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Do I call you Horace or Pookie Bear?

I prefer you call me Pookie Bear, honey!

You say “Goodbye, Honey,” to your husband every morning. You don’t give it a second thought. We adore our husbands, our wives, and our partners. Honey is an endearment we covet in this day of broken relationships and online dating. Using the term audibly reinforces our declaration of adoration, or so we think. Yet, some well-meaning souls warn against using pet names to refer to your soul mate. What? This means no more Pookie Bear, Stud Man, Sweetie, Sugar and Handsome? Yes, that’s exactly the bottom line.

Evidently using these terms of endearment erode the sizzling passion in our love nests. The prevailing notion is that it’s just a matter of time before these terms of endearment start creeping into our subconscious. Suddenly, you are not thinking of your man as that LA firefighter coming to rescue you and extinguish your fire Friday night. You see him as a snuggie partner for a Lifetime movie. The solution: d/c “sweetheart,” murmur his ‘given name,’ whether Elmer or Horace, and miraculously the sizzle is back. Your man takes on the virility of his college days; the lady flashbacks to her early days dancing on tabletops, winking at her man.

Admittedly, I had never used endearments excessively: not because of any preconceived fear of plummeting sexuality, but more of the type of communication I regularly have with LT during day-to-day life. He is a Watch-Commander for a large city. In other words, he is a big dog cop. Most days, I address him, not by his given name but rather as Lieutenant. When he gets home, I call him by his given name.

I decided this situation called for a study, an experiment, if you will. My experiment required a given time period when I addressed my dear husband “Pookie Bear.” Never in our 20 years together have I called LT “Pookie Bear.” Guess what? Pookie Bear presented as a Grizzly Bear, not a snookie, cuddly, Lifetime watching partner. I had a few like-minded fillies experiment with pet names for their mates. The names ran the gamete from Sugar Pop to Sweetie Pie. Perhaps it is in the delivery where these other ladies ran amok as Sugar Pop and Sweetie Pie’s scores were off the charts!

I do not doubt these honey-hating ladies conducted a study. But, if their study accurately reflected Americana, then divorce lawyers would be a thing of the past. As long as you called your mate his/her given name, the sizzle would last forever. Hear that Horace?

This is not a book review. But if you think I made this up or are skeptical or curious check it out: Stop Calling Him Honey and Start Having Sex.

Until next time, Mrs. Pookie Bear signing out.

photo by dreamstine

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Redundancy: could you repeat that?

I love the word redundant. I cannot tolerate, stand, ‘put up with,’ or bear redundancy, in conversation or prose. Today’s diction is cluttered with unacceptable redundant phrases and verbosity. Smart people, people who know the meaning of the words they are unmercifully repeating, refuse to cease this behavior. Consequently, I must step up to the mic. This is in direct contrast to my now developed habit of biting my tongue when an uttered iteration reaches my ears.  Some of the worst offenders are television newscasters; this means the teleprompter is spitting out a plethora of duplicate phrasings. What’s next? A State of the Nation Address: Where’s Our Country At? To get you in the mood, here are a few phrases you hear for your perusal and enjoyment, and I hear my new Editor loves lists.

  • Could you repeat that again?
  • Do you have plans for the future?
  • They also visited us last week too.

Get the idea? Next, let me share phrases we use without thinking what we are saying, or perhaps, more accurately how many people are biting their tongues standing within hearing distance of our verbal faux pas.

  • End result: the end is the result, is it not?
  • A pair of twins: twins are a pair, aren’t they?
  • Consensus of opinion: consensus defined is the agreement the judgment in or opinion reached by a group as a whole
  • Continue on: Continue “means” keep going
  • Frozen ice: How ‘bout you- you run across any “un” frozen ice?
  • Join Together: Big at weddings, if they join, will they not be ‘together?’ (But, let no man, take asunder)
  • Regular Routine: Once it “is” regular, it already is a routine, right? (Not going further on this one!)
  • Filled to Capacity: Sorry, if it is “filled,” capacity is not relative, it is redundant
  • General Public: Is there any other kind of public other than general?
  • Null and void: If it is null, it is already void, isn’t it?
  • Past experience: Experience means it happened in the past
  • Pre recorded: Recorded has  “pre” embedded in its definition
  • Reason is Because: Reason implies the because- because is unnecessary as well as confusing
  • Unexpected Surprise: Isn’t the nature of a surprise unexpected?

MY pet repeater redundant phrase is: continue on. This phrase, spoken or written, drives me CRAZY. In fact, I am NOT responsible for my behavior if it is used in my presence. We must stave off these day-to-day diction downfalls. Read over your work, listen to yourself. Are you repeating yourself? I’m sure I missed some here, so share your “cringers” with us nationwide Smartly readers. Looking forward to mega comments; do not let me down.

But, don’t repeat yourself.

photo by istockphoto

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Glasses: how many are too many?

the glasses in question...

I can’t get anything done these days. I blame it on my glasses: all three pairs.
I am actively wearing three pair of prescription eyeglasses.

