Karen Loftis Rankowitz

Recently, while I was on my way to someplace (I can’t remember where, but that’s another story), I looked out my car’s window and saw the driver of the car in front of me talking on her cell phone. Apparently, this person is from a different America where cell phone usage and driving, at the SAME time, is acceptable behavior. I would have bet that she’s the kind of person who talks and eats (probably while driving) at the same time. However, I doubt that she breathes and thinks simultaneously. People probably tell her, “You know the minute you start breathing, you stop thinking.” Like taking in air will spread common sense. We all know the obvious places where cell phone use is discouraged (and even illegal). But do you know of the ‘even more obvious’ places? If not, then I’d like to share some of those places, and the scenarios that may ensue, with you. Cell phones should absolutely not be with anyone in the confessional. However, if you, like me, are the type to tempt fate the

My previous obituary regarding the Gigantic Flying Cockroach detailed its demise and my outrageous, if not embellished, account of the GFC’s horrendous death. I say ‘horrendous’ because 70-year-old Arlene, whom I will call Mom, chastised me about ending its extremely important existence here in Connecticut. I will tell you the gist of our conversation, which basically amounted to Mom using 'the silent treatment' and me becoming 4-years-old again. My mother, who has a computer but doesn’t know how to access my writing on line, enjoys when I read my stories to her over the phone. At least I think she does because she will eventually break her ever-lasting vow of silence after my never-ending stream of, “Don’t you think it’s funny?” to mildly chuckle. The conversation about the GFC went like this. MOM: “I think it was a locust.” That’s it. That was all she said. I was waiting for her to elaborate. I even prompted her with MOM: "( please fill in blank )". Sh

Noah is 11-years-old and he exaggerates everything. I don’t know whom he gets it from. “MOM!” Noah screamed, in capital letters, “There’s a gigantic flying cockroach in my room.” He had his phone to his ear and I saw this because he wasn’t using his phone to call me. He was calling his father who was at work, or maybe golfing. I have my bed to my ear because it was 11:15 p.m. I flipped my covers off, the way angry drivers flip off other drivers, and say, “Who are you calling, it’s 11:15 p.m.” I say this because I don’t want to even think about a gigantic flying cockroach and it is 11:15 p.m. In his bedroom I asked him the obvious questions. “Where is it?” and “Why are you calling Dad?” “It’s behind the blinds, and Dad told me to get you up.” I wrestled with this dilemma for what seemed like the longest two seconds. I couldn’t fathom how to handle the problem (and I also had the gigantic flying cockroach to deal with). Why would my husband want me to get up? I hate bugs. I

The National Weather Service has issued several advisories and warnings throughout the state regarding the heat. I have too. 1. Consuming high quantities of alcohol may result in: Sweaty, drunk golfers who will want to smoke cigars. 2. Avoid phoning golfer (who may be your husband) with incidental things like tripping electrical circuit breakers or that all 27 air conditioners “just wont stay on”. 3. This may result in missed putts, a beer, and smoking a cigar. 4. Avoid calling golfer (again) to say that “They’re still not ‘on’ and you’ve tried EVERYTHING”. 5. This may result in other, divorced, golfers to laugh – a lot. 6. Being laughed at, a lot, may result in club throwing, beer throwing (throwing a tantrum?), and smoking a cigar. Did he just hang up in me? 7. Wearing silly plastic vests with reflective strips may result in naked road construction workers. 8. Naked road construction workers may lead to 70-year-old women, named Arlene, tossing personal articles o

In order to beat the heat, headlines across the state are offering up ways to keep cool. Many hole up in air-conditioned rooms. I go to the beach. The ride takes about 30 minutes on a good day…in January. In July, it could take as long as what amounts to earning a masters degree. But, no worries, my gas guzzling SUV has air-conditioning. It's not the drive that takes so long but negotiating the parking lot on I-95 which extends as far south as Newark, NJ. Cars are loaded with coolers, beach chairs, those annoying beach umbrellas, and the even more annoying children who insisted on bringing shovels, pails, a backhoe, snorkels, Boogie Boards, and Jacques Cousteau. So, all of the cars are bumper to backhoe on the interstate. The air conditioning is on maximum, the children are well hydrated, the cooler is well…empty, and Jacques Cousteau is in his Speedo, speaking French, which he does well (the French, not the Speedo). Everyone is having fun beating the heat out there on the

I have realized that men and women are quite different. Besides the anatomical diversity, and that men only own two pairs of shoes (from the 80s) and the most obvious being that women have no desire to play air guitar while lip-syncing to Black Sabbath. This isn’t a recent revelation. I have known this since I was in grade school when Eddie Kumpitsch hung upside down from the jungle gym screaming out the words of “Jeremiah was a Bull Frog” swinging back and forth like a pendulum as his face turned the color of a turnip. While Jeremiah was a good friend of his, I wasn’t and wanted Jeremiah to come and take Eddie back to the swamp he obviously crawled out of. There they could eat flies, or maybe turnips, and croak for all I cared. Men and women are wired differently. Women use their brain cells to plan things. We plan for everything…pregnancies, birthday parties, graduation parties, sleepovers and natural disasters, which often are the same thing. But we are prepared for that. M

“What are you doing? Research?” my mate asked while I stood staring into the fridge, in my raincoat and clutching my favorite spatula. He was familiar with the get-up; he’d seen it before…once, maybe twice. He wanted no part of this cleaning spree. “Want to help?” I inquired. “I have to mow the lawn.” “It’s snowing.” “Dad, do we have any milk in there?” asked Christian, my teenager. My husband handed him the carton. “That’s not milk, that’s yogurt.” Christian looked at me… I pretended to adjust my swim goggles. “Unless you want to stay and help…” I said handing the remote, which was behind what might have been lettuce, to Noah. “Put this back where it belongs.” “Where does it go, in the freezer?” While I clean the fridge, its contents often distract me and I also tend to gag a lot. Anything that hasn’t left on its own – I make a mental note to increase its rent. Anything with an expiration dating back to Nixon’s term gets discarded. Everything else gets scrutinized – th