Smartly | thesmartly.com

I solemnly swear

01/05/2012 By Britton Minor 13 Comments

Like countless others this January, I have resolved not to resolve. For several years I have been choosing themes for the year based on my interests, dreams, goals or areas for improvement. While this method is a drastic improvement over sweeping and desperate resolutions that lead to my near-immediate sense of failure, I have found a “wrinkle in theme” too. Themes, while not easily “broken,” are easily superficial, lacking roots, shunning accountability. Take last year’s PHOTOGRAPHY theme. I took copious photos and learned oodles about the craft. What I did not do was discipline myself to create a process for tagging, organizing, saving, backing up, editing and using my photos. Why? To answer this question I was forced to consult two professionals: 1) a psychologist, and 2) a time management guru. Here is a truncated look at our sessions:

Psychologist: What I hear you saying is that your photography is creating stress and a general sense of failure. Is that correct?

Me: Well, um, er, I’m not sure that I meant it that way…

Psychologist: Right. So not only are you stressed out and failing in your chosen theme, but also you are in denial about it?

Me: Well, um, er, I’m not sure that I meant it that way…

Time Management Guru: (clears throat politely) Perhaps I can intercede, I mean interject here?

Me: Yes. Please!

TM Guru: Your stress involving your photography theme comes from the fact that you do not have time to work on your perfect organizational system, right?

Me: Right!

TM Guru: And you do not have time because?

Me: Well, um, er…

TM Guru: Right. I think I understand.

Psychologist: Miss, would you mind stepping out of the room for a moment?

Me: Well, um, er (walking out of the room)

TM Guru: You may come back in now.

Psychologist: I have permission to speak for my colleague here, and we’re almost out of time, so I’ll make this succinct. (Pause). (Sigh.) (Head Shake).

TM Guru: Frank, I’ve got this one. Britton. Facebook. Log. Off. Now. That’s it.

Me: What the heck? (she says to an empty room)

Thank goodness these guys came cheap. They told me what I already know. Resolutions. Themes. Intentions. Undulations. Simulations. Initiations. Gyrations. Smooth Moves…will all fail if I do not moderate the time I spend online. I love Facebooking – it has brought me closer to friends, family and memories. But I simply must treat social media as a yummy side dish to an already tasty life–one that has spicy goals worth pursuing. The next time you are on Facebook, think of me, only there as a treat after organizing the day’s photos, and ask me how I’m doing with that online moderation thingy.

So here goes. This year, I solemnly swear to spend less time on Facebook and more time…

Filed Under: Humor, Motivate, SoCal Tagged With: Britton, Britton Minor, Facebook, Minor, psychologist, Resolutions, smartly, themes, TheSmartly, time-management

Fashion Plate

12/08/2011 By Amber Dorsey 4 Comments

As a kid I used to be obsessed with those Fashion Plate toys. You remember the ones that allowed you to sketch an outfit by mixing and matching the different plates on a piece of paper and then you colored them in to your hearts content?

No one ever bought me one (that I can recall) but I do remember playing with them whole heartedly at friends houses. It may have begun my love affair with all things fashion related. Not too mention my desire to ‘mix it up’ when it came to my wardrobe. I was never a fan of wearing one print head to toe or being matchy-matchy. It was the 80′s after all and multi-colored socks and Madonna were all the rage, so I ran with it. Luckily for me, my mother was okay with this form of self expression, to an extent.

Fast forward a few years and I fell into a fashion rut. I became a slave to trends and began to wear things that were not really flattering on me but they looked good together. Or so I thought. I remember one of my favorite outfits circa 1995 was distressed looking overalls, a plaid body suit and Timberland-esque style boots. I was fresh to death and no one could tell me different. Oh how I cringe when I look at pictures from back then. Even well into college my sartiorial tastes were somewhat questionable as I tended to go with what the masses were wearing and less with my heart. The fact that in Atlanta in 1997-98 there was really only Express to shop in made it even worse. You could pretty much guarantee you would be wearing the same black bootcut pants as the girl next to you in class. Thus began my love affair with makeup and accessories. Oh what a difference a fun eye-shadow, a necklace or some earrings made to even the simplest of outfits!

Somewhere along the way, after having my daughter and not wanting to fall into the ‘mommy rut’, my style began to evolve into something much more eclectic. I really took notice of my friends styles and what worked for them versus what worked for me. Instead of trying to adapt, I modified. And a fashionista was born. Sort of. I’m not ‘hipster’ or ‘trendy’ with my style of dress but I do pride myself on trying new looks and getting inspiration from all that I see. Working in fashion for the last few years has been a huge boon to my closet, not so much to my bank account.

