As wonderful as it is to live in a city where I rely on public transportation for mobility, there are many things about the New York subway that cause me grief.  Rats running around on the track don’t bother me.  Neither does trains making all local stops—as long as I have reading material and don’t need to pee (not as easy as it sounds since I also have to plan last-minute bathroom breaks before heading underground).

Over time, I’ve learned to manage my subway issues.  When an empty A-train pulls into the 181^st street station, I know to run quickly to the next car down.  Why?  Because there’s probably a stinky homeless person inside the abandoned car.  When it’s pouring down rain, I know to check the seats for dampness.  Why?  I’ve suffered through one-too-many pairs of embarrassing wet trousers.

But my subway fears pale in comparison to Chef’s.  He comes unglued whenever he sees someone eating onboard.  He makes a face, changes seats, and then can’t stop looking at them—like he’s rubber necking at the scene of a car accident.   The type of food doesn’t matter—from PowerBars to McDonald’s fries—Chef is offended by it all.

On the 1-train with sushi

Last week, he rolled his eyes at a young woman devouring a sandwich across the aisle from us.  I felt sympathy for her.

“Maybe she works two jobs and has no other time to eat,” I said.

“That kind of thinking devalues the importance of food,” he replied a bit sanctimoniously.  I decided that wasn’t the time to get out my peanut butter snack.

To help out Chef, I’ve created a program to desensitize him to his subway nightmare: rub his face in it.  In the past few weeks, whenever I encounter a food violation underground, I snap a picture of it and send it to Chef.  After emailing him a pic of a lady with fake nails, fur, and hair extensions chowing down on sushi, Chef messaged me back.

“I went into convulsions like Mindy McCready on Celebrity Rehab.”

That made me smile.  I was getting somewhere.  And my TV boyfriend Dr. Drew would be proud.  After all, facing your nightmare is the first step, right?

It was just a matter of time before I got caught cheating, again.  This time, I clumsily left the evidence right where Chef could see it.  Usually he doesn’t pay much attention.  But home sick with the flu, Chef was lounging on the couch, and as he picked up the remote, I twitched nervously.  I was about to be found out.  He punched on the TV, called up the list of shows recorded on our DVR, and turned to me suspiciously.

“What’s this Celebrity Rehab?” he questioned.

I gulped.  How to explain it?  He stared in disbelief at the short summary listing down-on-their-luck “celebrities” like Mackenzie Phillips who signed up for a little publicity while getting clean.

“Oh, that?  Believe it or not, my new TV boyfriend is on the show.”

“Dennis Rodman?”

“No, silly, Dr. Drew!”

Immediately, I relaxed.  It felt good to come out and stop hiding.  As much I resist, I can totally get sucked into trash TV, and my first time with Dr. Drew had me hooked.  How could I look away from a train wreck that included Hollywood Madame Heidi Fleiss and country music start Mindy McCready.  Presiding over this hothouse of madness was the serene Dr. Drew with the sexy glasses and compassionate face.  Would he be my Daddy?

“You don’t want to watch that,” I said to Chef, wanting to keep this guilty pleasure to myself.  Then Chef hit play and I watched it happen—he was signed up in a matter of minutes.

I knew that watching the show with Chef was going to be a very different viewing experience—he doesn’t really pay attention to much in the way of pop culture, outside of music divas like Madonna and Lady Gaga.  Thankfully, the program rolls a video mini-bio of each participant as they are introduced, so I knew Chef would be okay.  But I wasn’t prepared for Chef’s confusion over the detox process.

“So in order to get off heroin you have to become addicted to meth?” he asked after listening to Dr. Drew counseling a former member of Alice in Chains.

“What? No, they give you methadone to get off heroin. And it’s highly addictive. Didn’t you just listen to Dr. Drew’s lecture?”

“I thought it was the same thing.  So what does crystal meth stand for if not methadone?”

“Methamphetamine.”

“The same thing that’s in ecstasy?”

“No, that’s MDMA.”

I realized then that Celebrity Rehab, while a guilty pleasure for me, was going to be a much more educational experience for Chef.  Like a cracked-up Sesame Street.  My boyfriend Dr. Drew and I have our work cut out for us.