Working For a Living

Once again, I'm on a payroll. This time it's for the Michigan State University Alumni Association. I started in late January as Director, Marketing and Membership Services. There's a lot of work to be done — which is a good thing. So far I've mostly immersed myself in market research, trying to identify our challenges as well as viable solutions for growth.

I'm looking forward to good things here at MSUAA. I'll certainly give it my very best shot and keep reaching for that brass ring.

I'm posting one of many professional portraits taken by Photographer Erin Doyle Groom, Instructional Media Center Image and Design Group at Michigan State University, College of Communication Arts & Sciences.

I Do Not Love New York!

Ah, New York. It seems everyone I know is headed there these days — to visit family, have fun on the town with old friends, ring in the new year, celebrate a birthday, or help a boyfriend find an apartment.

But I'm just picking my son up for the holiday break. He — Christopher — is attending Parson's New School of Design where he's studying fashion (and for the record, no, he's not gay).

The last time I was in New York was mid-August, when I dropped him off at school. Hännah kept us company, earning her keep as my navigator — and a damn good one at that.

It was bittersweet, and parting, I would learn, would be so much more difficult than I had expected. He was forlorn, feeling abandoned even before ... well, before I did him leave him there on his own. But we didn't abandon him, because 1) it was his decision to go, and 2) I left him everything he could possibly need: cash, a stocked fridge, kitchen and bathroom, local telephone, a cell phone for long-distance (emergency) calls, bedding and linens ... all of which cost me about $2,500.

"You can see the sun shining when you look up, but the buildings are so tall it never reaches all the way down here," he observed sadly. I, on the other hand, was ooh-ing and ah-ing at all the cool window displays in SoHo. "It's depressing," his soliloquy continued.

"Dude!" I finally said, "You need to lighten up."

We decided to ease him into the city with a hot meal at the Thai restaurant around the corner. Then he went back to his dorm room — located in a high-rise building in the Financial District. Once rested, we purchased a 30-day metro card for him, and rode the subway so he could get familiar with his routes. Only problem was, he was so distracted with worry that he couldn't pay attention to what we were doing, where we were going and how we got there. My heart sunk, knowing it was only a matter of time before he either shook himself out of his fog or became a lost soul, alone in a city inhabited by millions.

Driving into the city earlier that morning, I got a taste of how he must have felt. I lost my way somewhere amid the nine hundred ninety-nine thousand, nine hundred and ninety-nine other drivers crossing the Brooklyn Bridge toward the Lincoln Tunnel and into the heart of Hell. That's when it happened — a blip on my life's radar, one that marked a first in my long career as a driver: I rear-ended Condaleeza Rice.

At least she looked like Condi. An elegant and refined African American woman much like the secretary, only more honest looking and plainly attired — and without Condi's signature scowl. She was driving a beige-ish-colored Ford Taurus — that right there should have told me she wasn't the President's right-hand chick. I honestly don't know how it all happened except that I took my eyes off the road for maybe a split second to address a question Chris was asking, and suddenly he was, like, "Oh my God, Mom, look out!"

When I turned to look, I saw as clear as day that even at 35 mph, I was traveling too fast for the traffic, which I realized too late, had stopped.

I slammed my foot on the brake, but the gap between us continued to close. I literally stood on that damn pedal, pulling up on my steering wheel for added leverage. From her rear-view mirror, Condi saw me coming, but she remained cool as a cucumber — ne'er did she even bat an eyelash.

When she emerged from her Taurus, I braced myself for the verbal onslaught she was sure to elicit. I envisioned her slapping my compliant self around in the middle of this Saturday-morning rush-hour fiasco. "You Asians should be banned from driving!" she'd scream. Given the circumstances, she'd get no argument from me.

"I'm terribly sorry," I heard myself profess. She'd just finished inspecting the damage I'd inflicted, which manifested on the left-hand side of her rear bumper as a gaping 5-inch hole. Shards of fiberglass were strewn about the asphalt below.