Now I’m currently in the last stages of pregnancy and struggling with the idea of being fashionable while pregnant or just going straight for comfort on a daily basis. I do my best to give it a go when I have to be out and about. I put on makeup, do my hair and try to look as ‘hot mama’ as possible. However, the poked out belly button is somewhat taking away from the coolness factor. But I want to look good even when I feel like I just want to lay on the couch all day.

Now would be a great time to have those fashion plates make a comeback and I could just sketch my outfits daily and tape them to me saying “this is what I FEEL like wearing” while I really wear sweat pants and flipflops. Wouldn’t that be special?

You can find more of Amber’s musings here

Filed Under: Nostalgia Tagged With: essays, fashion, humor, nostalgia, opinion, pregnancy, shopping, smartly, style, women, writing

Finding my voice

10/13/2011 By Amber Dorsey 9 Comments

A few weeks ago I attended a blogging conference. My first “major” conference. I went last year but it was on a much smaller scale. As in the founder’s backyard type scale.

I was excited but intimidated.

As with most writers I’m much better in writing than I am in person.

Not to say that I don’t have personality for days, cuz anyone who knows me will tell you I’m “outgoing”.

But in a room full of people I don’t know and have never met – I’m slightly out of my element.

Top that off with being 4.5months pregnant and I’m kind of an emotional basket case.

So I did what every smart woman does in an instance like that, I brought a friend! A “wingman” if you will.

The conference as a whole was superb. Incredibly uplifting and encouraging. I left inspired and motivated beyond what I had been in months.

I’ll be honest. I’ve been struggling as a “writer” for the last few months. Really struggling.

Lacking inspiration, wondering if I am on the right path. Questioning if I’m any good at all really.

Validating myself by the number of comments or responses I get on my blog (minimal) or the Smartly (varies).

It was killing me. I tried to emulate others writing styles while grappling with the idea/realization that I would never be able to completely “get it” like they do.

In short – I was trying to be something I was not.

I wasn’t using my own voice to espouse my thoughts,dreams and ideas. I was worried about what “others” would think, afraid I would be judged.

I got just deep enough to seem profound without revealing too much of myself or making myself too vulnerable.

And then Blog Sugar happened.

And something inside me changed. A fire that had been smoldering for months was re-kindled.

I left the building so full of emotion, so full of the spirit of the divine, so ready to show the world who I really am.

It is time. Time to stop being polite and start getting real.

I am ready to share my heart, bare my soul and reach for the stars. I hope you’ll come along and share that journey with me and if not, that’s fine too.

I’ve realized it’s not about the ‘followers’ or commentors but about writing what’s on my heart. Whether that gets noticed or not is not important but who knows, someone somewhere could read my words and be moved by them.

I can’t risk not trying.

You can read more of Amber’s musings on life here.

Filed Under: Motivate, SoCal Tagged With: creativity, Fear, life lessons, smartly, stress, women, writing

Tanzen

09/22/2011 By Britton Minor 13 Comments

Lately I’ve been wondering if I have any good stories to tell. After all, I am a writer.

“A memoir?” I think. “Nah, too boring.”

Aside from the fact that my life’s story is peppered with the usual suspects, along with a healthy dose of spicy indiscretions, what isn’t dull is depressing. Besides, the necessary seedy characters have sworn me to secrecy under pain of death.

So what other possibilities are there? Poetry? Ok, here’s the latest:

Evening snail

Black tiger of Spring

Walking his ball in thunder

See what I mean? It’s not even a Haiku.. In my defense, it was an experiment for an upcoming homeschool class using only the magnetic words at hand, but still…

What’s left? Humor? Nope. I’m only witty by accident, and infrequently at that. My oldest rolls her eyes at my punishing pun proliferations. And since I don’t drink, I can’t even amuse myself. So how can it be that the desire to write is so strong that its beckoning star blots out the sun yet darkens my soul? Is this how a man feels when his desire for an unattainable woman obliterates rational thought and he decides to drink poison rather than deal with the pain?

But there is no poison within my reach, though like Juliet I could plunge a despairing knife into my gut and let this unrealized creativity bleed out in a respectable literary death. Alas, I am a coward. I am also a fool who believes that one must not look a gift horse (even an injured one) in the mouth. I simply must keep doing this herky-jerky waltz because it is the only dance I know. Truth be told, it’s the dance I love.