  • Outdated pair outfitted with every add-on Eyeglass World has to offer (this goes over big with folks such as myself who cannot see the Big E on the eye chart)
  • Prescription Sunglasses *New
  • Computer Glasses *New  These glasses ‘work’ only if the area of interest is ~16 inches from my nose. I now carry an expandable yardstick in my Vera Bradley bag to verify distances.
  • So, why am I having problems carrying projects to fruition? Certainly seeing clearly must help, right? Yes, no question about that. The problem surfaces with the ever-present question, “What pair of glasses should I be wearing?”

    Without consternation, I selected my prescription sunglasses for my sojourn to the grocery store; my quandary mode, however, hit full force when I walked into the store. The easiest plan was to leave on my sunglasses, run in, grab my multi-grain Saltines and zip back out the front door. But, ah, whoever said life was easy OR that I could run in Publix and grab only one item? Fifteen minutes later I find myself, arms laden with groceries, in the checkout line perusing life through Tommy Hilfiger’s shaded sunglasses. Suddenly I feel like a kid playing dress-up standing inside a grocery store with my sunglasses on. You say, “ Take the damn things off, ridgely.” Oh, if life were so simple. Remember, I can’t see the Big E and my arms are full of groceries. I can’t get to my other glasses. Besides which pair would I get? The debit card scanner is about 16” from my nose, I’d be tempted to grab those, but then I might try to walk out the front door and hit the Rug Doctor Display instead. So, Maybe it’s just as well I look like a snooty suburban housewife with my sunglasses on and my sunbonnet hanging demurely down my back. Dimly punching in my PIN# and the definitive NO to the never-ending cash back? question, I walk out the front door anxious to be a woman in the right place, at the right time, with the right glasses on.

    All this discussion about eyeglasses is nostalgic. As a little girl, I can remember my grandmother asking for her reading glasses. Wearing readers is a rite of passage for the boomers; sit next to a sharp looking couple and you may hear one say to the other, “Forget it, these aren’t going to work, I’m a 2.25 and these are only 1.75.” If you know what they are talking about, accept it. You are middle-aged. You need to wear your reading glasses. Period. Don’t fight it. And if you see a blonde lady struggling with obvious indecision, help her out. Go with the sunglasses- they are good for distance- and she usually needs to get moving somewhere. But, hey, I’m open to suggestions.

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    photo taken by author

    Where Have All the Stewardesses Gone?

    come fly with me

    As I waited to be scanned in with my electronic boarding pass, I had a momentary flash back to days long ago. Some of the things I remember about flying in the 70′s

    • People dressed up to fly- they did not get their outfit out of the hamper
    • Flight attendants all looked like Barbie dolls, not greeters at WalMart
    • Flight attendants were called stewardesses
    • Kids were given a set of wings, and or coloring pages during flight
    • Food was free
    • Life Insurance was available for purchase at most airports
    • Smoking allowed on most flights

    What prompted my 1970 flying flashback was a tie-dyed personal bag on the shoulder of a teenager in front of me. You do remember tie-dye, right? Wearing tie-dyed clothes made a statement in my day. S and I were not allowed to wear tie-dyed clothes, or heaven help us the accompanying peace sign necklace (the communists were behind the peace sign).

    I am anxious to reach my seat as I have walked 36 gates with a lead filled laptop case. For $100 I would have sold it at the Food Court. I guess I needed a sign?

    My single positive thought as I collapsed in a seat at my gate was congratulating myself for not wearing my cute little pink sandals. For this travel day, I wore my Dansko clogs. OMG what will I be doing next- wearing Velcro hush puppies?

    I finally sit down in my seat, 13D. This is after I accuse another passenger of sitting in my seat- maybe counting is one of the skills you lose first? Knowing I just have a few minutes, I quickly call LT to let him know I am on the plane. The last thing he says to me “Make sure you are not going to Charleston, West Virginia.” I hang up, and casually ask my neighbor if we are going to South Carolina. After a somewhat odd look, he replies he hopes so. I tell him the destination is not important anymore I have gone through hell to get here. Where this flight is going, I am going. If it is going to Charleston, West Virginia instead of Charleston, South Carolina so be it. He is staring now. I flash him that million dollar smile.

    I wrench my diet coke & Kindle out of my Vera Bradley purse and settle in for the short flight. I triple dog dare any crew member to tell me to put it away. A crew member just announced I had a life vest under my seat- nada.* After stopping and questioning said crew member, he admits/concludes there are NOT any life vests on the air craft. My Kindle is the least of his problems.

    I quickly go over an escape plan with my neighbor- he just nods.

    None of this would have been necessary if the stewardesses were still on board.

    Where are you?

    My focus on my missing life preserver came as a  direct result of reading The Survivors Club by Ben Sherwood. As he aptly reports in this must-read book when it comes to survival, there are things you cannot control- like the plane crashing. Yet, there are things you can control, like verifying the location of your life vest and the nearest exit. So much for my survival.

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    photo courtesy of dreamstime

    Excuse me: Is this the way to the hospital?

