minute. Am I dead?

I glance over at Dan and Dave and notice the interesting contortions they’ve been forced into because of Very Large Man. Dan is still stuck with his arm over his head. I can’t tell if he’s sleeping, but if he is, when he wakes up he will probably not realize that the arm is his own and will come out swinging.

Very Large Man has, of course, reclined his chair and appears to be resting comfortably. With the reclined chair four inches from his head, Dave decided to make the most of things by planting his forehead into the back of the seat and sleeping on his face.

When I see these twisted configurations and consider that neither of them are good travelers to begin with, I laugh inappropriately loudly, which unfortunately wakes up Nothing-to-Lose Guy. I look at him and explain that we flew to Vegas first-class and I’m supposed to be up there with all the lucky people and instead I’m sitting here! He shrugs his shoulders and goes back to thinking of all the ways he can get revenge on the girl who dumped him.

Another hour in flight, I’m counting down the minutes until I can get on the ground, get in a car and get in my bed. All told, by the time we fell asleep at home, we’d been up for 27 hours. We looked like we felt and it took two days before we got our normal eyes back.

The lesson of the story is that if you do manage to fly first-class, check out the financial situation of your airline and make sure they’re solvent. We were reimbursed the cost of the return ticket, but it hardly mattered. I’m left wishing I’d never flown first-class.

Because having it ripped out from under you is worse than not having had it at all.

If you got a kick out of this post, subscribe to The Junk Drawer feed!

About three times a year, I have a nightmare about a plane crashing. This is because my house is located directly under the flight path of an airport three miles west of me. Since they say most crashes occur during takoff and landing, my odds of being involved in a crash are greater than if I were a passenger on a plane itself.

In the ten years I’ve lived here, I’ve gotten used to the noise, but I never stop wondering if some day an injured plane won’t make it to the airport and instead will crash into my neighborhood. The only good thing about these nightmares is that when the planes crash, they never hit my house. They hit other people’s houses all around me, though. My subconscious keeping me safe, I guess.

Last night’s nightmare went like this:

I was a passenger on a 747 getting ready for takeoff. Not at the airport, but instead on a highway near me. We begin to accelerate down the highway, passing cars on either side of us. I’m not sure how it is our plane fits on the highway, but it’s a dream, so anything is possible.

We approach a hill in the road that will be used to get us up in the air. Nevermind engine thrust and the laws of physics; in my dream it’s the tiny 4 foot incline that’ll give us lift and get us airborne. As we get to the hill, the pilot announces "Uh-oh, there’s an aircraft with trouble ahead." As it passes over us, I glance out the back window (I’m inexplicably in a car at this point) and see the troubled plane trying to make it back to the airport.

Our pilot slams on the brakes and we come to a stop on the berm of the road. We all turn around and see that the other plane’s back left wheel is on fire. The plane comes to a complete stop, in midair, and then flips over. The plane is shaped like a shoebox, and tapers at the rear. Its squarish figure makes it impossible to keep its momentum and it drops like a rock in a ball of flames.

Seeing this, I buckle my seatbelt (?), put on my watch (??) and begin snacking on a box of white cheddar cheese crackers (???). We continue watching this event unfold and are relieved to see the Three Stooges jump out of a fire engine that arrived earlier because they were alerted about the impending disaster (????).

Why the Three Stooges? Well, there’s a great scene in the movie It’s a Mad, Mad, Mad, Mad World where Moe Howard, Larry Fine and Joe DeRita appear as firemen responding to the end-of-movie mayhem. I haven’t seen the movie in months, but dreams have a weird way of pulling out memories from the deep recesses of the mind and sticking them in random places.

As the Stooges put out the fire, we return to our starting point because we’re going to make another attempt at takeoff. But I don’t wanna try and take off after what I’ve just seen! I scream "Shouldn’t we wait another day before trying this again?" but the pilot doesn’t hear me because he’s way up front. I realize that we have to go through this despite my objections, so I put on my life vest and get into the crash position. Nobody else on the plane is doing this and I feel silly for being alone in my panic. I start to sob quietly and then I wake up.

I always wake up at the moment I think I’m doomed. Dear Brain — thank you for working in that crazy way you do. I appreciate whatever connections you make to shake me up out of my nightmarish sleep to save me the agony. I just wish you could make me forget these dreams, now and the next time. Because I’m going to have another one in about four months, right on schedule.

If you got a kick out of this post, subscribe to The Junk Drawer feed!

I had a commute today to beat all commutes. It started out so normal. But as soon as I turned onto Rt. 512, things got a little interesting.