Eventually, however, I am praying that I will find some rhythm, some surety, some style to call my own (and a brilliant Haiku?). Meanwhile, I’ll keep practicing. One-two-three, one-two-three, one-two-three…

Filed Under: Humor, MISC, Motivate Tagged With: Britton, dance, dancing, Haiku, indiscretions, memoir, Minor, poetry, practice, smartly, tanzen, TheSmartly, writer, writing

Quiet house: Be careful what you wish for…

09/08/2011 By JennyT 3 Comments

I have four kids. Three teens, one tween. Therefore, my house is rarely quiet, and even rarer still, clean.

I’m also divorced, so having the house devoid of children happens on a semi-regular basis. Getting used to that took some time, and I’ll be honest with you: it was hard. It still stings from time to time. Holidays, birthdays…without the kids they almost seem hollow, like a dress rehearsal vs. opening night.

But, life goes on. Wounds heal, what is strange and unfamiliar becomes routine. You adapt, you accept, you grow, you change. The empty weekends slowly fill up with friends, projects, books and sometimes, if the planets are all in perfect alignment…romance. And by romance I could mean a real date with a human being, or I could mean a pile of Colin Firth movies stacked up on the nightstand. It’s all relative.

Anyway, I was talking about quiet houses, wasn’t I? Oh yes. So, I’ve gotten used to the quiet house on those every-other weekends. But starting today, my two youngest will be gone for two weeks. One week at a grandparent’s cabin, then one week at camp. I know, I know, that’s only two kids, Jenny, you still have another set at home. But these are the younger ones, the ones who still chase each other, who yell, who play catch with each other in the living room. The ones who still build forts out of couch cushions and whip the dog into a foamy-mouthed frenzy at 9:00 p.m.

The loud ones.

As I type this, it’s well past noon and the two “big” kids, ages 15 and 17, are still sleeping.

My house is quiet. And I don’t like it.

My internal clock, the one that goes by the calendar and the weekends marked with a big “K” for when the kids are with me, has been thrown off. It’s almost as if I can feel the cogs and gears slowing down, trying to figure out this new and unusual burp in the schedule.

Even the dog looks confused.

I’ve already done the laundry, I’ve marinated the flank steak we’ll have for dinner, I’ve picked up the socks and shoes and Gogurt wrappers the boys left for me. I’ve played my turn on the half-dozen Scrabble games I’ve got going on facebook, I’ve answered a few emails. I’ve made the beds, made my lunch, cleaned the kitchen.

I reserved a couple of R rated movies at my local Redbox. Won’t have to wait until the younger two are sleeping to watch them.

I’ve bleached the toilet seats, upstairs and down. Won’t have to check before sitting for a while now.

Just last night, they were bickering back and forth about something extremely relevant like “I know it was you who took the last green popsicle” or “Mom he keeps standing in front of the t.v. Can I hit him?”. I can still hear my words, bouncing off the living room walls: “I CANNOT WAIT TO HAVE SOME PEACE AND QUIET!!!”.

It’s only been a couple of hours, now. I’ve had my peace and quiet.

I want the noise back, please.

Find some noise at Jenny’s blog, The Happy Hausfrau, here

Photo from author’s personal collection

Filed Under: Humor, Parenting Tagged With: alone time, Children, divorce, empty nest, humor, kids, noise, parenting, quiet, seasons, siblings, smartly

Do I call you Horace or Pookie Bear?

08/22/2011 By Ridgely Johnson 6 Comments

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

visit ridgely’s site

Filed Under: Humor, MISC, Opinion Tagged With: love, marriage, relationships, ridgely, smartly

Redundancy: could you repeat that?

07/06/2011 By Ridgely Johnson 12 Comments

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

visit ridgely’s site here

Filed Under: Humor, MISC Tagged With: diction, redundant, ridgely, smartly, writers

Glasses: how many are too many?

06/24/2011 By Ridgely Johnson 13 Comments

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.

read ridgely’s site here

photo taken by author

Filed Under: Humor, MISC, Nostalgia Tagged With: baby boomers, boomers, computer, reading glasses, smartly, suburban, sunglasses

Lessons and Dreams

05/27/2011 By Darren Nethington 7 Comments

I’ve learned that people will forget what you said, people will forget what you did. But people will never forget how you made them feel.

Maya Angelou

Aging, death and dying. I seem to be preoccupied lately with these things. I’m not afraid of them; they happen. I know that I will die. Right now, it’s not the passing that frightens me. I’m way past that. It’s what I’ll leave behind. If I died right now, what would happen to my kids? They have so much learning to do. While sometimes I think that there’s not much I can give them, I know deep down that I would leave an incredible void in their young lives if I were suddenly gone. It’s not arrogance that tells me this. I am old enough to have lost, and there is much more yet to lose. I know the ache of an empty space: that endless yearning for what was and will never be again. It is my life’s work to prepare my girls for that moment. The moment when I am not here.

