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

02/17/2011 By Ridgely Johnson 11 Comments

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?

visit ridgely’s personal site here

Filed Under: Humor, MISC Tagged With: 10-4 codes, midlife, midnight ride, police department, smartly, watch commander

Five years

02/09/2011 By JennyT 9 Comments

This year will mark my fifth year as a divorcee. I remember back when the wounds were still fresh, when I used to scour bookstores and online articles for some beacon of hope that one day I would walk amongst the human race again, I stumbled upon a little website.

It was a website for women who had recently divorced. I’ve long since forgotten 99% of the content, most of which gave financial advice, but retained one tiny morsel. It was a quote that said: “It takes the average woman approximately five years to get over a divorce.”

For the first few years post-divorce, I clung to those words like a life preserver. “Five years. You can do it” I’d say to myself on the most arduous of days. “Five years? Ha!” I’d say to myself on my confident days.

As the half-decade mark approaches, I ask myself: Am I over it?

Yes.

And no.

Five years ago I could still look at my ex, still talk to him and maintain some semblance of a “relationship”. A choppy and somewhat chilly one, but a relationship nevertheless. That was before I learned of the affair. Before he tied the knot mere months after the divorce was final. Before he stopped paying child support.

Now, almost five years in, the very sight of his car in my driveway causes a cold dagger to run down my spine. I feel my cheeks get hot and forget to breathe. I am torn between wanting to plead with him to have some compassion, to help support his kids; and wanting to run out to his car like Mel Gibson in Braveheart, blue paint on my face and a flaming medieval weapon in hand. Our communication has devolved into terse, punctuation-free texts and emails. It’s hard to believe we’re the same two people who used to sit on the same side of a restaurant booth and draw pictures of our dream house on napkins.

Five years ago I was a shy, fat stay at home mom with few friends. My world had been my husband and my kids. When I got divorced, I was forced to reach out. The loneliness you feel after the divorce dust settles can be stifling, so you find yourself making friends. Find yourself overcoming the fear of rejection and eventually, basking in the gorgeous warm glow of friendship. I have a support system now that the pre-divorce me could have never fathomed.

Five years ago, I wanted nothing to do with men. The thought of getting married again, hell…the thought of even dating again made me cringe. Since then, I’ve been wavering in and out of the dating scene, even had one serious relationship. That one ended because I wasn’t ready to commit. This year, I’m feeling like committing wouldn’t be so bad.

Five years ago, not a day passed that I didn’t spend at least a few furtive moments dissecting my marriage and its ultimate demise. I used to lay in bed at night and wonder what happened, what I could have done. What I shouldn’t have done. Now, when I manage to stay awake for more than five seconds after falling into bed, I think of things like my future. Things like how proud I am of my kids, all four of them, for how they’ve thrived and grown and survived. I think of what I’m going to do the next weekend. I think about my job working with special education kids and how I might have never found it or them if I hadn’t gone through the divorce.

Am I over it?

I think I’m over it enough for now.

Find more from Jenny here.

Filed Under: Motivate, Nostalgia Tagged With: divorce, getting over it, life after divorce, moving on, smartly

Shopping Carts…Tools of Convenience or Torture?

02/01/2011 By Laurie Fabrizio 10 Comments

I detest grocery shopping.

The weekly excursion is as annoying as moving to Minnesota where there are only two seasons, winter and road construction. Trudging through the winter wonderland, you waddle like you just had your first colonoscopy, to avoid slipping on the ice.

Entering the grocery store looking like “The Mummy Returns”, your vision is obstructed by the anti-frostbite gear covering your face. Your ‘thinsulated’ hands inadvertently grab the shopping cart with the bum wheel.

It must be my karma. I am attracted to the cast-offs. Just ask my dogs, who were recently rejected as candidates for the new show “Dog Swap.”

They are called shopping carts. Their mission; drive us crazy to provide humor for their “cart klatches.”

Even the Incredible Hulk would find them impossible to maneuver because of the “cart-o-crud” (the disgusting substances stuck to cart wheels making them impossible to steer).

It never fails. I’m there for one item and suddenly have six. Where’s a cart when I need one?

Suddenly, an abandoned cart appears in a convenient location. I am thrilled with my good fortune. I soon discovered why… a wheel was rusted in place by cart-o-crud.

I had been “cart-punked.”

Recently, I found myself doing Pilates as I pushed my cart down the isle. One wheel was frozen. Its counterpart rattled like my teeth do when I drive over potholes. I vainly tried to thrust my cart down the isle. As I threw it in reverse, a back up warning beep sounded.

Thank goodness carts aren’t equipped with video back-up systems or I’d be on “America’s Most Idiotic Moments.”