    LT refuses to ride with me unless he is recovering from anesthesia. In our twenty years together he has been my passenger six times. LT’s simple response to anyone who asks why he will not ride with me is, “Ridgely drives like an old lady.” This disclaimer followed me through my career as a Paramedic. You cannot imagine the burden I carry when I am behind the wheel. What do you think LT would say if I came home with a traffic ticket? I never want to find out. I certainly would not tell an officer after pulling me over with lights and sirens that  LT is my husband.  Jonas’ wife, Molly, of The Unit told the officer who pulled her over that she married the last police officer who stopped her. Molly was speeding. I, no doubt, would be stopped for causing havoc with my light foot on the accelerator.

    I think it was my driving skills that first caught LT’s eye. He says he fell in love the moment I stepped out of ambulance. We met on an emergency call. I was an EMT (Emergency Medical Technician) at the time. As it was a call related to a criminal act, LT responded along with numerous other police officers. A two person medical team responds to all 911 medical emergency calls. One person is a paramedic, one an EMT. If a patient requires advanced life support, e.g. EKG monitoring, IV starting or drug administration, a paramedic ride with the patient on the way to the hospital. In this case, the patient had been stabbed. Needing to replace fluids, my Paramedic partner started an IV and prepared to take care of the patient during transport to the hospital. Yes, I had to drive to the hospital. I remember my partner saying these three things to me emphatically:

    • “If we are going lights and sirens, we need to at least be going the speed limit
    • “Ridgely, you have to take control of the intersection, you have the right of way- you are the one with the siren.”
    • “You do remember the way to County Hospital, right?”

    None of these comments even address changing lanes or backing up. When I share these scenarios with friends, they admit they never considered the possibility they might be delayed arriving at the hospital because a person on the medical team got lost on the way to the hospital. No, before you ask, I never did get lost , but now you know why I went to Paramedic school. I would gladly ride with any patient if it would keep me out of the driver’s seat.

    So, anytime I get a little scared of a traffic situation, I think back on my days sitting behind the steering wheel of an ambulance. Immediately the scenario I am facing is insignificant.

    photo source

    you can visit ridgely’s personal site here

    I Was a Rookie’s Rookie

    My rendition of an 'eight ball'

    I was a rookie’s rookie. If steel toe boots could squeak, mine would be squawking. My profession at the time: paramedic in training. My second week on the job, working one of the fast trucks was part of a rookie’s training.

    ‘Fast’ did not mean how fast the unit responded to the call. Fast referred to the number of calls a crew responded to on a shift. In certain areas, calls came in at a fevered pace. Medic 2, an area in the heart of North Charleston, was such an area. Calls in this area increased as the moments ticked by at night. Medic 2 might respond to as many as 18 calls in 24 hours. Eventually, these areas went to 12-hour shifts. But this was years after MY rookie days. Who knows how many calls I had been on prior to the now urban legend ‘eight ball call?’

    Gearing up for the after bar crowd, we received a medical assistance request by the police department via our dispatcher. We responded lights and sirens, to the scene. As expected the scene overflowed with marked police and emergency vehicles. Animal, my partner and crew chief ,told me to grab the oxygen bottle and the medical box as he jumped out of the ambulance. I liked working with Animal (obviously a nickname- no, I never did find out the ‘Animal’ story). I felt comfortable asking Animal questions. Not only did he provide reassurance on medical decisions I made, he also recognized my total lack of street sense, and didn’t hold it against me. Instead, he considered my map-reading skills an asset; he loved my enthusiasm to ride with patients instead of driving to the hospital. I wrote excellent reports and did a bang-up job cleaning our vehicle; both of these were not favorite activities of seasoned medics.

    Entering the crime scene, Animal was protective. He entered the house first, motioning me to follow. We found our patient sitting up, talking to a police officer. One of the officers leaned over and told Animal the guy had swallowed an eight ball. Perplexed, I turned to Animal and unabashedly asked “How in the hell did he swallow that big black ball?” To say conversation stopped would be stretching it. All eyes were on Animal; where in the hell did you find this blonde? I did not notice any of this as I had scurried over to do a primary exam on the patient, immediately taking his vital signs. Suddenly, a gurney appeared, officers lifted the patient on it, and Animal and I were on the way to the hospital code 7 with a fireman driving us. This was a medical emergency?

    Our patient had swallowed an eight ball of cocaine.

    Who knew an eight ball was street slang for an amount of cocaine?

    Now I do.

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    What does the Crockpot sign say? Are we ON or OFF?

    Bonnie Sue loves the new Crock Pot-

    You do not even have to be among my closest friends to know I’m not the cook in our home. LT could win awards with his gourmet cuisine. From his melt-in-your-mouth fried shrimp to his finger-lickin’ baby back ribs, his fare leaves you feeling Southern’ stuffed. What he does not like to do is throw a meal together or cut corners. He approaches food preparation as he does Law Enforcement: in a precise, orderly fashion. He insists on getting the special ingredients for the dish, and not settling on what is on hand. Conversely, I am pretty much good to go as long as I have diet coke, cheddar cheese and whole wheat saltine crackers. (In a pinch I will go with any type of Saltine cracker: low sodium, regular, salted or unsalted tops.)