I have dreams, sometimes, of people who have left me. A few months ago, I remember lying in my bed in the black quiet of a predawn fall morning. I was in that magical state wherein reality and dreams juxtapose on a backdrop of warm blankets and fuzzy shadows: rabbits in topcoats glanced frantically at their pocket watches while the glowing green clock on my nightstand foretold a dire future of showers and coffee and bills to be paid. I sank deeper into my dreams, the clock be damned.

There I was, sitting at my mother’s old yellow Formica table. We were silently having coffee. Her hair was still impossibly curly and dark black where it wasn’t graying. She was wearing a tattered blue housecoat. She smiled and sipped, and I did the same. Why must the dead always be quiet? I wanted to hear her voice. I wanted Mom to tell me I needed a shave. I wanted her to tell me that she had driven by my house the other day and noticed my lawn needed a trim, and what would people think? Yes, Mom, I would say. I’ll get to it. But we just looked at each other and drank. It was pretty uneventful, as dreams go. I was frustrated.

Then Mom looked at me over her coffee cup. Silently, and with more eloquence than mere words could achieve, her eyes told me that I was still her little boy and that I was loved, now and always. My frustration left me; peace settled over me like a warm quilt on a cold night.

The alarm rattled and the dream was over. Mom was gone again, for now, but her lesson for me remained: while a part of her was gone, the best part of her was still with me—the love that she had for me, and I for her. It is what I will leave for my children. They will walk in the knowledge that they were loved, unconditionally, and forever. That will always be with them.

In the end, that may not be as good as a hug. But it sure beats a void.

image source: http://www.mnartists.org/work.do?rid=61237

Filed Under: MISC, Nostalgia, Parenting, Spirituality Tagged With: coffee, family, Grief, relationships, smartly, youth

Where Have All the Stewardesses Gone?

05/19/2011 By Ridgely Johnson 6 Comments

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.

read ridgely’s personal site here

photo courtesy of dreamstime

Filed Under: Humor, MISC, Nostalgia Tagged With: air safety, coloring pages, flashback, flight attendant, flight attendents, life vests, ridgely, share story, smartly, smoking, stewardess, stewardesses, tie dye

Grandpa’s time machine

04/19/2011 By Darren Nethington 13 Comments

I took a little trip the other day. It wasn’t in a car, or on a bike. I didn’t even walk. It was a trip through time, you see, and to take it, I only had to sit comfortably on my Grandfather’s couch. I’ve read that time travel really is possible, if only you could travel at the speed of light, or drop through a wormhole, or perhaps step into one of the innumerable parallel worlds that are said to populate the universe. I didn’t have to do any of those things. In fact, I didn’t even have to move.

Grandpa sat grinning at me from his easy chair. His head bobbed slightly on his frail neck. His sparse white hair spun like gossamer from above his ears. He didn’t look like he commanded a time machine, but he was nevertheless in charge of this journey.

Grandpa spoke and off we went. It was the early 60′s and we were seeing my Dad. Darrell was his name. He’s been looking at me from black and white photographs for as long as I can remember: here he is in a plain white t-shirt and tough guy shades; there again, he’s banging a guitar like Elvis, wearing his jeans rolled up at the cuffs with that damn t-shirt. My Mom’s in that one, on her knees next to him with her arms outstretched, acting like a weepy teenager with front row seats: two dumb kids acting up without a care in the world. But these were only photos. Me and Gramps were going back to see the real thing.

Here was Grandpa and my Dad, lingering at a car lot in Southern California. Dad had his eye on a 40-something Chevy coupe. He wanted it, but he didn’t have the money.

“The guy said, take it anyway,” Grandpa said. “I told your Dad, you won’t take it until you have the cash.” Grandpa laughed at the memory. Dad busted his ass for two more months, cleaning canvas bags in some factory, but he finally collected what he needed and bought the car.

“What’s he do when he gets the car?” said Grandpa. “He puts these huge mufflers on it, then lowers the front and raises the back. Bounced all over the place. Lord.”

“Gramps,” I said, “Didn’t you and Grandma take that thing to the store once and break the eggs on the way home?”

Grinning , Gramps said, ”That’s what I told your Dad.”

Grandpa steers the time machine elsewhere…or else-when? We’re in a courtroom. Dad is standing dejectedly before the judge, Grandma by his side.

“Your Dad got a speeding ticket not a month after he jacked up his car,” says Gramps. “When they went to court, I told your Grandma to tell the judge to throw the book at him. The judge says, two months with no driving or 6 months only driving to work. Your Dad took the two months. He never got another ticket.” Grandpa laughed again. “He said, Dad, you go over 30 miles an hour on that street all the time. I said, yes, but they can’t hear me a mile away.”