But what's this? Condi's look-alike was walking toward me ... smiling!?

"Are you OK?" she asked pleasantly.

"This definitely isn't Condaleeza," I thought.

"Don't you worry about this," she said, gesturing toward her bumper. I was totally dumbfounded.

"I just punched a huge 5-inch hole in your bumper!" I whined.

"It's nothing," she said. "Seriously, if you're OK, I'm OK. You just take care of yourself and have a blessed day." She gave my right arm a reassuring pat, and just like that, she turned on her heels, got in her car and ended up escorting my sorry ass all the way to the gates of the Lincoln Tunnel.

There, traffic stood still again, as cars, trucks, SUVs jostled to get through. They blared their horns menacingly at Condi, who merely looked at them in disdain and then calmly turned away. I followed her lead, which was immensely satisfying.

When my turn at the toll gate arrived, I said to the attendant as cheerfully as I could, "This is my first time in the city, and I'm wondering, in order to get to downtown New York, which lane would you recommend I merge into?"

I'm oozing of mid-Western cheer and charm. She stared down at me, but I refused to succumb to her demeanor.

"Keep right," she barked, then waved me through like Darth Vadar. Ever obedient, my car lurched forward into the fray, and the remainder of my visit was relatively uneventful. In fact, I made it out of that city alive, only to get a little lost in New Jersey, then eventually managing to make it all the way back to Michigan without so much as stopping.

That nightmare trip in August served as a reminder to pay closer attention on my next trip to NYC, which, it happened, was Dec. 26, 2008. In fact, with Hännah once again as my co-pilot and the advantage of experience on our side, I was confident that we'd get in and out of New York unscathed.

And I was right. Instead, I got whacked in Newark, New Jersey, trying to make a left off of 21. OK, not whacked in the colloquial sense — but literally, you know: hit, blindsided, broadsided ... whacked!

We were lost, trying to make it back to Market Street where I'd made a wrong turn.

"Make a left the next chance you get," my navigator said.

Up ahead, I spotted Beaver Street — a one-way street to the left. I decide to take it. But as I execute the turn, some knucklehead in a Honda Civic takes me out. Just after the collision, between rain drops and the steam emitting from the hood of his car, the driver looks at me and throws his arms in the air as if to say, "WTF?"

It seemed a very Italian gesture. In Newark, New Jersey, I noted, everyone played a dark role as a goomba. But months earlier New York had taught me to look at such offensive body language with calm serenity, so I turned up my nose and ignored the lad.

Next, he's outside Hännah's window, suddenly concerned and asking if we're OK. His English is a little choppy, and he looks to be a young Middle Eastern-looking Italian. He and Hännah briefly exchange some niceties.

"The police are on the way," interrupts a well-dressed black Italian male. "Are you OK?" he asks.

Within minutes, we hear sirens blaring from all directions. Lights flash red and white.

Four huge trucks block us in, and firefighters in full gear and EMTs — likely all Italian — pour from each engine. One young firefighter bears an axe.

"Is anyone hurt? Is anyone trapped? Does anyone need to go to the hospital?" he asks.

"We're OK," I report. "Both doors on the passenger side are stuck, but we're OK."

"You sure?" He's skeptical.

"Yeah, I'm just a little frazzled," I insist.

The EMT shouts at an approaching engine, "Fall back, everyone's OK here! Just a frazzled lady!"

"Are all these trucks for us?" I ask, astounded.

"Hey! We didn't know what to expect," another firefighter chuckles. "We didn't wanna take no chances, ya know?"

"Gee, they look a little disappointed, don't they?" I say of those who were told to fall back. Probably a slow night at the station.

The EMT directs me out of the flow of traffic and on to Beaver. I exit the Honda, followed by Hännah.

"How'd you know about Beaver Street?" the EMT asks. "Not many people know about Beaver Street."