    Since I have been unsuccessful in turning LT into a saltine-dinner lover, we had to come up with some time-limited dinner fare. The solution: A crock pot, slow cooker, or whatever you call it. I agreed to step up as a souse chef for LT on crock pot meal days. The first few simmering delights were delightful. LT walked in to a home filled with the aroma of a home cooked meal. Somewhere around the 4th run out of the gate, I forgot to “get the crock pot going” early in the day – which is the selling, and critical part of the meal. With sticky notes adhered to all non-moving objects, I remembered to get our dinner going the next time. I glowed with pride when he walked in that afternoon. As he loves to share this tale, he speaks of his insatiable hunger after a day filled with “protecting the city.”

    Yes, I did, pack the crock pot with dinner. Yes, the crock pot was turned on. The final check point- I did not plug the crock pot in the electrical outlet. The meal had to be pitched. I am not going to eat chicken that sat in a pot for six hours, are you? LT suggested we get one of those flip signs you see in diners. One side reads OPEN, the other side reads CLOSED. Our sign would read Crock Pot: PLUGGED IN and ON, UNPLUGGED and OFF. I told him one more suggestion such as this and he would need one of his officers to run up here and plug the pot in. Currently, I do not guarantee what is made in the crock pot is edible, but I guarantee damn tee you, it is cooked.

    This crock pot tale is not over. Bear with me; you may have seen us in Target last week. We were the couple in the kitchen appliance aisle having a heated discussion about crock pots. Crock pots, you ask? What is there to argue about with crock pots? You throw a chicken, soup and a few celery sticks in a crock pot, turn it on, and plug it in: eight hours later, you have dinner. So what was the deal? Our discussion was about the size of the crock pot. We came to Target to replace our old small, cracked crock pot. I have to admit I was looking forward to not using a mallet to jam a pot roast in it. Every time I got a good sized pot roast, it reminded me of doing deep knee bends in my jeans to get a little wiggle room. Wiggle room was what I was looking forward to in our new crock pot. LT was looking for a full fledged gymnasium.

    Unfortunately, crock pots were on sale at Target. How could a sale ever be bad news? Its bad news when the buyer uses the $4 savings margin as an excuse for purchasing the gymnasium, cafeteria-style, neighborhood-feeding sized crock pot. As I ran through the rational explanations for not purchasing this gargantuan Crockpot, I see his heels digging in the floor. This is a moment when a wife must make a critical decision. Do I choose this battle? Do I want to continue this discussion? Or, should I give in, move forward, saving energy for a future fork in the road when this win may just be the leverage I need to win that discussion. No- brainer here- hey, I’ll give him a break, maybe he is thinking about having the neighborhood over for chili. I concede. LT’s eyes light up. He carries the box to the check out; it will not fit into a shopping cart.

    So overwhelmed with my grown-up approach to the crock pot delimina, I neglected to obtain the signed statement I normally get before he brings an additional kitchen item into our home. He must find a place to store said item(s).

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    Author has sole rights to photo; Author created Bonnie Sue- Easter 2009

    No More 10-4? A Midnight Ride With the Watch Commander

    The Police-Package-Impala

    My midnight ride with the Watch Commander certainly zipped up my midlife agenda.

    To help the police department, LT worked an eight month stint on the Midnight Shift as Watch Commander a few summers ago. I did not handle this “schedule change” very well. As I got up on one side of the bed, he was going to sleep on the other side of the bed. I pouted. I knew I needed an Intervention. LT suggested I ride with him on duty one Saturday night. I accepted.

    As is the case with most women, my immediate concern involved my attire for said occasion. I settled on the casual, but “tough if needed” look. I mean, I was a girl scout, I had to be prepared. I wasn’t going to ride in a little black dress/w/wrap and Jimmy Choo shoes. I was saving THAT outfit for my ride with the fire department. No, I selected a stylish pair of cargo pants, a 100% cotton shirt and alligator flat sandals. The sandals did not pass LT’s “are they functional” test. I bet Watch Commander duties do not list uniform selection as one of the Watch Commander responsibilities. He agreed I probably would not need my steel toed boots; we compromised. I wore a pair of black Nike Shox, the shiny pair with the gold swish.

    As most couples were saying good night that Friday night, LT and I headed out to watch over a city and the officers on duty. His rank is LT; his position is the city’s WATCH COMMANDER. The nature of a 911 call is always an emergency for the caller; sometimes the call may not, however, be a 911 call needing an immediate officer response. When all units are busy, split-second decisions must be made: which calls to place in a pending status, and which calls to send units to immediately. Like a proud parent, I watched as LT choreographed the symphony of police vehicles in the field. Suddenly, a sonic boom tone came over the radio describing a reported stabbing in progress. My head slammed against the head rest as the thrusters of LT’s police-package Impala kicked in.

    To improve communication many police departments now use ‘plain talk.’ Replacing the famed Barney Fife 10-4 code, plain talk uses simple words to relay information in short, easy to understand commands.  The intended result is increased comprehension. However, unless you are an accomplished microphone flush-to-the-face talker, you will find radio talk difficult to understand. Consequently, I had not a clue what just happened or where we were going. Suddenly, we screeched sideways into an area marked-off with yellow crime scene tape. Apparently, the police-package Impala can stop on a dime. LT looked at me with his most stern, stone-face look, and told me not to get out of the car. He jerked the vehicle into park and jumped out. Minutes pass, more marked and unmarked police cars pull up. Unexpectedly, I see LT walk back to the vehicle. He opens the door and climbs in.

