Aaargh

Over an hour to cross the Tappan Zee Bridge, Are they kidding?

Just as I made the final approach to the Tappan Zee after an eleven hour work day/night, I saw the tail lights. It was too late: too late to get off; too late to go the other way and take the Newburgh-Beacon Bridge instead; too late to do anything but sit as the frigging traffic report finally got around to mentioning the construction and the “possibility” that ALL LANES WOULD BE SHUT DOWN!

Are they kidding? All lanes? Oh, yeah… ALL. We sat for an hour while they did God-knows-what on that God-damned bridge. I wanted to scream. I wanted to honk my horn. I wanted the thousands of people in cars and trucks to protest with me but they just sat there, accepting this utterly disrespectful intrusion on their lives. Two cars passed me on the left, rushing to get ten feet ahead before they got stuck like the rest of us. Two cars immediately behind me collided as they vied for the same space at the same time, neither willing to let the other one get ahead in the merge. And I just KNEW it was unnecessary. I knew it in my bones, aching and silently screaming in frustration. Sure enough, after an hour, they merged us from the two lanes we had already merged into, down from four, to one lane, and we crept over the bridge. Why this one lane wasn’t available during the previous hour I still don’t know, but for more than three quarters of the span, there was NOTHING going on. It appeared to be one man’s job to stand still with his arms folded on his chest. Another sat in a truck. A few were drilling up the pavement in the far left lane. Nothing was happening in the other two. Finally, toward the end of the bridge, I saw the real construction site and they indeed were working across three lanes. That still doesn’t explain why the fourth lane was rendered impassable, but at least these guys were working. I’ve never actually seen construction workers on a highway REALLY working before. I’ve seen them standing around CONTEMPLATING working. I’ve seen them drinking coffee. I saw that again tonight as I crossed Danbury: lot’s of lights indicating a construction project; lots of cones, heavy equipment and men standing around talking, but no actual work being done.

Where is our rage? I know where mine was. It was eating its way out of my chest like an alien baby in a sci-fi movie. I lay my hands on the horn on that approach to the Tappan Zee Bridge and wondered why every other motorist wasn’t doing the same. Why weren’t we all protesting? Let’s make some noise! I turned off the motor. I turned it back on and blasted some Dave Edmonds "Crawling From the Wreckage" to vent my increasing internal combustion. Why do we passively accept the thoughtless injustices heaped upon us by governments and corporations simply because they can?

After 23 years of working for a corporation, my husband and others like him are about to have their jobs phased out because management doesn’t like them. They want them to reapply and go to the bottom of the seniority list. Never mind that they have been doing the same job for years. Never mind that they are members of a union. Never mind that they have rights. They simply will not have their jobs. The union is either powerless or unwilling to stop this callous disregard for the people it represents and screaming won’t help. They’ll lay everyone off and, after a year of suffering I am told by those who have experienced such acts before, they will offer folks their jobs back, avoiding a lawsuit but not compensating anyone for the lost wages.

I am so frustrated. How did this happen? How did I get to this point? Everything that I thought would be there at this point in my life is just not there. No jobs. No security. No ease. No relaxation. No retirement in a sunny villa with the assurance that Medicare will provide for me. It won’t. Pension? Pshaw. Inheritance? It’ll all go to debts and taxes. I take the turn off the highway and wonder how fast I need to go to make sure the getaway is clean; that I won’t be left crippled but still alive because, with the evaporation of the job, so goes the medical insurance.

I am screaming inside but not a sound escapes my body. It is late. People are sleeping, I am typing. Life goes on… relentlessly.

Publisher's Clearing House

If August 31st passes without the appearance of a van with camera-wielding, flower-toting, check-bearing, Publisher’s Clearing House emblazoned people, I will be supremely disappointed. Seriously.

I have dutifully responded to every Publisher’s Clearing House email, even fishing some of them out of my junk mailbox where MacMail, with all good intentions, keeps sending them. I have “Transferred” meaningless, virtual “Labels”, “Confirmed” and “Submitted” countless entries. I have scrolled through pages and pages and pages of ads for strange inventions to clean things; organize things; grow things; and more ads for just THINGS. I even purchased one of those “magic” screens for my front door, with magnets that make it shut again after you walk through it (most of the time; occasionally needs guidance, gentle detachment from my metal front door - I didn't know it was metal -, or searching for and reattaching the three-piece magnet-plus-housing unit that tries to escape from its responsibilities), keeping my home freer from summer bugs than it has ever been.

I have been diligent, increasing my odds with every minute spent reading these LONG missives. I deserve this. If someone who submitted a single entry wins the $5000 a week for life, I will be upset.

I have a wedding to go to on Friday night so, PCH Team, please come early. I promise, I will give you a clip worth airing. I will be shocked, disbelieving, skeptical even, but ultimately thrilled beyond measure. I will CRY. No bland Midwesterner I. I will give you a full range of emotion that will please your editor and delight your commercial viewing audience. I am an excellent actress with full access to my feelings. I won’t even take my Lexapro until after your visit so I make sure to experience the highs (and lows) of the emotional spectrum. Be warned, however, that I will be keenly experiencing those lows so, if you DON’T come, and I get a little more than average depressed, I may sue you.

See you on August 31st.