Kiss and say goodbye

I want a divorce. It wouldn't be the first time...hell, it may not be the last. I have tried, but the differences are simply and undisputably irreconcilable: I am tired of being married to my vehicle. We spend way too much time together. To work, to play, to the movies, to the grocery store, the doctors, the park...even to the bus station (!)

Tonight, at 7 p.m., on my way from mid-town Atlanta to the "unnamed county 30 miles east of Alabama," there were as many cars on the road as there were during my early morning drive 11 hours earlier; maybe more. Two accidents and more vehicles weaving through traffic than yakki hair at a beauty parlor in the 'hood. Days like these have me seriously longing for the pungent, sometimes straight-up funky smell of a big city subway system--after 8 hours at the j-o-b, that odor is almost like scent of a dozen roses. Well, okay, not roses, but it is better than the exhaust fumes of a urban southern highway.

It is also less dangerous. Now, I am no wuss. I traveled the autobahns of Germany doing 80, maybe 90 miles per hour and rushed through the streets of Lloret de Mar, Spain (tourist trap) on a moped with no license. But back then, before earning a college degree, way in front of being selected for and accpeting the parenting gig, prior to acquiring a 9-to-6, and ahead of the whole "responsible" phase...I didn't care. Hell, now, I got a thing or two (or three) to live for. But how does one actually live when they are braving the elements on the sometimes fatal highways of the South?


The commute is not always bad; just most of the time. Music is the bond that has kept my vehicle and I together this long. I listen to everything from Kirk, to Jill, to Donnie, to Donny, to Donnie (if you do not know the difference, holler and I will explain), to Anita, to Mariah, to Norah, to The Sounds of Blackness, to the Five Mo' Tenors. The kids and I even listened to Al Roker's book, Don't Make Me Stop This Car, together while riding around a few weeks ago. Still, it feels a little weird "listening" to a book. But it is my only recourse in getting some quality reading in. At home, back in the Big Apple, I read while riding the train or bus. While Al vivdly relayed his parent 'hood tales, I felt like we were committing sacrilege.

Nevertheless, the un-Godly amount of traffic plus poorly planned roads has forced a girl to use what she has, to get what she wants. Since arriving in Georgia six years ago, I have skillfully learned the main roads, back roads, alleys and such throughout Atlanta and a few surrounding cities. It has been an adventure of sorts. My Mother is from South Carolina, but has lived in New York City almost 40 years. Every time she visits Atlanta, she marvels over the fact that my sister and I know how to get to from point A to point B as if we were born here. Her compliment is a small consolation to my quandary.

Still, I long to be an unhappy straphanger, a slave to the token and at the mercy of mass transit. Yes, maybe it is time for this Nu Yawker to pack it in, head Norf' and not look back, lest I turn into a pillar of grits...I mean salt.