    I ask, “Where is the victim”

    He replies, “You mean the alleged victim.”

    I say, “I mean the guy who got stabbed.”

    “No one was stabbed,” he says without inflection.

    I am undone. I know I heard tones; I know we responded to something or why in the hell are all these police cars here? I, not so delicately, asked my husband for the answer. LT sat behind the wheel, imperturbable. He glanced toward his Sergeant, nodded and put the police-package Impala in drive. He picked up the microphone, pressed it to his lips and uttered “22 is in service.” Barney used to say he was “10-8.”

    I guess I’m just an old-timer.

    I miss hearing the 10-codes.

    10-4?

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    Word Usage: How Important is it?

    Do you cringe when you hear an incorrect use of affect? Does the redundancy in continue on make you blanche? Does proper word usage haunt you?  I guarantee “Where is he at?” will stop professional writers dead in their tracks. A favorite of mine is a person’s response on the phone: “this is her.” I dropped a bowl of vegetables at a family gathering when I heard a niece say this. Correct word usage is one of my passions. These are conversational word usage errors. What happens when word usage errors are embedded in our written word? Does this affect us?

    Most people mistakenly believe the informal nature of much of today’s written communication lessens the importance of correct word usage. Do not kid yourself. Writing must be simple and clear. It is probably more important now than it was ten years ago. Why? We are communicating much of the time through written word (e-mails, twitter, text messages, Facebook).

    Not only can word usage errors distort the message, the flow of the language is interrupted. Usage is choosing the right word or phrase. Choosing the incorrect one reflects poorly on the writer. Beginning writers cringe as big red lines are penned through extraneous words in submitted copy. They find it difficult to grasp simple is better in writing. I gathered a list of words notorious for not adding anything to a sentence.  Do the extra words add anything to the basic message in the following paragraph? The writer’s intent: thank you for the nice job.

    Regardless and importantly,  I certainly thank you very much, each and every one of you,  for the nice job.

    I believe much of this paragraph can be pitched. Don’t you? If a word does not add substance to a sentence, get rid of it

    Remember this as you pound away in your written correspondence, whether it is through an e-mail, text or post. Incorrect word usage stands out blatantly regardless of the venue, but most important it stops readers dead in their tracks.

    A Man and His Remote Control

    What is the connection between men and remote controls? Seems an anatomical connection exists in most homes in America. Such is the case in our home. With Deadliest Catch blasting at concert level volume, I ask LT to turn the volume down. He has dozed off on his recliner. After futile attempts to elicit a response, I walk over to retrieve this prized possession. Not surprisingly, LT has a death grip on it. I know what is coming next, yet I still jump and scream when he wakes up with a deer in the headlights look, eying me suspiciously. I feel like a teenager stealing Dad’s car keys.Once again, I walk back to the sofa and sit down. Five minutes later, the scenario plays out again-I once mentioned the idea of getting an additional remote control for me to use when he dozes off. LT was insulted that I would suggest he dozes. Last year I purchased a remote control holder for LT. The last time I saw him that excited was when he purchased his Rolex.

    I am not alone. Evidently, men’s almost anatomical affinity for television remote-control devices exists in most homes. One of their favorite pastimes is rolling through the TV guide’s log at NASCAR speed. I do not realize I am holding my breath as LT hovers over How’s It Made and Dirty Jobs. The thought of watching how a toothpick is made causes my right leg to bounce. I take a shower after visually walking step by step through a septic tank with the host. I exhale when the cursor lands on Pawn StarsDeadliest Catch, or Swamp People. (Don’t forget the choices.) Joe and Timmy, two of the swamp boys, kind of grow on you after the initial jolt.

    I mentioned to LT that remote controls were the topic of the day. A man of few words, he replied, “the remote control is mine.” Girl, I caution you to remember this as he proceeds to set up the new HD TV he got for Christmas. Make sure you grab the instructions, and tuck them in a safe place. He ‘doesn’t need’ instructions. It’s a guy thing. To get things going, suggest he read the instructions on how to set up the remote control. Before you know it, the TV is assembled. He sits on the recliner, remote in hand. Husband is happy.

    As do most women, I knew when we married my days of clicking through the channels were over. Now I just need to remember to breathe during the channel selection process.

    You can find ridgely’s site here

    I hit a sofa on the Interstate

    Most people dislike driving on the Interstate. They cite many reasons for their displeasure

            • Drivers tend to drive too fast
            • Drivers change lanes without signaling
            • Exits are  not well marked

    Actually, no one in my family will even drive on an Interstate unless it is a life or death emergency. I, on the other hand, prefer the Interstate. No doubt this is tied into my general tendency to get lost. Even with my GPS, whom I have so aptly named Molly, I have difficulty. I tend to be a bit skeptical when Molly tells me, “You have reached your destination,” and we are in the middle of nowhere. I find it very comforting to remain on one road. I have no interest in poking around back roads. Driving on an Interstate has a calming influence on me.Imagine the sudden change in my serenity when I hit a sofa. Yes, it is unnecessary to reread the sentence, I hit a sofa driving west on I-26; other people hit dogs, cats, deer, bicyclists, vehicles, boxes, but I hit a sofa? After the jolt, I look up. I am moving forward. This is good, right? I look around. All lanes of traffic are empty. I knew I had to get off the damn interstate. I remember this area from LT’s last COMSTAT report. I believe my chances for getting robbed or assaulted are ~ 65 %: perhaps a little lower since it was broad daylight.