Frustrated, I found myself taking items off the grocery shelf, changing my mind and putting them back somewhere else. Not making any progress, I began randomly throwing food in the cart.

“Earl…there’s a crazed woman on aisle 3,” bellows through the PA system.

The end was in sight, an open checkout line with the green light on. I screeched up to the conveyer belt like the finish line at NASCAR and “popped a wheelie” in celebration.

The checkout light had switched to red!

Thoughts of “cart-icular” manslaughter streaked through my mind.

Once again I threw it into reverse contemplating a hit and run if anyone got in my way.

In the next lane was an “angel of mercy” who clearly sensed my impending shopping break down. I threw it in drive and propelled the cart into her lane.

I tossed items on the conveyer belt, keeping up with the clerk as she scanned my items. Until I took my pulse, I was convinced I was having a heart attack.

The food items piled up faster than I could self-bag them. It was a bad remake of the “I Love Lucy” candy factory episode.

Without thinking, I set some cash down and suffered a panic attack as the conveyer belt swallowed my money.

I should have used plastic.

“Manager to checkout 3. Some Putz left cash on the conveyor belt again”

My “angel of mercy” morphed into the “devil of sarcasm.”

The manager disassembled the checkout to retrieve my cash. I glared at the person behind me like it was their fault.

Pushing my cart laden with enough food for a five-day Nor’easter was like pushing an iceberg towards the Titanic. That winter wonderland became “hell frozen over.”

I became Wonder Woman as I maneuvered over the snow moguls and fast food bags. Flab quickly turned to muscle and I burned more calories than a Zumba junkie.

Thoughts of inhaling the groceries, wrappers and all plagued my thoughts.

As I loaded everything in my car, it started to hail. I turned the ignition, cranked the heat.

This food had better last until the spring thaw.

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

Filed Under: Humor Tagged With: humor, life, smartly, stress, winter

Classroom Noise

01/25/2011 By Laurie LaGrone 10 Comments

My cousin stopped by recently for a rare visit. The last time she broke bread with my family she was an elementary school teacher. Over breakfast we talked about her life in those days, and how it has changed. My father, who is one of the more direct and outspoken people I have ever known, brought up a time when my parents stopped by her classroom when they were in her part of the world.

“I hated your classroom,” Dad told my cousin. As I mentioned, Dad is direct and holds little back. “It’s not just your classroom — all elementary school classrooms seem to be like that,” he went on.

“What was wrong with it?” my cousin wanted to know.

“There was so much stuff all over the walls that you couldn’t even see the walls!” Dad answered. “It’s the same in Laurie’s kids’ classrooms,” he went on. “When I’ve gone there for Grandparents’ Day, every inch of space is covered in the kids’ projects, art, charts, posters — it’s too much. It wasn’t like that when I was in school,” he finished. “There was a blackboard and a calendar, and that was about it.”

I’ve been mulling this over for a few days. So much has been written about ever-increasing stimuli vying for our kids’ attention: video games; loud, bright and fast TV commercials and programs (and movies); electronic distractions of all kinds — even our cultural habit of multitasking. What about all of the bright stuff hanging on the walls of my daughters’ school classroom? Does it distract them from their lessons?

When I imagine a place where I can be my most intellectually productive, where it’s easy to focus my concentration, I picture muted colors, no clutter and minimal distractions. No windows, no media, no loud sounds. It seems I’m picturing a library. And yet, the ambiance of an American elementary school classroom is exactly the opposite that of a library. I wonder if we have gone down the wrong path.

I realize that I am an adult and my ideal learning environment may be very different from that of a child. Today’s classroom environments strive to inspire, stimulate, promote creative expression, and make learning fun, and it’s safe to say the environments do those things. But look at the two photos at the top of this essay and compare: the one on the left is a Japanese elementary school classroom, and the one on the right is American. The Japanese classroom reminds me of a library, and the American classroom feels like a carnival. Since I haven’t heard of anyone decrying the state of the Japanese education system, it does make me wonder.

I wonder if classrooms are not not just stimulating but truly overstimulating our kids’ senses.

Laurie spends an exorbitant amount of time at Fooleryland, her blog.

(Japanese classroom photo via ajari on Wikimedia Commons)

Filed Under: Opinion Tagged With: clutter, distractions, education, kids, school, smartly

Of Greeks and Spiders

01/20/2011 By Darren Nethington 11 Comments

We know that all mythology stems at least in part from real world events. Hercules, the greatest of all mythological heroes, probably had his genesis in that age old battle between man and wife and spider. A few thousand years ago, a woman somewhere stands on a roughly hewn table that stands on an earthen floor in a house made of mud. Her man, nervously holding a torch in one hand and a big rock in the other, searches the darkest corners of their home, looking for the monstrous arachnid that his woman had just glimpsed running about in the shadows.

