In the dee-tales.

Technically, it’s called The Transit Museum, but we skipped over most of the bus bits (except one) when we visited on a snowy Saturday last week. I tweeted at the time that it was the best 7 bucks each we’d ever spent, and I stand by that.

We’re both fascinated with subway history, particularly the tunnel building under the East River, the old train cars, and the vintage ads. The exhibits contained therein quenched most of my thirst. To wit, I present this photo essay of our afternoon.

(Really we were there about an hour… it’s not that big. But it IS built in an abandoned subway station and it does have about 20 cars of varying age that you can walk through and sit in. It’s cold down there, though!)

Ever wonder what you'd look like driving a bus? Wonder no more! Puddy is easily the best looking bus drive-uh I've ever seen. He also has a great safety record!

"Old Diesel" is his new name. Also, this was the last of the fake bus driving pictures, because two 5-year olds wanted to test their skills.

This was their oldest car... built in 1904. The seats are rattan, and very bouncy. It really is a gorgeous piece. If Puddy were wearing a different hat, and not jeans, he might be on his way to a speak-easy.

This is the same car from the outside. Puddy studies it carefully whilst I take bad pictures.

This was a subway car my mom would have ridden from her home in Woodside, Queens to her job across the river working for a doctor at Andrew Bernard - New York Hospital. Note that they're still hanging tough with the woven rattan benches. (Yes, in the early 60s my mom worked at the same place I do now.)

Puddy simulates a wild ride in a car made in the late 40s. They stopped making subway cars during The War.

I simulate a more docile (yet hauntingly douchey) ride. All of these photos have the contrast and brightness turned way up, but still, I AM that pale.

This was my favorite car design. It's a 50s, Mid-Century Modern Subway!

And now, here's where the fun really begins: The ads that lined the walls of each car.

From The Sexist to The Literal.

To the (inappropriate) dead kid laying in a pool of his own blood as he tried to bring groceries home to his family.

And then the Festival of Gas. Clearly, Old Diesel was on his way here.

Last Friday night found me on my couch, refreshing the Jet Blue Flight Status screen over and over to determine exactly what minute Puddy’s flight would land at LaGuardia. I was confused as hell when I suddenly received a text from him saying that he landed, but the screen showed 20 minutes still left in his flight.

Here was the exchange:

Puddy: Landed

Me: Wait. What?! It says you’re still in flight!

Puddy: At JFK. Lost all hydraulics. Fire dept here.

Me: What? Oh my god!

Me: You are OK, right?

Me: This check flight status online is an asshole liar!

Puddy: They foamed the runway. They dumped all the fuel over the ocean.

Me: Holy shit! Please call me when you can.

My phone rang, I answered, and all I heard was chaos. An Indian man in particular, seated near Puddy, seemed to be losing his mind.

Me: I can’t believe this!

Puddy: Hey babe.

Me: What is going on!?? It sounds like you’re in the middle of a riot! Tell that Indian guy to simmer down! Tell me what happened!

Puddy: (in as monotone as you can imagine) Eh, they lost all hydraulics. Didn’t have brakes. Didn’t know if they had landing gear, so they took us to JFK because of the longer runways. They dropped all the fuel over the ocean, put some foam down, called about 300 firetrucks, and we landed. If we had tried landing at LaGuardia we would have ended up in the East River.

Me: Oh. My. God.

Puddy: (I still hear the Indian man explaining the situation to someone on the phone like he was on fire.) Yeah. OK, they’re towing us in now. See you soon. Love you, babe.

Me: Wait! Towing?? Were you scared? Were people freaking out?

Puddy: Nah, I just sat here. The old lady next to me was grabbing my arm. That’s about it. Gotta go, babe. See you soon.

Me: Wait! Take a picture! I want to see what the runway looks like!

Puddy: OK babe. Bye.

And THAT, in a nutshell crisis situation is Puddy: a perfect, flat-affect foil to my hyper-active emotions. He just. Sat. There.

Near-disaster on an airplane, and he sounds like he’s calling me from the Duane Reade across the street to ask if we need toothpaste.

Here’s the horrible picture he took to placate me. (He had to reach across two people to get to the window) The runway was dark and rarely used: Most of those lights are coming from the firetrucks lining the flight’s path.

I don’t know how diverting a plane, dumping fuel, having questionable landing gear, and not having brakes at all (they had to use “reverse thrusters?”) is not news, but it wasn’t reported anywhere. And Puddy never mentioned it the rest of the weekend. I would have called and texted everyone in my phone, and then started telling strangers.

Something like that happening to me would have been HUGE. My life would have flashed before my eyes! I would have discovered the meaning of life and how little time we really have. I would have made important decisions about how I would change from THIS NIGHT ON. I would start giving more money to the homeless. And I would pay it forward. And I wouldn’t sweat the small stuff. And I would dance like no one is watching. And every other terrible Carpe Diem cliche. I would have done it all!