    I ventured down the winding exit ramp. The buildings on either side were all boarded up.  I was definitely on high alert for objects in my path. My gut screamed at me to pull off the road, and check the damage. Pulling over, I jumped out of the car, and ran around to the front to check out the ‘sofa damage.’ The rim of the tire looked like a wrecking ball had made contact with the rim at maximum swing velocity. Now, I am scared. I have not a clue where I am. I have forgotten the name of the street exit. However, I know going straight will get me to a major thoroughfare, but then what?

    Not wanting to flaunt my helplessness one minute longer, I jumped back into my vehicle having made the decision that if the tire went flat, I was driving on the rim until I felt safe, regardless of the distance. Somewhere in the back of my mind I thought this wonderful chain of tire service stores had a branch in this area, but I would not allow myself to hope, for fear of a massive breakdown if I was mistaken. So I puttered along in the far right lane with a death grip on the wheel. I kept hearing sounds, strange sounds. I had not a clue what they were. I sure as hell was not going to stop and find out. On the verge of a total breakdown, I see a glimpse of orange ahead of me on the right: Gerald’s Tire Service. Knowing it may be a mirage, I held out until I pulled in and jumped out of my Rav 4. An interested, helpful looking young man walked toward me just as I broke down saying “I hit a sofa on I-26.” He questioned me repeatedly, “You hit a sofa? How does someone hit a sofa on an interstate?” I could not help him out on the answer.

    He led me into the air-conditioned waiting area, nodding to the attendant to “watch this one.”  He told me not to worry, everything would be ok. Seemingly only minutes later, he was back, grinning, “Mrs. Johnson your tire is fine. The rim is bent, but it is not hurting the tire in any way.” Knowing hugging him was probably out of the question, I did what many grateful southern women do at a time like this, I burst into tears, repeatedly thanking him for taking care of me. Instead of handing me a big fat bill, he hands me a red rose, telling me it is ladies day at Gerald’s.

    Who says chivalry is dead?

    You read more from Ridgely on her personal site here.

    Dr.’s waiting rooms: Who are these people?

    You’ve been in doctors’ waiting rooms. We all know what they look like. Waiting rooms, and the patients in them, bear strong resemblance to one another. Apart from the pediatrician’s office, the offices could merge as one: from the podiatrist to the dermatologist, from the gastroenterologist to the ophthalmologist.

    Inevitably, on my arrival to visit my man in the white coat, I select a perch, settle in, and focus on this paradigm of American life. Where else can a person get a close up look at the heart and soul of our country?

    During the course of life I have noticed the following four personality types present in all waiting rooms. Read along; see if you don’t agree.

    The List Maker (predominately female). The list maker’s behavior follows a cyclic pattern. This frenzied writing phase is followed by a pause. Like clockwork, this cycle continues:  the scribbling, the subsequent pause. This behavior continues until the nurse calls for the List Maker.

    The Fidgeter (oftentimes male) cannot sit still. This patient is in a perpetual state of motion. The fidgeter crosses his feet then uncrosses them. The fidgeter rearranges his seating position numerous times.

    You use self control by not yelling “Sit still.” The fidgeter shifts to the left in the chair; he shifts to the right in the chair. You find yourself silently chanting a popular cheer you shouted at high school football games:

    Shift to the left, Shift to the right, Stand up Sit down, Fight, Fight, Fight

    Now, who in the hell said I had a memory problem.

    The Magazine Scavenger: this patient flips through every magazine in the office, from Field & Stream to Redbook. What runs through my head is my mother’s mantra.Mommy told me to never touch  magazines in a doctor’s office because they are ridden with germs. (I definitely used this as a key selling point with LT as part of my Kindle pitch.)

    Suddenly, from the corner of my eye, I see the Scavenger tear out two pages of Southern Living. Unlike LT, who does not see gray, I give her a break. She cannot help herself. She has to have the recipe of the coconut cake featured on the cover. (I hear LT him saying, “Go buy a copy.”)

    >As you continue this imaginary conversation with LT, you see her ripping out a consumer review article on snow shovels from L.L.Bean.

    Now I am distraught. Please, please call my name, I beg of the waiting room assemblage. The Scavenger moves toward the latest issue of Good Housekeeping. (I know she will find tons of articles to share with her cronies.).

    Suddenly, JOHNSON is bellowed. I jump, run and hug the nurse. She is, of course, is a reader.She chuckles as we walk toward the scale. (Side note- what’s with the neon light scales- doesn’t the 16 page privacy law thingy I just signed cover that?)

    The “I Do Not Wait Person” (usually a male) – this person has a pre-established length of time he will wait for the doctor. If he does not see the doctor by this preset time, he leaves. He is not bothered by snide comments, jaws dropping or what if’s? He considers his time billable.