Grandpa was silent after that–our trip was over. He sat in his chair with his eyes closed, a wistful smile on his lips, his face glowing with bittersweet memories of a son long dead. Time eventually steals away all that we hold dear. But sometimes, if we’re quiet (and we throw in with a good skipper), we can get back a little of what was lost. When we do, we find we never really lost the most important thing of all: love, the essence of every bond that really matters and the one thing that time cannot diminish. See, Dad may be dead and buried, but he is alive in the time machine that beats in Grandpa’s chest.

You have but to close your eyes and Grandpa’s heart will take you wherever you want to go.

Filed Under: Humor, MISC, Nostalgia, Parenting, Spirituality Tagged With: death, family, heart, kids, memories, parenting, relationships, smartly, time, youth

Excuse me: Is this the way to the hospital?

04/08/2011 By Ridgely Johnson 9 Comments

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

Filed Under: Humor, MISC Tagged With: police department, smartly, women drivers

Space Bagging My Handbag

04/05/2011 By Laurie Fabrizio 13 Comments

They control our lives. If you’re like me, you don’t leave the house without the darn thing. You have a purse for daytime, evening, even tiny ones for when you don’t want to carry a purse but do anyway. It’s habit. How can you leave home without it? You might as well venture out while not wearing clean underwear. For women in our society, a purse isn’t just an accessory — it’s an appendage.

A woman’s life support is her purse or handbag. Don’t pull the plug — I mean the leather handles of my satchel! They are magical. Moms are like genies and their purses are the bottle. They are a virtual vortex for everything from a pair of sandals, nail clippers and a dog toy, to a month old, half melted Special K bar. We coordinate them to match our outfits and shoes. To make things worse, they come in every size and shape imaginable. The bigger it is, the more stuff we carry.

So what is it about purses that send us into thinking like Robin Williams after he chugged a Red Bull and ate a pound of chocolate? Even the most organized and sanest of women fall victim to ignoring what could be living inside our handbags. The crumbs and sticky candy alone are enough to support a colony of microorganisms. How often have you switched purses only to discover disgusting remnants lurking in the crevices?

When it comes to travel, purses bring out the warrior in us. Our purses become a mini suitcase and a traveling pharmacy. If homeland security looked closer when they screened our bags, imagine what they might find: every over the counter medicine known to mankind, a thermometer (someone could get sick), quinine pills (if a case of Malaria breakouts at the resort), a complete meal (heaven know the airline won’t feed you), underwear and a toothbrush (they’ll inevitably lose your luggage) and a spare pair of shoes (your feet are killing you and you haven’t even left the airport). Now the airlines have the audacity to limit the size of your carry-ons. Next, you’ll be accosted at the gate because your purse won’t fit under the seat in front of you.

Ever seen those “Space Bag” infomercials where the lady suctions out the bag and reduces a down comforter to the size of a McDonald’s napkin? Well, we women need Space Bag technology for our handbags. I want to call it Lipo Purse, designed after those space bags. Open it, stick in your license and credit card, a tampon, hand sanitizer, travel-size tissues, the dog biscuit from the bank, cell phone, envelope filled with expired coupons, iPod, knockoff Coach checkbook, Milk Duds, two pens, sunglasses, and a half-finished bottle of diet green tea. Push a button and POOF…the air is vacuumed out. Push the button again and it re-inflates, enabling you to access your things. A Lipo Purse would mimic men’s wallets and fit in your back pocket. The travel size would be roomier, look like a carry-on but fit under your arm like an evening bag.

In theory it sounds great, but unfortunately I would end up right back where I started. Not only would I have to find pants with larger pockets, I’d have to buy Lipo Purses in various colors to match with my outfits. Inevitably, my travel Lipo Purse would need to coordinate with my luggage. Now that I think about it, a woman can never have too many purses.

Visit Laurie’s personal site “Chaos, Canines and Cabernet” here.

Filed Under: Humor Tagged With: handbags, humor, moms, purses, smartly, space bags

Aging gracefully

04/04/2011 By Darren Nethington 7 Comments

I’m telling you, old age sucks. I’m not old yet, I guess, in the strictest sense of the word. I still get around okay. My wife tells me I should dye my hair, maybe get rid of some of the gray. I say, who do I have to impress? I earned this gray hair. Three exes, three teenage daughters, 24 years with the Postal Service–I tell the wife, if I’m having a nightmare, don’t wake me up. I could be fighting off punk boyfriends with nose rings, grumpy supervisors, crabby lawyers, unsympathetic judges. It could be anything. I could start flailing around, who knows. Maybe I should see somebody.

