ALL Highways are Hell

Where oh where does time go?

I can’t believe my 16th birthday was that long ago. Poof! Like that.




But even before I had my license, before I had my permit, my mom let me drive us all over. Sometimes as far as New Milford, forty-five minutes from my house.

I thought it was the coolest thing ever. I felt so badass, so grownup, so responsible.

Now I can’t believe that sixteen-years-olds are allowed to drive. They’re babies. I’d sooner let them have a beer than get behind a two-ton vehicle.

Whoever picked 16 as the magical driving age musta been smoking a doobie.

Driving is pretty much the scariest thing in the world.

Well, let me rephrase. If you are no longer a “driver”, then driving is a fright-fest shitshow.

I’m not talking about traversing back roads around my country home. I thoroughly enjoy zooming round those parts. Especially in the jeep (sans top, obvi).

Oh no. I’m talking highways. Mass Pike, Interstate 84, getting lost in downtown Hartford horrifying.

I think most people who have driven with me would agree that I’m a good driver. Sure, there were those two horrible weeks in my driving career - speeding ticket, flat tire, forgetting to put my car in park then watching it crash the gas grill into the garage door, hitting a parked car in my high school parking lot.

But other than that, I have a fairly impeccable record. I'm cautious. To this day, Fred Schopp makes fun of me for the time (eight years ago) that I set my cruise control to 65 mph on the way to Cape Cod. Hey, it was shortly after another speeding ticket.

But there arises un poquito problema when one does not drive often and the occasion - or shall I say necessity - to do so presents itself.

There were three such occasions this summer and they all started with a Cape and ended with a Cod (with a Rhode Island in between).

Now, in no way am I complaining. I am such a lucky girl to have three different houses to visit on the Cape. But driving there is bollocks.

I’m more scared of driving than I am of walking home at 4am in New York City. It’s petrifying! There’s so many things that can go wrong. And it’s almost certain death if there’s an accident.

Maybe that’s why I’m so afraid every time I step into a car - as a driver or a passenger. Maybe that’s what ten more years of life have taught me - how pathetically mortal we are. How, with the typing of a text or the tuning of a radio, our life can be snatched from us.

My last trip to the Cape was especially scary...for many reasons. On the way there it was dark, late, there was traffic, I was tired. Though I could not see my hands, they were, undoubtedly, white from my death-grip on the wheel.

10 and 2 boys and girls, 10 and 2.

Then Tom Tom messed with my head on the way home and got us lost in Hartford - I hate you Tom Tom. You’re such a dummy.

Cars are very, very dangerous things. Convenient, yes. But at what cost? Motor vehicle accidents are one of the leading causes of death in the U.S. - and we’re a country full of traffic lights and stop signs and speed limits and laws.
Unlike, say, Sicily - where I very much feared for my life every time I got near a car (they don’t really have rules).

I’ve always scoffed at New Yorkers and their sans-drivers-license-ness but I’m sure the day will come when I must return to suburbia.

And I ain’t looking forward to it - to having a constant vise grip on the steering wheel, to roads filled with crazy drivers, to the necessity of speeding along on highways.

Oh yes. I assure you, I will be dragging my anxiety-ridden body in reluctant retreat to the burbs. My head will be down and my heart heavy with the knowledge that I will, once again, have to drive.

Lost in Transition

My, my how taciturn I’ve been with my blogging! Especially after all that “back with a vengeance” preaching.

But you see, there simply isn’t enough time in the day! I could rattle off a list of excuses a mile long - pretty much all pertaining to work, work, work (which is a good thing, I suppose) - but I feel bad for being blogless! Sowweeeeee.

Anywho, back to bitching.

I work in book publishing. I like books. Scratch that, I love books (as evidenced here).

I love everything about them. The font, the way they smell, the crispness of the pages, the prettiness of the package, the first letter of the first word of each new chapters and how it varies book to book, the story, the emotions they make me feel.

If you know me, you know this.

If you know this about me, chances are you also know that I hate when an utterly awesome book transitions into a positively heinous mess of a movie.

Why, why, why do those dummies (dummies!) in Hollywood feel the need to shred a beloved book to pieces? To commercialize the shit out of it? To mainstream it beyond recognition?

I really don’t get it.

Do they feel they need to dumb it down, tone it down, tame it to a tolerably tepid paste so that Middle Americans can digest it? Maybe it’s just me. Maybe I’m a bit snobbish cause I hail from Connecticut and now I hail taxis in Manhattan. But it takes a lil extra summn summn to impress me.

Let’s start with dialogue. Why the hell did Julia have to serve up an extra stinky platter of brie in Eat, Pray, Love? Why did the director think it was OK to take a true life goddess divine (in my opinion) and make her a stoopid mere mortal?

Rachel McAdams is one of my faves but she could NOT carry off Clare Abshire, the illustrious love interest of a time traveler (SHE DIDN’T EVEN HAVE RED HAIR!!!! Blasphemy.)

Any and all Nicolas Sparks. Travesty. Travesty! (Though I must except The Notebook. Even in my cynical heart of hearts, I hearted that one.)

Dearest Mr. Hanks - I loved you as Forrest. Loathed you as Robert Langdon.

Love in the Time of Cholera really just pissssssssed me off.

I seriously don’t understand the logic behind turning certain books into movies. He’s Just Not That Into You . (Yes, that period is meant to be read aloud.)

They couldn’t even get it right back in the day when Hollywood was a tad more noble and a bit less greedy - War and Peace? Snooze-fest. The Grapes of Wrath? Less than great. The Fountainhead. Phooey. For Whom the Bell Tolls oh.my.god. Awful!

I think there should be a stipulation when transitioning from page to screen. The integrity of the book must be kept intact.

Also, important plot lines (they didn’t even mention the fact that Miss Gilbert was sent traveling with a book in mind...and as much as I enjoyed The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo, the ending was all wrong! Lisbeth is supposed to fall in hate with Blomkvist at the end!! RUINED!)

(They’re not all bad. There’s the few redeemers. Of course I can’t think of any at the moment. So maybe that means there ain’t. Can you think of any?)

Alas, the big fat cherry on the big fattening sundae, the sloppiest slap in the face ever is Atlas Shrugged. I thought Angelina would be the perfect Dagny. And now - because the slow poke dummies were going to lose book rights - it’s going to star all unknowns and be directed by someone who’s resume is topped with One Tree Hill.

Oh Hollywood. I suppose it’s just my naiveté peeking through. It is all about the Benjamin's after all. They could care less about being faithful to the plot. They are not upright citizens! All they see is dollar $ign$.

But hey, if these paltry, pale imitations of the real thing, the written word, actually sell books, then I suppose I’ve gotta suck it up. And avoid the theater like Coney Island on a Saturday.