    Yes, LT is an IDNWP *note- this only applies if an emergency hasn’t occurred; this, understandably, will throw any schedule down the drain. We all know LT is comfortable in emergent situations.

    What follows is a real life scenario of an IDNWP patient, notably, LT, my husband.

    Evidently, the nurse in the prep room for surgery did not understand LT’s seriousness when, after 1 ½ hour wait for scheduled surgery, he told her if the doctor did not get off the golf course in the next fifteen minutes, he was leaving. LT’s delivery was not unruly, harsh or mean.

    This message was delivered at the nurses’ station with said patient dragging the IV pole behind him. No, LT was not in a flying, back-flapping hospital gown. He refused that for a finger repair. The nurses relented: he got to wear scrubs.

    Twelve minutes later, LT was under anesthesia. Who knows where the surgeon was ;-)

    I believe patience is inherited. Some Americans have patience, some do not. As with many of life stressors, impatience can drive you nuts. The next time you find yourself an unwilling participant in a waiting room marathon; check out your fellow Americans.

    Do you see the fidgeter? Or are you the fidgeter? ;-)

    Until next time, sit down and relax.

    Then, I want you to take note of those funny looking people next to you.

    You might as well, they haven’t called your name yet.

    photo courtesy of the Informed Patient, Wall Street Journal

    Visit ridgely’s personal site here

    Doodle Jump Meets a Grown Up

    I thought I made it. I was certain I would go to my grave without succumbing to the seemingly addictive nature of video games. I blame my addiction on Katie Couric. To know she is my age makes this admission even more painful.

    Two weeks ago, as is our nightly habit, we watched as Katie wrapped up the CBS nightly news. She described a iPhone application/game that has been sweeping the nation for months, Doodle Jump. In June, sales of Doodle Jump surpassed the 5 million mark.

    The name in itself is fun to say, Doodle Jump. Flashes of this darling little creature bounced on LT’s flatscreen TV, bouncing up green ledges attempting to get to the top of ?

    I cannot describe life at the top of the platforms as I have not landed there, yet; I sure have had fun in my attempts. For you pros reading, please leave me a comment, and tell me what is up there, pretty please.

    Katie interviewed one of the creators of Doodle Jump, Igor Pusenjak. He and his brother, Marko, described the nation’s craze with the little creature, sharing stories of marriage proposals and tons of fan mail. Igor showed Katie  showed a common rookie mistake in playing the game: aggressive tilting side to side.

    The story then splashed on different players, from the darling 9-year old giving us his highest score to the college student admitting, although somewhat embarassed, how addicting the game is.

    As mentioned earlier, I have never played video games. I grew up before video games. Yes, we played tag, hide and go seek, hop scotch, those nerd games you see on Family Vacation movies.

    LT and I do not have a Wii or a Xbox or 360 or a 240 (gotcha). We are just out of the video game loop. Not any more.

    If I had to name a reason why this game has taken control of my life ;-), I believe it is because little Doodle Bug is so cute. Besides the fact, I love saying Doodle Bug. Saying Doodle Bug reminds me of the kick I get out of saying Curly q ice cream cones.

    After seeing Doodle Bug, I became engaged emotionally to the game, ok, to the Doodle Bug.  For you unmarketing types, this is precisely where the creators of Doodle Jump want customers. No questions remain, I wanted my own Doodle Bug, NOW.

    I went to the application site on my iPhone and searched for Doodle Bug. OMG, this little fella is even more adorable up close and personal. Without a thought to the price tag of .99, I logged into iTunes and downloaded Doodle Jump. For the record, I am very selective about what I download, even more selective when money is involved.

    No instructions come with Doodle Jump. I cannot tell you if this is the norm. Remember who you are talking to. This game is fun from the first second. I believe this is why so many have embraced it and have succumbed to its addictive nature.

    One note, without looking up I heard LT, in his Watch Commander voice,  threatening me with life as a Doodle Bug if I did not turn off the sound. Doodle Bug makes a thumping sound as he hops up the platforms: a pummeling  sound echoes as he falls to the ground. Thank goodness I was able mute DB’s maneuvers.

    As I zipped along with my score getting higher and higher, I told myself I may have found my true calling in life. I wondered what the “pros” scored. I was scoring near 16,000 which seemed on the professional level.

    So, what do we do when we want information? We go to the Internet. I looked up Doodle Jump . Well, to make a long story short, I am fortunate to have a back up opportunity at stardom with my humor writing as the pros in doodle jumping are into the 400,000′s.

    I look forward to the mindless pleasure it gives me.

    Thank you Katie.

    *note: I do not know if I heard Katie refer to the little guy as Doodle Bug, but that is what I call him. I feel certain, as with most close to me, I will name him soon. Will keep you posted.

    Photos courtesy of Doodle Jump Creators, Lima, Sky, Inc.

    Visit Ridgely’s personal site here

    Remember all those bridesmaid dresses?

    Hearing of my sorority sister’s daughter’s wedding brought memories of the wedding circuit I participated in during my 20′s. Granted, weddings were not the $100,000 productions they are today, but bridesmaids today wear look-alike dresses don’t they? Some things never change.