Route 512 is a four-laned, divided road (highway in reality, given the speeds people drive). I turned onto it and was greeted by a fairly open road. I traveled along for about a quarter mile before coming upon another car — DRIVING THE WRONG WAY.

This is the first time I’ve ever encountered a wrong-way driver, so I didn’t know what to do except to slow down. The first thing I thought was "Who could be drunk at this hour?"

The driver was mercifully driving slowly and weaving around only a little. I decided it’d be best to come to a full stop and put my four-ways on to alert all the drivers behind me. All of us stopped, but the assumed-to-be-drunk driver kept going…. or coming, as it were.

On approach, I could get a better look inside the car. I was wrong about the driver being drunk. The driver was not drunk at all. The driver was an old woman who could barely see over the steering wheel. I shuddered when I saw this. And I shuddered some more when it was obvious she had no intentions of stopping or correcting her mistake.

I just kept sitting there, watching things unfold in my rear-view mirror. There she went, staying in her wrong lane while all the other correct-way drivers got into single file to give her all the room she needed.

After observing her make it all the way to the next light, I had to assume that at some point she’d find her way. Or that someone else would be able to stop her. I mean, what exactly is the protocol for this? Do you call 911? Do you jump out of your car and flail your arms in front of her? Do you dare?

All I can do is thank God she wasn’t driving full speed. Otherwise, this might have been a whole different kind of post.

Lady, I hope you made it where you were going safely. And I hope you stop driving. Forever.

If you got a kick out of this post, subscribe to The Junk Drawer feed!

I admit it. I am directionally-challenged and it’s embarrassing. When someone starts giving me directions somewhere, I can only remember the first one or two instructions. After that, I need a picture. Better yet, a chauffeur. MapQuest doesn’t cut it because then I have to take my eyes off the road. And trust me, nobody wants that.

You might figure I’d have the most trouble finding my way around over long distances. You’d be right, and wrong. It’s possible for me to have trouble no matter how far I’m driving. Here’s how I got lost two tenths of a mile from my house.

It was October last year, the day my township was queuing floats on the street behind my house for a Halloween parade taking place nearby.

I drove up to an intersection just two blocks from home. A cop explained that I wasn’t allowed to get through until the parade got underway.

"How long will it be?"

"About 20 minutes."

"But I have ice cream in my car." Surely, melting ice cream qualifies as an emergency and aren’t cops supposed to assist with emergencies?

"You can drive down one block and loop back to Maria Lane."

Simple enough, I think. And then I remember. I’m a dunce. I begin to worry immediately that I’ll get lost in my own neighborhood and I might find myself still driving around by dinner time, and all I’ll have to show for it is melted ice cream and a massive headache. ‘Course, I could eat the ice cream, but then I might do it so fast that I get an ice cream headache. Either way, I’m going to have a headache.

I continue down to the next block and enter what I like to call Suburban Planners Toying with Me. I imagined them all sitting around a big table, then asking a 4-year-old with a box of crayons to draw some figure eights and squiggly lines. "Looks good. Now dump the houses here." There are more roundabouts and cul de sacs than through-streets. I drive through all of them. Twice. "Hi. Me again." Wave real nice. "Just ignore me."

As God is my witness, you cannot traverse this ridiculous maze of suburban streets to save your life, and thank God I have food in the car because I might actually have to save it.

I have a cell phone, but Dave’s at work, so it won’t do me any good. But there might be a series of answering machine messages that go like this:

"Dave. I’m lost. Come get me when you get home. I’m a block away."

Beep.

"Dave. I’m scared. Little kids are pointing and laughing at me because they know I’m lost."

Beep.

"Dave. People think I’m casing their houses. I keep driving past them over and over."

Beep.

"Dave. Tell the cats I said good-bye. I’m never getting home. I ate all the food."

After fifteen $%*@# minutes of driving around in Dante’s seventh circle of development hell, I finally found the cross street I needed to get me home. When I got there, I screamed a colorful expletive I only bring out for special occasions such as this, and gunned it. Look out! There’s a gallon of chocolate chip cookie dough with my name on it.

If you got a kick out of this post, subscribe to The Junk Drawer feed!

Let’s face it. "The road less traveled" doesn’t exist anymore. Unless you’re lucky enough to be retired, you have to get out on jammed roads during rush hour, compete for space, avoid the idiots and get to and from work without getting frazzled.

Here are ten ways to minimize the hassle, maximize your calm and have a safer commute. They may seem like no-brainers, but if more people would employ these techniques, driving might just be fun again. Or at least a little more tolerable.