“There it is!” shrieks the woman.

“Where?” shrieks the man, his torchlight bouncing frantically around the room. Then he spots it. He hurls his rock, and the spider dies of extreme blunt force trauma.

Thus was born the legend of Hercules. The spider later became the nine headed Hydra of said mythology. Other parts of the Herculean legend, such as the cleaning of the Augean stables in a day, can most assuredly be traced back to some household project a wife somewhere had been nagging her husband to complete…but I digress.

I would be lying if I told you that any of this stuff crossed my mind when I recently saw a spider skittering across the floor in my bedroom. It was barely visible in the bluish light of the TV. Lacking a torch, I asked my wife Tonya to hit the lights.

“Why?” Tonya asked, instantly worried. She had grown up on a farm, a place where you didn’t just shove your feet into your shoes without first giving them a good shake. If your husband frowns at the floor and asks you to flip on the lights, it’s cause for alarm. She flipped the switch.

I gulped.

“What?” asked Tonya nervously.

This thing was the size of a quarter, with hairy ass legs and malevolent eyes that pierced my soul and filled my heart with dread. Okay so I made up the part about the eyes. But if I could see them, I’m sure they would be red and pretty frightening. The cynics among you might point to the fact that I am most assuredly bigger than any spider, and that it was probably more than likely afraid of me, too—hence, the skittering. But did I mention the hairy legs?

I headed for the closet.

“Where are you going? Don’t let it get away!” yelled Tonya.

“I have to get a shoe!” I yelled.

“It’s running!” yelled Tonya, peeking over the edge of the bed.

“Why are we yelling?” I yelled. “It’s only a spider!”

“Just kill it!”

The spider, probably wondering what all the yelling was about, had stopped skittering. I hovered over it with my tennis shoe, expecting at any moment to have my throat torn out.

“What are you waiting for?” asked Tonya.

“You think I want to miss and piss it off?”

“The spiders where I grew up would have stolen your hubcaps by now,” said Tonya.

“Alright, alright!” I said, and I struck.

Physics is a wonderful thing. The flexibility of my tennis shoe, coupled with the slight springiness of the carpet, caused the unfortunate spider to fly at least 2 feet into the air after I hit it. And then it disappeared.

“I think I killed it,” I said.

“You think you killed it?”

“Well I can’t find the body,” I said.

It was a serious situation. What if it had somehow survived my attack and was even now lurking in some dark corner of the room with slavering mandibles, planning its gory revenge?

We searched frantically. I looked under the bed and behind the TV. I shook out my shoes, then my jeans. The spider fell out–I swear it thudded when it landed. I gave it a triumphant burial at sea (with an extra flush just to be safe) and then climbed back into bed.

That spider was no Hydra, but even Hercules had to start somewhere.

Filed Under: Humor, MISC Tagged With: humor, life, love, relationships, smartly

A Man and His Remote Control

12/30/2010 By Ridgely Johnson 7 Comments

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 Stars, Deadliest 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

Filed Under: Humor Tagged With: Deadliest Catch, remote control, smartly

You call it a blizzard. I call it a break.

12/29/2010 By JennyT 5 Comments

A few weeks ago my lovely city of Minneapolis was smacked upside the head with a big old blizzard. Our weather men, who I’m pretty sure have wet dreams about systems like this, were blathering about it almost a week in advance. “BATTEN DOWN THE HATCHES” they screamed, their giant, smooth heads bobbing to and fro with barely contained ecstasy.

And batten down, we did. In true Minnesotan fashion, we all clucked and tittered about the impending Snowmaggedon. As the Big Day approached, the grocery store parking lots were crammed, carts were hard to find and supplies flew off the shelves. The lines were long but chummy. Nothing brings out Minnesota Nice like a natural disaster.

My kids were gone that weekend, off for a few days with their dad. It was just me and my dog and my Netflix (and a couple bottles of three-buck-Chuck merlot). Walter (the dog) and I hunkered down and watched as those first few timid flakes slowly gained confidence and turned into a true white-out.

We watched as the driveway gradually disappeared, as the furniture on the deck was swallowed up in a fluffy white embrace.

People on the news were wringing their hands, worried about driving and cancellations and closures. The weather guys’ friends, AnchorMen and Women, cautioned everyone to stay put, not to drive. The unlucky junior members of the news teams were dispatched to particularly drifty and blowy areas to tell us that, duh…it’s snowing.

The buses were delayed, and then stopped. Stores closed early, the Holidazzle parade was canceled. The airport closed. Minneapolis was snowbound.