    On an episode of Two and Half Men, Alan reminded Mia to select unattractive bridesmaid dresses. He poignantly tells her she does not want the bridesmaids to upstage the bride. I must be a moron for not figuring this out sooner. I was in 4 or 5 weddings in my youth, only to have each bridesmaid dress more tacky than the one before. Even if I had figured it out, what was I going to do, go on a bridesmaid strike? No, I still would do as I did then, put the said frock on, smile and hope I got the good looking escort.

    I will never forget the day my peach voille bridesmaid dress arrived. I am a shrimp- only 5 feet tall. This is not a secret; when reviewing measurements for the dress, I reminded D of this. She assured me this information was given to the wedding coordinator.

    Well, guess what? Someone forgot. I slipped on the peach bridesmaid dress. Houston, we have a problem.

    We were featuring a 4 inch gap in the middle of my back. The dress hit my body in all the wrong places; the waist area was attempting to go around my hips, and on and on. I freaked. My stepmother, Dorothy, said we would take it to her tailor, he would fix it. (I’m thinking, yeah with a 3 inch elastic band across my rear end).

    The following day we went to see Andre. Andre was all smiles, assuring us he could fix anything, until he saw me in the little peach number. I do not know the language he spoke, but I am sure expletives were involved.

    You know what I did. Yep, I started crying.

    Dorothy was a make it happen type of person. She stepped in to this emotional meltdown Andre and I were having and said calmly, “Andre, fix it. Ridgely Ann, honey, you will look beautiful. Now let’s go shopping.”

    I stayed in the dress long enough for Andre to mark a few spots, place a few pins and mutter a few more foreign expletives all the while smiling at Dorothy. You did not want to mess with Dorothy, believe me.

    The following week Dorothy picked up the dress from Andre. Lord knows what she paid for the alteration and what she told him she would do to him if it did not zip up.

    I walked in my room and there was my peach voile dress in all its glory hanging on the door. I had my first peach dress panic attack. Somehow I had convinced myself the trip to Andre’s was a dream, the peach voile, a bridesmaid’s nightmare. Now I confronted reality.

    I slipped the now hated voile over my head. I turned toward Dorothy to allow her the honors of attempting the BIG ZIP. Yes, I had stopped breathing at this point. Ziiiiiip- all the way it went. No problem- like the damn thing was made to order. No telling what Andre had to do. All I knew was I would not have to walk down the aisle with my rear end hanging out the back end of that peach dress.

    I’m really glad the dress worked out because my escort was, at best, marginal. I, on the other hand, looked like a million bucks in my little peach number, worn once, then stashed away with memories of a beautiful wedding and Andre cussing.
    dreamstine photo

    Visit Ridgely’s personal site here.

    Multi-grain or Moon pies: which do you prefer?

    This is the real deal

    Do you feel better when you purchase something that  says multi-grain? I shut down the part of my brain that knows to check the ingredient label to verify the first listed ingredient is whole grain. Unless the label says whole grain, I know it is processed grain.

    Processed grain means all the good stuff has been leached out prior to making the food product. So, you ask, why don’t I check to see if it is whole grain? I select multigrain because I like it, not because of the fiber cleansing possibilities. I enjoy my freedom of choice.

    Food manufacturers stay tuned to the Medical Channel. They know the keywords the public wants to see on the package.  Say the word multi-grain and the majority of folks have a light bulb moment and toss the muti-grain tortilla chips in the cart, proud of their choice. In reality, many of the labeled multi-grain products could be substituted for Wonder bread and a little brown dye.

    Don’t you just miss the days you could go to lunch, order a BLT on white with extra mayonnaise without someone at your table looking at you like you have lost your mind.

    Then said person will, depending on his or her conversational skills, introduce recent cholesterol studies or the recent reports on the pork industry. Give me a break people. This is one bacon, lettuce and tomato sandwich. I want my freedom of choice back.

    Next time I am asked to go out to lunch, I will ask if my inviter has problems with:

    1. pork – in all forms, including bacon and ham
    2. mayonaise – no preference, although I do prefer Hellman’s
    3. white bread – I will eat with the crusts on (although I did get used to having them cut off)
    4. potato chips and/or french fries – no, I do not prefer cottage cheese with canned peaches on top

    If we make it to the next step, I look forward to our lunch, without the food police.

    Excuse me for the ranting nature of this post- it’s just I have been the victim of the food police many times in my life. No one is safe. My attackers now focus on  my diet coke consumption. Before you tell me, let me tell you the negatives of excessive consumption of diet soda:

    • can make you gain weight (I concur if they eat more because they believe they have free calories by not drinking regular soda, e.g. an extra large order of french fries)
    • can contribute to teeth decay (I concur if individual does not maintain proper dental care; things could, however, be worse. If I was a meth addict, I would not have any teeth.)

    These are just two of the many I have heard. Again, I quote Mommy’s response when she receives unwarranted advice repeatedly. “Blow it out your barracks bag.” I am not exactly sure what a barracks bag is, but the retort definitely fits.

    I appreciate you do not eat animal products and you only eat vegetables organically grown in Orange County, California.

    Please understand, I am a southern gal raised on diet coke, fried chicken and moon pies.

    I already gave up the moon pies.

    Leave me alone.

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