"I didn't," I said. "We were lost and I needed to make a left to get back to Market. I saw it was a one-way to the left, so I took it. I don't know where that kid came from, but one minute he's nowhere near me, and the next thing I know, my daughter's screaming, 'Mom, mom, mom!' I turn to look, and he's coming straight for me, but he isn't slowing down or stopping."

"Did he do that to the rear bumper, too?" the EMT observes.

"Nah, that happened just last week in Michigan. Some kid rear-ended me."

"That must mean you're a lousy driver, eh?" he roars with laughter.

He asks Hännah who's a better driver, she or I.

"Well, until tonight, I thought she was. Now, I'm not so sure," Hännah smiles.

"So, what was your job while your Ma was driving and getting lost?"

"I was navigating," she giggled.

"And you got yourselves lost? Haven't you ever heard of GPS?"

That's about when the cops arrived.

"Ah, here they are now," jokes the EMT. "They're gonna lock you up!"

I cross the street to take a look at the passenger side of my car. I look from it to Hännah, my little navigator. I walk over to her and give her a big, grateful hug. "If he hit us one second sooner, you may have been hurt pretty badly," I said.

When the cop walks over to us, he asks authoritatively, "Who's the driver?"

"I am," I said.

"She is," the EMT and firefighters pointed.

"That's it?" the cop says, looking at the dent in my rear bumper.

"No, no," the EMT laughs. "It's on the other side. That bumper she got a week ago. Tonight the kid T-boned her." I subconsciously cross my arms across my breast, er, chest. "Nobody did or would be boning me tonight," I thought, a little offended.

The cop peeks around the corner from the back of my Honda, spies the point of impact, and nods in agreement.

"T-boned," he repeats. He asks for my "paperwork," — drivers license, proof of insurance and registration. He asks Hännah for her drivers license. "Stay here, and I'll come back for you in a minute," he orders.

He walks over to the other driver.

"Watch out!" the EMT cautions, pointing to some dog doo-doo on the sidewalk.

"Ehw, thanks," the cop says.

"So, where you guys from?" the EMT asks. "Yeah, Michigan? You dress like you're from Michigan. You look like an Eskimo," he pokes fun at the faux-fur-lined hood of the Eddie Bauer Polar Parka my husband bought me for Christmas in 2006. "C'mon, it's not that cold here," he says.

He asks where Hännah goes to school, why I don't move out to New Jersey for a public relations job, what my husband does.

"Thanks for keeping us company," I tell him.

"What? You think just 'cause you're in New Jersey we don't have no manners?" he says. "We're nice here. Once you get to New York, though, watch out!"

"Yeah, my husband had to come to New Jersey a couple of years ago for work. He said he was so surprised at how everyone sounded like they walked right out of the 'Sopranos' but was so nice and customer-service oriented."

"That's us," he confirmed. Then he puts on a little show for us, acting like, well, a goomba. Too soon, his chief tells him the crew's loading up and heading back to the station.

"What?!" he protests. "We can't leave these poor ladies here in distress, Cap'n," he says.

"These ladies don't look distressed no more," Cap'n replies.

"We're fine, thanks to him," I said.

"See? Get your ass in the truck," Cap'n commands. Everybody laughs, they wish us a happy New Year, and pretty soon it's me, Hännah and the Italian Middle Eastern kid under an awning, trying stay as dry as possible in the drizzle and nervously waiting for the cops to issue a citation.

I say a prayer.

A few minutes later, the cop motions me over. Nobody asks me what happened.

"All right, here's what you need to do," a bald cop says to me. He hands me a blue card with a number to give the insurance company. He returns our paperwork — two drivers licenses, proof of insurance and registration. More importantly, there's no ticket.

I ask for directions to New York City, thank them for being so helpful and wish them a great year.

"What is it with you and New York?" my son asks later.

My response: "If I ever come back again, I'm flying!"