Aside from occasional forays outside to shovel a path for Walter to go do his business, I stayed inside. Really, I had no choice, as my front door was soon blocked by a 5′ drift of the white stuff. You know what?

I didn’t mind.

It was quiet and from inside a warm house, it was beautiful. Our hustle and bustle city was a silent, sparkly white landscape. We had been sealed up in a snowglobe and shaken with great vigor by a huge, unseen hand.

For the first time in ages, I sat without guilt. I made popcorn and drank some wine and watched movies without looking at the clock or wondering who had homework or needed to practice an instrument or how much laundry there was to be done.

The blizzard gave me a break.

Of course, when all was said and done and I’d spent a good four hours shoveling and another two days trying to get my truck unstuck, the break revealed a price tag.

But it was a break nonetheless. In a few months this cold, wet kiss from Mother Nature will be a memory and the only breaks we’ll get will be during the random Severe Thunderstorm watches and Tornado Warnings. Those won’t be as quiet, however, they won’t last as long.

And they certainly won’t be as sparklingly beautiful.

Read more of Jenny’s musings here.

photo property of Whitney Hanson, used with permission.

Filed Under: Opinion Tagged With: blizzard, Minnesota, mommy breaks, relaxing, smartly, snowstorm, winter

Getting it right

12/28/2010 By Darren Nethington 13 Comments

“Mistakes are the portals of discovery.” – James Joyce

I believe in the institution of marriage. That might sound funny coming from a guy who has been married four times and divorced three, but there it is. Consider it practice. In the midst of my previous failures, I learned some valuable lessons that have made my current and final union the type of relationship I always dreamed marriage could and should be.

I learned that you should never let your wife go to bed by herself. There is nothing so important at 9 or 10 o’clock at night that’s worth letting the woman you love go to sleep alone in a cold bed. Your video game, your football game, your project—all of these things can wait. They have their place, for sure. But when darkness falls and the world slows down, your wife should never feel like spending time with her takes second place to anything.

I learned that winning a meaningless debate is a cold victory indeed. You may have smugly chalked up the last word,* but now you also have what seems like an impenetrable wall of silence between you and your wife that just gets bigger as the night wears on. Feelings of anger and self righteousness soon give way to those of foolishness and self recrimination. Suddenly being right about who was the oldest Golden Girl seems less vital.

I learned what it means when you say that your spouse is your best friend. It’s a phrase that has been over used. Everybody says it. How many people actually mean it? You have to feel it deep in your psyche or it means nothing. Being your wife’s best friend means that she has dwelt for so long in the deepest corners of your soul that for all intents and purposes, she is your soul. She will always take your part and forever give you the benefit of the doubt, as you will her. This is a bond that matures over time and without it, all the love in the world is meaningless.

Finally, and most importantly, I learned that I am with my wife because I want to be. She is with me for the same reason. Our worth as human beings is not validated by our relationship. Rather, it is the other way around—our wonderful and growing relationship is a product of our own feelings of self worth and contentment. If you’re not happy with yourself you cannot be happy with anybody else.

I’ve made some mistakes in my time, but mistakes are merely lessons learned. I am where I am because of them, and I wouldn’t change a thing.

* In the interest of full disclosure, I must admit that I rarely get the last word because my beautiful wife is usually right. I mention the possibility for illustrative purpose only.

Filed Under: MISC, Motivate, Opinion, Spirituality Tagged With: divorce, relationships, smartly

Happy whatever

12/06/2010 By Sheryl Stein 7 Comments

December in our house is something of a blur.

My husband is pretty much a-religious; he apparently had any spirituality beaten out of him in parochial school. I, on the other hand, am a solid, culturally-identifying Jew. While I’m not the girl you’ll see behind the pew every Shabbat, I have seen most Woody Allen movies and know my knishes from my kishkes. Before we married, we knew that we would need to make some serious decisions about religion before kids were a glimmer in our collective four eyes. How we made that decision is a story unto itself; but the upshot of the decision means that we celebrate Chanukah… and we celebrate a rather secular Christmas.

Every night for eight nights, my husband graciously stands with me while I light the menorah and recite some Hebrew prayers that, for all he knows, might consist of my fondest request to the heavens for a new bread machine. He politely pretends not to hear when I set off the smoke alarm while burning latkes in a frying pan. (At times, I wonder whether he fears I will set the house ablaze, giving new meaning to the term festival of lights.) While he doesn’t really have any interest in the actual holiday, he participates in a mild sort of way because the holiday matters to me.

And in return, I help out with Christmas.