I may not be old, per se. But things are happening. Little pains crop up. I got an ache in my knee last year. After a 300 dollar MRI adventure, the doctor says, hey, you have a spot of arthritis in your knees–take some ibuprofen when it acts up. Huh? 300 bucks for take two and call me in the morning? So I have to resign myself to some aches and pains. I have to do some self triage. Can whatever stabbing pain I’m experiencing at the moment wait? If I don’t break out, bleed out, or pass out, then chances are I will live and I don’t have to cough up a 400 dollar co-pay so I can get some Advil.

I have this inner dialogue going. I started telling myself things. Like when I do some heavy lifting at work that lasts maybe 20 seconds and I start breathing like I just ran 10 miles carrying a backpack full of rocks. Or when I swat at a fly and it feels like my shoulder popped out. Or when I raise my arms over my head and things start creaking. I’m not old, I say to myself. I’m just a little out of shape. I need to walk more.

I saw a friend of mine at work the other day. He’s about 70, 80 something. He said when you get old, things just start breaking down. One thing after another, every day it’s something else. Maybe it’s the power of suggestion, but lately I’ve been feeling some of that. My knees, my back, even my ears are falling apart. I know there are 90 year old guys who would read this and laugh out loud, if they had the wind. Some of them are on walkers; they can’t tie their shoes without falling down. Here I’m 47 and complaining about a little arthritis on my knee. It gets below 60 degrees outside and I’m grabbing my leg at the bottom of the stairs crying to my wife about my arthritis kicking in. It must be the drop in barometric pressure or something, I whine, and she says hurry up and get the garbage out before the rain starts. No sympathy.

There’s an upside to all this. Things are slower. Real drama is reserved for things like death and…well, just death. Everything else is negotiable and temporary. I appreciate things, like the sun on my face, a freshly mowed lawn, even a clean pair of socks warm from the dryer. As I age, life becomes simpler. And much more satisfying.

I’m getting older, but not old. Not yet, anyway. Besides, I hear the alternative really sucks.

t-shirt courtesy of http://images4.cpcache.com/product/78752764v5_480x480_Front_Color-White.jpg

Filed Under: Humor, MISC, Nostalgia Tagged With: funny, humor, memories, seasons, smartly

I Was a Rookie’s Rookie

03/24/2011 By Ridgely Johnson 6 Comments

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.

read ridgely’s personal site here

Filed Under: Humor, MISC Tagged With: ambulance, emergency vehicles, paramedic, police, police department, smartly

Will work for food

03/23/2011 By JennyT 17 Comments

They started showing up just a few months ago. Sitting on overturned utility buckets, or standing there, facing oncoming traffic. Handmade signs, black ink on cardboard scraps:

WILL WORK FOR FOOD or

LAID OFF, CAN’T FEED MY KIDS, PLEASE HELP or

HOMELESS VETERAN, NEED WORK

There they are, when the busy suburbanites like myself exit the main highway that leads from Downtown to the cities we come from. The cities we live in. There they are, in the bitter cold, the snow, and now the rain.

I see them as I make my way home after work. As I turn right, headed to Costco or PetSmart or OfficeMax. I see them, and yet I don’t.

Some days I make eye contact, try to communicate with these sign holding strangers. “I’m sorry” I want to say.

Other days I feel resentment and yes, even anger. Are you really homeless, are you really a veteran, are you really willing to work? I ask them, silently. Or are you one of those “professional panhandlers”, the guys who are supposedly making a nice living on these corners? Do you kiss your wife and kids goodbye every morning, leaving your comfortable home with your bucket and sign?

“Please help?” Who helps me, I wonder as I sit there, waiting for the light to turn green. I work two jobs, I pinch pennies til they bleed, I live without so many things. I found myself divorced and broke…and yet I’ve managed to keep a roof over my head and my children are fed and clothed and warm. Help you? Why don’t you help yourselves, like I have?

Then I feel the guilt. I look at the man standing there in his dirty coat and slipshod boots. I am ashamed by how easy it is for me to judge him.

And then I remember the help I’ve had. The mom who slips me some cash now and then, the friends who just happen to have a gift card they aren’t going to use, the anonymous souls who gave my kids Christmas this past year.

Oh, I’ve had plenty of help.

We aren’t so different, the bucket men and me. All it would take is a big illness, a lost job, a major car repair and maybe I’d find myself without any options other than to stand on a corner with a sign and an oddly dignified detachment from the souls in the cars speeding by.

