Gosh. The Green Line, can you believe it? What a week to be in the PR department for the MBTA. Yikes.

Thanks for NONE of your concern. No, I don’t ever take the Green Line, but I could have used a few little comments or emails from people who wanted to make sure I was still alive. WHATEVER. NOT BITTER.

I know you come here, not out of concern for my daily well-being, but to read gruesome and revealing posts about me and my marriage. Oh, honey, I check the Google Analytics, and I know that’s what you want. So let me at least pander to the audience momentarily.

This morning Matty drove me to the T station to be a real peach and save me the mile walk. I was in my typical not-a-morning-person mood, and he struck up a conversation about the weird dream that he had last night.

Matt: I dreamed that I almost met Ed Cherubino. I was checking in to a hotel and they told me that to get to my room I should take the elevator to the 17th floor. When I arrived, Ed Cherubino would be there to greet me.

Me: Who’s Ed Cherubino?

Matt: A radio commentator.

Me: I don’t really understand why you’re so excited. Who IS he?

Matt: A radio commentator. Think of just any radio commentator and what it would be like to meet them. Who’s a radio commentator you would recognize?

Me: Howard Stern.

Matt: Ok, so maybe not. How about a TV newscaster? What TV newscaster would you recognize?

Me: Barbara Walters.

Matt: Why are you bursting my bubble?

Me: I just have no frame of reference as to who Ed Cherubino is. I’m sorry.

By then we had arrived, so I quickly kissed him and hopped out of the car. Good thing the Red Line didn’t break down on my commute. Oh the irony of Matt hearing about THAT from Ed Cherubino.

This totally does not even do it justice. I walked from Boston Common into Cambridge, took two different buses, and got home two hours after I set out. Needless to say, there was no trip to the groomer but a very very good excuse to pick up Chipotle on the way home.

For some time now we’ve talked about selling one of the cars. There are a lot of great reasons why we could easily do it. I take public transportation to work every day, if I ever needed a car I could get a ZipCar. We’d save money on insurance and repairs, not even to mention the fact that on most evenings and weekends we’re either running errands together or flopping at home together.

But for as long as we’ve been talking about it, I’ve been coming up with excuses why we shouldn’t go down to one car. I generally say that I wonder if it’s even financially prudent to sell a car now if we might need to buy another in 3-4 years or so. Wouldn’t it just be smarter to hang on to our rapidly depreciating vehicle and let it sit in the driveway instead of having to shell out MORE money to buy another car at a later date?

And then there’s the argument that we’d have to put more money into Matt’s car before selling it to get a good price, why not just hang onto it in it’s current state?

But I’m coming to terms with what’s at the root of my problem with car-sharing. The very smallest issue is the stupidest of all… as we would sell Matt’s hatchback that means he’d be driving MY WAGON. MINE. He basically does this anyway, but there’s still that differentiation that he’s driving MY car while HIS car sits in the driveway. And if he’s the one driving it at least 3 hours a day wouldn’t it then become HIS car by default? That would mean HIS sunglasses would be in the side door pocket and HIS cds would be in the glove compartment. And the spare napkins would inevitably run out and not be replaced. And what would be the fate of my emergency stash of feminine products and nylons!?

Then there’s the issue of feeling trapped. Because I might not be able to make that girls-night-out in the suburbs as Matt’s running late from a Friday afternoon meeting at the office. This is not a legitimate fear because #1 – I have no female friends and #2 – I probably don’t have female friends because of my natural disdain for people who live in the suburbs. Plus Matt’s the kind of guy who would do everything within his power to get me to the girls-night-out despite his late meeting, the darling.

But the deepest fear is that this would lead me down the slippery slope of stay-at-home mom-ness, trapped inside the house, speaking Toddler all day long and relishing the bi-annual opportunity to head to Chipotle and eat a burrito by myself. I often feel like I’ve sold off so many parts of my independence just to be married. Does the car really need to be that big last piece?

It’s a control thing. I want the freedom to be able to drive to New York for the interview I’ll have with Chris Matthews after winning a Grammy for audio engineering. Not sure why he’d be interviewing for that, but these are the stories I tell myself.

Matt made a great deal with me… if we sell the car I can be assured that at any time if I need a ride somewhere or if I need to call dibs on the vehicle, I’m more than welcome to, and he’ll be super-accommodating. I guess I’d just feel better about it if he threw in some promise about on-demand chocolate cake any time I want.

Every morning I walk down to the bus stop, hop it, and head to the T station. My whole commute takes about a half an hour at the longest which generally includes waiting for a bus and waiting for the T. But taking public transportation is hardly predictable as I witnessed this morning. And it brings out the worst in everybody, especially me.

Waiting twenty minutes for the bus is one thing, but waiting in the rain first thing in the morning with a very chatty companion is an entirely different beast. I’m no morning person, and I do not want to talk to you about the FOOT OF SNOW you heard fell on New Hampshire last night. I’m sure. A FOOT during the last week of March. Sure, buddy.

When the bus finally arrived, I quickly closed up my umbrella only to wait in the rain another five minutes as a mother disembarked with her toddler riding in a stroller. Thanks for taking your kid and your SUV STROLLER on public transportation in the middle of rush-hour. Really great idea. I was, at this point, officially the world’s worst person.

Between every stop, my chatty companion kept walking to the front to discuss with the bus driver why his CharlieCard appeared to be charged twice. The overly-friendly driver kept calmly reassuring him that he could fix the problem at the next T station and repeating over and over “there’s really no reason to swear, sir.” He muttered to himself and walked back to his seat stepping on the tail of the adorable golden retriever seeing eye dog of the young lady who had just boarded. He realized his error and squatted down to pet the dog, which we all know you are not supposed to do while it’s on duty. The dog calmly ignored Chattster and curled up on the floor of the bus directly across from me for the sole purpose of testing my ability to refrain from snookering him and speaking to him in my small-adorable-soft-animal voice. He was the cutest thing I had ever seen and I was quickly running out of self-control.

Next to board was a whole hoard of people dripping rain and pushing to get on to the wet and smelly bus. An Asian lady stood in front of me holding on for dear life as we careened towards the T station, now 25 minutes late. Perhaps it was accidental, but I think I saw a glimmer of evil in her eye as she dropped her arm and stabbed the aforementioned pup with the sharp tip of her umbrella. This was almost more than I could bear as my mind reeled with visions of drop-kicking her to the sidewalk and stabbing her in her left pinky with that same vicious implement of death that she had used on the sweet service dog.

I also wondered if the blind lady would notice if I accidentally slipped off with her golden? Surely she could get another, right? This dog NEEDED me. I was the only one who could single-handedly protect him from bus-riding ruffians!

I contemplated my life’s worth as I arrived at the station and boarded the next orange line train. Is this what I’ve become? The type of person who is so desperate to have a dog of my own that I contemplate stealing service dogs? A man with a T uniform and a very thick Russian accent eyed me as though I was a terrorist. I might as well be. I try to steal service dogs. Take me away to a maximum security prison where I cannot endanger people who take their puppy to the curb for a momentary bathroom break.

Next time the bus is late I’m just going to catch a cab. It’s really better for all of us.