While I appreciate the reason for the season, that Reason never enters the equation in our house. Here, it’s all about the tree, Santa, and the joy of waking up at Ungodly-O’Clock with kids to see what the jolly old guy brought. Of course, over the years, the jolly old guy, c’est moi, along with my beloved spouse. How a nice Jewish girl ended up as Santa (and the Easter Bunny) would probably make my grandmother cluck her tongue, may she rest in peace. But while my grandmother might not be thrilled with my holiday antics, my mother tells the story of how my grandfather, a product of new US immigrants, loved having a Christmas tree in his home. It made him feel like he was part of America, she once told me. So I, too, assuage any lingering guilt, deciding that I am continuing the American tradition in our home. It’s slightly weird (and completely areligious), with plenty of Star Wars, Star Trek, and Winnie the Pooh ornaments scattered all over it; but it is our tree. And because this continuation of tradition, albeit a bit altered from the holidays of his youth, is so important to my husband, it is important to me, too.

Lo and behold — a child was born unto us — in early December. So for those of you keeping track, we had eight days of small presents for Chanukah, one day of bigger presents for Christmas — and now, we have The Girl’s birthday. When she was old enough to take it all in, The Girl began to refer to December as My Big Bonanza Month! So we throw in a birthday party, cupcakes for school, a cake for home, and a cake for a birthday party plus the birthday present and, in short, December makes my bank account sigh and my head spin.

There’s plenty to celebrate from so many cultures in December. Throw in birthdays, and the world seems confusing. My best friend, puzzled by her inability to know what to say this time of year, has nailed it. And so, whatever you celebrate this time of year, may I share with you her seasonal wish: Appropriate Greetings to You!

Visit Sheryl’s personal site here.

Filed Under: Humor, Nostalgia, Spirituality Tagged With: chanukah, Christmas, Holiday humor, holidays, humor, marriage, smartly

Of mice and (no) men

12/01/2010 By JennyT 17 Comments

Divorce changes things.

Holidays. Living arrangements. Finances.

Other changes are more subtle. Changes such as the division of household “jobs”. Man work vs. woman work.

Of course, once you are no longer part of a twosome, there really is no division. Suddenly single men must tackle the laundry and bath time and grocery shopping. Women who have been cut loose must figure out things like storm windows, tax time and oil changes.

I thought I was doing pretty well as far as navigating this brave new solo world was considered. I learned how to properly clean drains, how to change fuses, how to winterize a home. I was all “hear me roar, bitches” if you know what I mean.

Until the mice arrived.

At first I was able to deny that there was anything surreptitious going on inside the walls or under the kitchen sink. I’d found a few little telltale droppings but figured that some furry interloper had made a wrong turn and just decided to cop a squat under my sink while figuring out how to get back on their merry way.

But then the signs became too obvious to ignore. More evidence of mice appeared, as if someone had spilled a container of chocolate sprinkles in the cupboards and drawers. My hands were raw from the bleaching and Lysol-ing that were becoming a daily ritual.

And then one night, as we sat in the basement watching a movie, we saw one. A dark, fast-as-greased-lighting little blob running from behind the entertainment center. The kids had mixed reactions: one screamed, one shrieked, the ten year old looked at me and said, “If I catch it, can we keep it?”. My dog, who has the word “Retriever” in his very breed, jumped up on the couch and looked at me with terrified eyes. Add to this scenario the thick-waisted middle aged woman hopping around, arms flapping, yelling “Ewwww! Ewwww!” and the picture is painted.

I couldn’t deny it any longer. We had mice. And as much as I love all creatures great and small, I wasn’t about to share my house with these soiling, copulating, gnawing creatures.

I researched like a madwoman. I was hoping to find humane options, at first, but soon realized that wasn’t going to work in this situation.

Not-so-humane options: Glue traps…I don’t even want to know what sick mind came up with this one. I mean, I want them gone but cruel is cruel, you know? Traditional traps…don’t know if I could deal with hearing random “SMACK” sounds and then having to be the mouse Medical Examiner all winter long. Electric traps…I can hardly pay my utilities as it is.

For the first time in ages, I found myself wishing I had a He-Man to lean on. A partner to handle this icky situation. Someone to look at and say, “Take care of it, honey.” I wanted to be the weaker sex.

But there was a mouse in the house. There would be time for daydreaming and wishing upon far-away stars later. It was time to do some mousin’.

In the end, I had to quite literally pick my poison. Which I did, with a surprising amount of guilt. Apparently all those years of Stuart Little and The Rescuers really did affect me. But when all was said and done, I had been the one who took care of it. I did the dirty work, all by myself.

Even with the shroud of shame over being the Jim Jones of Mousetown around me, I felt ok.

Better than ok. I was proud of myself.

Hear me roar, indeed.

Read more from Jenny here

Filed Under: Humor Tagged With: divorce, independence, mice, smartly

I hit a sofa on the Interstate

11/30/2010 By Ridgely Johnson 13 Comments

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.