A few weeks ago, my 10 year old son and I were coming home from Target or the grocery store or wherever. We pulled up at the stoplight, chatting about school and the summer and all of the random stuff you find yourself discussing with boys of that age.

There, to our left, was a man with a sign. He looked younger than me, but it was hard to tell with his neck and chin wrapped up in a scarf and the hood of his coat pulled tight around his face. His sign said:

LOST MY JOB. KIDS TO FEED. PLEASE HELP.

My son, my sweet William, who wears hand-me-downs and eats reduced price lunches at school, who has never flown on an airplane and most likely won’t see Disney World as a child, who plays sports and goes to camp on scholarships…this boy, my boy…

He looked at the man. He looked at me and said, “Mom. Give him some money. Please.”

By some miracle I happened to have some cash on me that day. Not much, just a few singles, but I rolled down my window and handed them to the man with the sign.

“God bless you, ma’am.” he said.

He already has, sir. He already has.

Photo used with permission from stock.XCHNG

Read more from Jenny here

Filed Under: MISC Tagged With: begging, charity, gratitude, homeless, smartly

Who’s afraid of the dark?

03/10/2011 By Darren Nethington 12 Comments

As a child, I remember summers at my Grandparent’s farm in Northern California. I remember thudding sprinklers, insects at dusk, and the smell of newly baled hay. It was a place of refuge for us kids. I don’t remember thinking back then that I was safer there, but I knew I was happier.

Our days would be filled with war games with wooden guns. The cows would chew their cud and watch us creep through the barn. Somebody would yell “bang!” and somebody else would die a horrible, stomach clutching, writhing death, and the cows would continue to chew without a hint of interest or sympathy. Sometimes we would play hide and seek, and sometimes we would test our bravery by jumping out of the hayloft into an old rusty trailer that sat just below. Once in awhile we would roughhouse in the living room until Grandma told us to get back outside before something broke.

At night we would lose ourselves in sun dried sheets and heavy home made quilts. Grandma Leva would kiss each one of us before tucking us in.

We would wake up late in the morning to the smell of buttermilk pancakes on the griddle, pancakes that didn’t come from a box. Grandma made maple syrup from maple extract, boiling it on the stove.

“Come on down or I’m going to throw it out,” Grandma would say quietly at the foot of the stairs. She never raised her voice, even when waking us. We never thought she would actually throw breakfast to the chickens, but we never tested her either.

Loved ones were always in and out of Grandpa’s farm house. Great aunts and uncles would oftentimes be seated around the big kitchen table, speaking quietly and drinking coffee. They would laugh with the familiarity of years. Uncle Wally would magically make coins appear from behind our ears, then regale us with the same ridiculous stories he had been telling since we were old enough to speak. We listened raptly and laughed like we had never heard them before, and it was wonderful.

One summer night we kids were having a hard time going to sleep after the lights were turned out. Earlier we had been sitting out in the living room in our jammies listening to the aunts and uncles talk. Now we lay snug in our beds while Grandma stood at the door, her hand poised over the light switch.

“There’s nothing in the dark that wasn’t there in the light,” said Grandma softly.

“But Grandma,” we cried. “It’s scary in the dark.”

“Don’t be silly,” Grandma said, and out went the light.

She hadn’t gone 5 steps down the long hallway before our cries brought her back. The light came on again.

“Now kids, this really is silly,” said Grandma through tight lips and furrowed brows.

Now at this point most of us were more than willing to take our chances with whatever creatures we imagined lurking in the dark than with a very real and irritated Granny.

“But Grandma,” said Garth, “Why can’t we just have the hall light on?”

Good old Garth, the middle child, the constant agitator up and down both levels of the sibling food chain. He wasn’t two weeks removed from his now infamous cartwheel through Grandma’s prized china cabinet, and here he was back talking her. That must have been one hell of a monster residing under his bed.

“I’m going to show you kids once and for all,” said Grandma, eyeballing Garth, “that there is absolutely nothing to be afraid of.” Striding purposefully to the window, she peered out, her face practically touching the glass. “See, nothing to be afraid….” And then she screamed.

Outside, with his nose smashed up against the glass, was Uncle Wally, grinning evilly. He had snuck away and had been crouching under the bedroom window, listening to the whole exchange. His timing was perfect.

Grandma collected herself and stalked out of the bedroom, hitting the lights as she went. We went to sleep without another peep because now we knew for sure what lurked in the shadows when the lights went out—Uncle Wally.

And who was afraid of Uncle Wally?

Filed Under: Humor, MISC, Nostalgia Tagged With: family, humor, love, memories, smartly

I Leaf Japanese Language Wo Learning Tight to Think.