Instead we just hung out at my apartment most of the snowy weekend, venturing outside just a bit for a visit to the Subway Museum and a couple of pubs. I discovered that a shot of amaretto dropped into a pint of beer tastes exactly like Dr. Pepper. It was delightfully low-key. No one’s life changed, but everyone’s life was good.

*

I am hereby thrilled to report that someone has just found this blog by searching, “It smells like hotdogs in here.” Thank you, sir or madam, for the validation. It really DOES smell like hotdogs in here.

Have I mentioned I will officially be a published map maker?

My sister, the famous doctor of Latin American Anthropology, just finished her second book. I’m exceedingly proud of her and admittedly a little jealous. She’s younger than me, albeit by 19 months, but still… what am I doing with my life? I could write a book, even if it’s a non-fiction step-by-step tome on how to recognize people who will ruin your life, or even better, how to recognize people who WON’T.

Sister (she likes privacy) mentioned to me over the Christmas holiday that she needs three maps drawn to illustrate whatever it is she’s writing about in her book, of which, just to reiterate, she has two to her name and I have none. (I know the general topic is the Mexican perspective of drilling for oil in the Gulf of Mexico, but it’s tedious reading. Three years later, I still haven’t gotten through her first book. There’s a certain way that academics write that is just extremely inaccessible for the layperson. They speak their own language and all of the rabble who haven’t spent years and years in higher education will always be left out of the joke.)

I am destined to be Sister’s somewhat less educated assistant who draws pretty maps. I love the maps. I could draw and trace and practice my handwriting all day long for a living. (I draw everything in real life with ink and then scan it, import it, and then fix/edit it.) I easily lost 11 hours yesterday touching-up the final map. I called in to work, sick because of an excruciating headache that somehow disappeared once I got into My Maps.

This morning Dr. Katz told me that I probably enjoy activities like that because they appeal to my obsessive side and I like tedious details that I can control. I also like the feeling of completion. Interesting, but I’m not sure if that’s accurate. I didn’t want it to be over. “Completion” made me sad. What would I work on now?

(If anyone is writing a book and needs maps drawn, I’d like to toss my hat into the ring. I specialize in the Gulf of Mexico. Cartography, of all things!)

Speaking of Dr. Katz, I ran into him on the elevator before my appointment today and it wasn’t as awkward as one would expect it would be to see your mental health professional in a public setting. (Have I mentioned that I work in the same place my doctors practice?) There was another lady riding up with us, so we were just distantly pleasant and he told me that he was running a bit late because both of his kids (ages 1 and 4) are sick. Just thinking about having two babies that young who are both sick was enough to ramp up my anxiety level; either that or cure me all together of any depression and unhealthy behaviors that I have in my head. (i.e., At least I don’t have two small babies and at least they aren’t both sick. Holy Christ, what would I do?) (Maybe the prescriptions are just placebos and he really intends to cure me by casually announcing how chaotic his life is and how mine seems like a breeze in comparison.)

My co-worker, who is also low forty-something and childless, and I recently talked about how we would manage to get around the city if we had babies. These are the take-aways from the conversation:

“Every time I see someone trying to carry a stroller with a child in it up the subway steps, I always think the same two thoughts … ‘You poor bastard’ and then a beat later, ‘OK, outta my way.’”

“I don’t know what I’d do if I had to take a baby somewhere when it’s 15 degrees outside? Would I wrap it in plastic?”

“Are you legally required to use a car-seat in a cab? Are there cabs that come with car-seats? Can people who have babies HAIL cabs?”

We don’t know.

After Dr. Katz mentioned his sick kids, it was my turn to speak since we still had six more floors to go until we got to the Psych floor. I led with, “It smells like hotdogs in here,” as you do. Then I had nowhere to go, except to seek his approval: “Doesn’t it?” He laughed.

Once we were privately ensconced in his tiny office, I told him about My Maps. Technically, I only see him for Med Management, however, he always schedules me early so our time can go longer and I can tell him about my broader issues. He writes everything down. He knows the names of all the characters in my life, and if I bring up someone from my past whom I haven’t named, he’ll ask abbreviated questions like, “Gay-Porn, Racing Bike Guy?” or “Homeland Security Old-Guy-Blow-Jobs Guy” And I’ll say, yes, that’s him. He calls David Puddy by his real name and he sincerely likes him, even though they’ve never met. Everyone loves David Puddy.

I know it’s Dr. Katz’s JOB for Chrissakes to remember what I tell him and keep track of my moods, but it still feels nice that he is paying attention.

“OK, so the maps, the food (I thought I could control myself with a bag of chocolate in my desk drawer) and exercise (The Shredded DOMS Incident)… are there any other things that you obsess over? Smells, perhaps?” Asked the good doctor, without irony.

Maybe he pays too much attention.

It really DID smell like hotdogs in that elevator.