Filed Under: Humor Tagged With: smartly, women drivers

Thank you, John Hughes.

11/18/2010 By JennyT 12 Comments

The other night, I sat down with my 16 year old son and we watched the iconic 80′s movie “Sixteen Candles”. Although I’m sure he was horrified that his 44 year old mother knew literally every word in the script, he found the movie to be just as I had promised: hilarious. We sat there, on the old leather couch that resides in the room we call the mancave, ate Halloween candy and laughed at Farmer Ted, Long Duc Dong and Samantha’s sister doped up with muscle relaxants on the day of her wedding.

I had made a status update on facebook about it, nothing notable or funny…just “watching 16 Candles with my 16 year old. Best.Movie.Ever” or something along those lines. I was blown away when I logged on the next morning and saw that it had received over 50 replies.

This movie, like so many of the tales that John Hughes wove for us, strikes a chord.

For the folks of my generation, it was like a spokesmovie (pretend there is such a word) for our lives at the time. Sixteen Candles came out in 1984, when I was a junior in high school. Watching it with my son the other night, I felt as though that old couch I was sitting on was actually a time machine transporting us back to the 80′s. My son asked if we all really wore clothes like that, if the music was accurate, if we talked like they were talking. “Yes, yes and yes!” I assured him.

I remembered sitting in a darkened theater, a box of Dots in my hand and my three best girlfriends sitting in the seats next to me. We laughed til we cried and on the way home decided that yes indeed, Jake Ryan was the hottest guy in the world. We claimed Molly Ringwald was the “it” girl of our young generation and tried to decide whom among our real life friends was the most like her Sam, and like Jake’s sexy, mature girlfriend Caroline. We all groaned at how accurately the younger brother had been portrayed and the grandparents? Everyone had at least one set of grandparents just like Samantha’s.

John Hughes gave us so many more movies during the 80′s: Weird Science. Breakfast Club. Pretty In Pink (I’m still searching for my own Duckie, by the way). Uncle Buck (which contains my single favorite movie quote of all time). Some Kind of Wonderful. Planes, Trains, and Automobiles. National Lampoon’s Christmas Vacation. He finished the decade with Ferris Bueller’s Day Off.

Reading all of the responses to my facebook post, I realized that this one man had made a huge impact on so many lives. From the music that we listened to, to the names we gave our children (I am totally upfront about the fact that my daughter Molly is named after my favorite teen actress), to the actors we still watch today, John Hughes was indeed the storyteller of a generation. My generation.

John Hughes passed away in August of 2009. I remember hearing about it, and feeling as though a favorite teacher had passed away. He hadn’t given us as many gems after the early 90′s, but the gems that he did leave us with are precious indeed. The man who gave us the line, “I’m Buck Melanoma, Moley Russell’s wart” is no longer here, but he left us with characters and scripts and music that remind us of a long ago time in our lives. What a gift.

Thank you, Mr. Hughes.

You can read more from Jenny here.

Filed Under: Entertainment, Humor, Nostalgia Tagged With: John Hughes, Long Duc Dong, movies, reminiscing, smartly, the 80's

Being there

11/16/2010 By Darren Nethington 6 Comments

My three girls need me to be present. Not just there, not just in the vicinity, but present. This may sound crazy, but it’s a truth that has taken me a long time to realize. The mother of my two youngest ones left me almost 11 years ago, taking them with her. It was a cataclysmic event for all concerned, to be sure, but the progression of time and lives has made any questions of right or wrong moot. I only mention it because my exclusion from the day to day happenings of their lives has made it harder for me to be the kind of father I had always imagined I would be.

I thought I would always be there to change diapers and give baths. I would read stories to them and tuck them into bed. I would come home from work and they would bounce jubilantly around my legs, clamoring for hugs. There would be school events and doctor visits and birthday parties. It didn’t work out that way for us.

It’s not that the girls went far. Their mother kept them in the same area. Weekends and holidays were divvied up. I became a part time Dad. I missed getting them up for school and dressing them up for Halloween and shopping for clothes. I missed just sitting on the couch with them and watching TV. We would catch up with some of that on our weekends. I made elaborate breakfasts. We watched movies and ate popcorn. When they were still little, I put them to bed at night with made up stories about mummies who wore tennis shoes and dogs that talked. Then on Sunday afternoon they gathered their things and went home with their mother.

There came a time when I felt superfluous in their lives. I mean, how much could they need me when they only saw me intermittently? I began to feel like they came to my house because it was their duty. Those are horrible things to say, I know. My girls gave no indication they felt that way–my insecurities were my own fault.

My two little ones, Savanna and Madison, have been involved in cheerleading since Pop Warner. They are in high school now, a freshman and a junior, cheering for the football team. I had been meaning to go to one of their home games all season long.