03/09/2011 By Laurie LaGrone 10 Comments

The tiny room was stuffy. No breeze stirred the late afternoon air, heavy with humidity and pollen and expectations — for the weekend, two days away; for finals, just around the corner. The converted laundry room on the back of the shabby Victorian house had no air conditioning, no fans, no insulation. A half-hearted attempt at a college classroom, it abutted a campus parking lot, and waves of heat rising from the asphalt outside pulsed through the room.

Shoichi-san, a grad student, guided the four students through the lesson as they fought sleep, or restlessness, or both. Each took his or her turn reading the romanized text aloud; it looked sort of like English but, if pronounced correctly, it sounded sort of like Japanese.

Watashi wa toshokan ni irasshaimasu. I go to the library.

Janet read a few tortuous sentences until Shoichi-san was satisfied. Paula plodded through her assigned paragraph. Laurie approached the words dully, as if trying to read underwater. The stagnant air was getting to her; she cracked a smile and tried not to giggle.

Enpitsu ga arimasu ka? Do you have a pencil?

Joe’s turn. Joe’s learning curve was flatter than those of his classmates. Japanese did not come easily to Joe, and the warm room and fidgety girls around him didn’t make it any easier.

Joe looked at the page. The words swam before his eyes. Joe struggled through the sentence, syllable by syllable.

” . . . shi . . . ma . . . SHIT.”

Shta. Joe had wanted to say shta, but it was too late. The word hung in the poisonous air with ponderous finality, daring any of the students to say a word. No words were needed.

I don’t remember which of us started giggling first, but Janet and I were goners after that. Shoichi-san blinked at us through innocent eyes — and ears. “Eez ever’teeng . . . okayyy?” he asked. We assured him that we were just tired and punchy, that was all. Poor Joe was turning six shades of red and cursing the day he ever chose Japanese as an elective.

Class dismissed.

Laurie blogs in English, sort of, at her blog Fooleryland

Filed Under: Humor, MISC, Nostalgia Tagged With: college, embarrassment, Japanese, languages, Laurie LaGrone, school, smartly

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

03/07/2011 By Ridgely Johnson 15 Comments

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 4^th 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).

Visit ridgely’s personal site

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

Filed Under: Humor Tagged With: braising, cooking, crock, crock pot meals, crock pots, crockpots, kitchenware, plug, pottery, ridgely, saltine crackers, slow cooker, smartly

Carl Ed

02/21/2011 By Laurie LaGrone 10 Comments

In high school two or three decades ago, who’s counting, a student could choose from among a few educational paths. Most of my immediate circle of friends were college prep students, but there were other paths, including vocational ed and a smattering of business-related courses.

And then there was the Carl Ed path.

Carl was an unusual guy. I don’t know the specific affliction under which Carl labored, but if I had to guess (I guessed at the time) I’d say it was a healthy dose of marijuana.

Probably many doses throughout the day.

In any case, Carl’s high school career consisted of various student aid, office aid, and library aid opportunities. In my junior year I saw Carl most often in the first 10-15 minutes of my chemistry class, when he was going from room to room collecting the attendance slips which were clipped just inside each classroom door. Now, Carl was nothing if not considerate, and, not wanting to disturb the class, he opened the door just a crack, stuck his long, thin arm through the crack, and felt around for the attendance slip.

Carl’s approach would have been masterful, but for two things: 1) the door was at the front of the classroom, and we bored, frustrated, under-challenged and over-challenged students were all facing that door each day when Carl’s arm appeared and began the grope for the attendance slip; and 2) the attendance slip clip was placed quite far inside the door, and Carl couldn’t seem to retain this crucial piece of information. Again, marijuana, probably.

Grope, grope, grope.

It became a game for us. Every day we watched for Carl’s stick arm, and paid little attention to the completely incompetent efforts of a very new teacher to teach chemistry to a roomful of smart alecks.

Grope, grope, grope. Slap, slap, slap. Woosha woosha slap-slap, grope.

And then, to our delight, Carl would usually give up with a sigh, throw open the door, stick his head through in great annoyance, retrieve the attendance slip, and slip back out through the door. So much for keeping a low profile. All in all, Carl was very entertaining and far more interesting than chemistry.

Which is really not why I called you all here today; I told you that so I could tell you this:

I got to be in a TV commercial today! Well, my arm got to, anyway. The part my arm played was very complex, demanding superb acting skills and wide-ranging emotions.

I had to open a door a crack, stick my arm through the door and grope for a light switch for something like eight seconds, which is a very long time to grope for a light switch without actually looking. I was fortunate to have been able to draw from my memories of Carl. I would like to thank the members of the Academy . . .