1. Leave earlier. This is a hard one for many of us. Getting out on the road just 10 minutes earlier than normal gives you time to pay more attention to the road and traffic patterns. One day last week I left 10 minutes later than normal and it took me 10 minutes longer to get to work.
2. When merging onto a highway, try to get directly behind a big truck. Based purely on observational evidence, I find that most drivers will move to the passing lane if they see a large truck trying to merge. They’re less inclined to do so for a mere car. Use this to your advantage and get right behind the biggest one you can find and follow it as you both merge smoothly. You can always pass it later.
3. Try to get ahead of SUVs and trucks to maximize your field of vision. I drive a small car and find it impossible to see ahead of and around bigger vehicles. Do what you can to safely position yourself behind cars the same size as yours. Then you’ll be ready to react if you see trouble up ahead.
4. Let tailgaters pass you. The only solution to tailgating drivers is to get out of their way as quickly and safely as possible. Let them pass you so you can maintain your calm.
5. Look both ways before pulling out when the light turns green. This takes just a second and can save your life. We’ve all seen other drivers running red lights. Wait a moment to allow for that possibility. I’ve twice avoided an accident by waiting a beat before advancing through the green.
6. Turn your headlights on in any kind of weather. Many of today’s cars automatically turn on your lights when you start your car. If yours doesn’t, consider turning them on manually, even in fair weather. This isn’t so much for you to see better; it’s so that other drivers can see you, particularly if you drive a dark-colored vehicle.
7. Signal early and make your turn only when you can. Let other drivers know when you’re about to turn. If you’re ahead of a tailgater, don’t try to make your turn. Skip it and wait until you can turn with at least three car lengths of open space behind you. I once damaged a tire because I tried to make my turn with a tailgater just feet behind me. I tried to get as close to the curb as possible to allow him to get around me, and in the process, scraped it hard enough to ruin a perfectly good tire.
8. Practice safe cell-phoning. Simply put, drivers cannot possibly concentrate on the road if they’re talking on the phone. If you must make a call, pull over at a safe spot, make the call and then resume driving. It takes just a few minutes out of your drive, but will minimize the chances you’ll cause an accident due to driver inattention.
9. Wear a seat belt. If you don’t care about your personal safety, that’s one thing. But at least think of your family. You are your family’s most important asset. Protect it for their sake.
10. Say a little prayer for road ragers. Pray for them? Are you nuts? Well, sort of. But I’m also a big believer in karma. If you send a little kindness out into the world, it might come back to you when you least expect it. Besides, people so angry behind the wheel clearly need some help and it makes me feel better when I react positively to a stressful situation. And it’s all about feeling better on the road!

If you had a bad commute today, here’s wishing you a better one tomorrow!

If you got a kick out of this post, subscribe to The Junk Drawer feed!

As we approach the sixth anniversary of the 9/11 attacks, I remembered a picture I took of a beautiful sculpture by artist Steve Tobin on a trip to NYC last year. The plaque nearby reads:

This sculpture is cast from the roots of the sycamore tree that was stricken by flying debris on September 11, 2001 in the churchyard behind St. Paul’s Chapel at Broadway and Fulton Street. Tobin created the bronze sculpture from 300 individual castings of the tree’s roots to commemorate the events of September 11. The sculpture was dedicated here on this site on September 11, 2005. The original sycamore roots, painstakingly preserved by Tobin with the help of tree experts, now rest permanently in the St. Paul’s Chapel churchyard.

Watch and listen as Steve Tobin tells why he took on the project. (Requires Windows Media Player)

Interesting bio factoid: Steve lives in our own backyard. He’s from Coopersburg!

If you got a kick out of this post, subscribe to The Junk Drawer feed!

My brother-in-law is currently on a decidedly un-fun business trip in China. Between the inadequate rest, long flights, long waits in airports and interesting food choices when he dines with his hosts (pigeon, anyone?), he’s ready to come home. The emails he’s been sending to my sister tell tales of travel hell, which reminded me of one of my favorite trip movies, Trains, Planes and Automobiles. Here’s a memorable scene from that great Steve Martin and John Candy flick.

If you got a kick out of this post, subscribe to The Junk Drawer feed!

My husband Dave and I traveled to Paris in the summer of 2004, after I won a raffle of all things. People actually enter and win those things, I can now attest. We keep saying we’ll get back soon — when we lose all the weight we gained since then! That’s important, because we walked nearly everywhere. You really have to be in good physical shape for a trip like that.

Until we get back, we always have our pictures.

If you got a kick out of this post, subscribe to The Junk Drawer feed!