It seemed every Friday I was just too tired. There would be other games, right? Worse, I told myself that it wasn’t really a big deal. Could it really be that important for me to just go to a game and sit in the stands? The big Homecoming game came and went. The season was dwindling, and before I knew it, the last home game of the season was upon us. Tonight was the night.

At the field, as I walked through the turnstile and made my way to the stands, I saw Madison’s cheer squad. Madison saw me the same time I saw her. It’s hard to imagine a human face exhibiting so many emotions at the same time. Elation and joy consumed her features in equal measure, but over riding all of it, and beaming out of her ear to ear grin, was pure, unconditional love.

For a second I was taken back to my own childhood. I remembered my Grandfather’s strong arms hugging my little body, always accompanied by the faintest whiff of Old Spice and wood smoke. I recalled the peace I felt, peace in the knowledge that he was just….there.

No matter how inadequate I felt, how could I deny that same peace to my own children?

I hugged my child and kissed her on top of her head. I was present, in every sense of the word, and that’s all that mattered.

Filed Under: MISC, Nostalgia, Parenting Tagged With: cheerleading, divorce, kids, life, memories, parenting, smartly

Sometimes

10/27/2010 By Deb Anderson 11 Comments

Many days I forget her crooked smile, how she loved Jeopardy, her potato soup. Unless I’m prepared, I get either upset or downright angry if I have to think about her and me. The way we were together, or more often, apart. Our arguments are legend, still. Truth is, my memories are like an autopsy, revealing and raw. So much of the time I felt I had to win her love; and so my viscera calls to me, remember it says, it whispers: the wishing for a hug? and instead how you locked yourself in your room secretly hoping she’d knock. Shadows of the games I’d play, the recriminations, for that’s what they were, on both sides, bring tears and the kind of sadness you can’t contain. It’s sloppy, it spills and licks, so I keep the door closed.

Many days.

She’s gone now and I can’t make things right, and maybe we did, but how do I know for sure, that’s what my viscera says. I can’t let it go, simply can’t. So much of youth is muscle memory. Your body remembers the clenched lips, the motion of locking the door, the scissor stomach. It’s imprinted, tattooed in permanent black. Even though as I grew older, we had an understanding, and I came to see she loved me. Intellectually, I knew it. It’s that she’d never been taught how to show it, coming from a stout German family, raised on stoicism and pick the carrots for dinner. So she left, first moment she could, joined the airlines (Western) and traveled the world. Once when my dad asked about her mom, she cried. Her mom never hugged her, she said; and then to my dad’s surprise, her sadness became sloppy and uncontained. He didn’t ask again. What does one do with all that sadness and muscle memory?

I still don’t know, I simply don’t. There was more to our relationship: the trying, and loving in ways I didn’t understand, but learned to appreciate. She was silent. I knew that, and it drove me crazy. But if I pushed, she’d dissolve. Just disintegrate into water. I could see: she did the best she could with what she knew. And right when I started to understand her, she was gone. Of course, I stayed behind, with my hands full of the slop and the what do I do now? I want to let it go. But does that mean she goes with it? I don’t want to chance it.

Recently, I was sent this picture of my mom as a teenager. It’s all there: the bad skin that made her so insecure, the love of music (she is playing the piano), the intensity. In so many ways, I get her. We are printed on each other, and then I start to think maybe we were more alike than different.

Those are the sloppiest days of all.

Filed Under: Nostalgia, Parenting Tagged With: memories, mothering, smartly

He Tried To Grabble Me During Scrabble

09/18/2010 By Laurie Fabrizio 8 Comments

I received an iPad for my birthday and was thrilled because I was the first one in the house to own one. I am a tad technically challenged, and still suffer from post-traumatic stress after making the switch from a PC to a Mac. My husband made me promise that, this time, I would take the class that was offered at the Apple store. They are, after all, ‘Geniuses.’ I did, but took my Mac savvy daughter along for moral support. Thank goodness, since there was a four year old in the class who learned how to use his new iPad in less than five minutes.

A few weeks have passed and I now can check the weather, surf the Internet, and reached pro status at Solitaire, Yahtzee and Boggle. Hey for a $1.99, the games are cheap entertainment when I have a few minutes to kill. Yesterday, I became braver and purchased Scrabble for $ 9.99. It felt like buying lingerie at Victoria’s Secret versus JC Penny. However I soon discovered, the pricier the application the more challenging the game.

My husband came home from a meeting late last night and discovered me in bed screaming at my iPad…”what do you mean that is not a word?” Of course being the competitive man that he is, he jumped right in, grabbed the iPad and took over.

Before I knew it, we were having a ménage a tois with the CPU. He soon was as frustrated as I was, especially when it came back with the word…xi, to win the game. Neither one of us had heard of the word xi. When we tried to put in the word Asian, it said it was not in the dictionary. I beg to differ.

This morning my youngest texted me from college and asked me what I was doing today.

“ Writing, weeding and then playing scrabble on my iPad. By the way, the computer cheats,” I responded.

“Hahaha, yeah right …you sure it’s not user error? “ she asked.

“No, Dad and I played in bed last night and Dad said, “That little mother cheats.”

“Hahaha oh goodness. You caught me for a second because you said you and Dad played in bed last night and I was like…too much information. “

I couldn’t help myself, so I responded,

“Yes we did, and we now call “it” Scrabble. It mixes things up.” :)

“OMG you actually made me laugh out loud…now people on the bus think I’m crazy.”

“ I’m glad I made you laugh. Hey it gives us something else to do together in bed.”

“ …Okay now you’re done! Hahaha you dirty girl. Please take up Boggle or Yahtzee instead. It is a one-person game and you’ll stay out of trouble. Better yet, I won’t need therapy,” she said.

“No worries, but Dad and I don’t give up that easily. We will become master Scrabble players, but we’ll keep it to ourselves. “

Hubby’s birthday is a few days away. Now he’s decided that all he wants is an iPad. The man already has a Kindle, which he uses when he travels. He can’t fool me. I know he wants his own version of Scrabble, so that he can torment me. It will become like his online Xbox games. I’ll be forced to play against him from across the house. Gone will be our nights of “playing Scrabble” in bed.

Visit Laurie’s personal site here.

Filed Under: Humor Tagged With: funny, games, humor, iPad, Scrabble, smartly

Hey – There’s a Person in There…

08/13/2010 By Darren Nethington 20 Comments

Too often as a society we are enamored of the outer shell. If you have a pretty face, well then, you must be a great person. The less fortunate among us don’t get the same free pass. If you have a big nose, crooked teeth, maybe a wart…you must be evil or at least lacking on some moral level.

Popular culture is no help. All the good guys and gals are beautiful people. If you are not Ken or Barbie, you are bad, unless your name is Shrek.

I remember as a young boy I used to laugh at “ugly” people in the mall. My brother and I would spy who we considered the ugliest person, or the fattest, or whatever…and make fun of them. We thought we were funny. It’s horrifying, looking back on it now, that we could be so callous. You would think that two young boys such as us, living with an alcoholic, abusive step-father, would have more empathy.

There’s that word, empathy. I like it a lot. It is the most important word in the English language. More than love, it is the single driving force behind all positive human interaction. Love encompasses a whole range of emotions, but before you can fall into it, you have to begin to feel what another person feels.

What is ugly? What is beautiful? I used to think all you had to do was look at somebody—they were one or the other. Worse than that, after fitting that person into my narrow definition of what constitutes good looks, I would then decide what kind of person they were, purely on the basis of how they looked. But then a funny thing happened to me on the way to maturity. I got a job washing dishes in a rest home.

It was overwhelming. All kinds of people lived there. Old people. Young people. Disabled people. Mentally challenged people. They came in all shapes and sizes. They were in wheel chairs and walkers.

I was afraid to talk to them. I didn’t see them as people. I saw their infirmities.

One day an aide was feeding a young man by the name of Ronnie. Ronnie was confined to a wheelchair. His only means of communication were grunts and facial expressions. I was making a quick pass just to grab some dishes from the table, when the aide left abruptly.

“Talk to Ronnie,” said Nancy, the aide. “I’ll be right back.”

“Uh, wait…” I stammered. But she was already gone.

This guy was in a wheelchair. His hands were claws. He couldn’t speak. Remnants of his strained peas dribbled out of the corner of his mouth. How do I talk to him?

I decided to talk to him like a guy.

“Hey Ronnie,” I said, “What’s a good looking dude like you hanging out in a dump like this for?”

“Hey!” Nancy said from behind me. “Watch your mouth!”

Ronnie threw his head back and laughed. Tears rolled down his face.

“He’s a funny guy, right, Ronnie?” said Nancy, wiping his face. Turning to me, she said, “He likes you. Not many people make him laugh.”

I looked at Ronnie. He looked back at me, a big sloppy grin on his face, and I couldn’t help but laugh. At that instant, I felt what he felt—the simple joy of being in the moment, and sharing it with a new friend.

30 years ago I was a brash kid who thought character was skin deep…but a guy in a wheelchair showed me that the true beauty of the human soul emanates from the inside out.

Filed Under: Humor, MISC, Nostalgia, Spirituality Tagged With: humility, humor, relationships, smartly, youth