Karen Loftis Rankowitz

I consider myself a fairly private person. I share some information publicly here on my blog; but much of my life remains secreted away within the walls of my personal sanctuary, invisible to the critical eye of others. I generalize my thoughts and express them as they might apply to others. Even though my expressions are not stated bluntly, much of what I write is deep from within my heart, it’s what is on my mind, and it is often a struggle to keep my words from invading, not only my own space, but the space of my loved ones. I leave my husband out of my writings much of the time because he is hugely more private than I am and I wish not to over step boundaries and, through a public forum, crash in on his life. If I’m “Rhode Island”, he’s like “Texas” where, I’ve heard, “Everything is bigger.” The date has been set, the trip planned, though we decided not to make it public and the reason is the paparazzi, of course. First, we don’t want anyone following us around. Second, we wor...

Writers, we all have a certain style. We also have a method, a process by which words clatter, swirl, and chatter (some incessantly) around in our writer brains, then by some miraculous event (similar to my kids eating spinach without vomiting or better yet, The Big Bang Theory) they appear on paper. Some of the greatest have shared the methods in which they produce works that don’t stink. It’s been said that a lot Erma Bombeck’s ideas came to her as she was washing dishes. Dave Barry, I believe, has a stare-down contest with his monitor. He usually wins, and in a big way. As any great writer ‘wanna be’, I devour anything my favorite writers have produced. From novels, to essays, even thank you notes and grocery lists. Reading, they say, will surely improve one’s writing. So, in my quest to be the next great I will attempt to emulate my personal favorites. I know Erma has passed but often times that’s what I emulate the best, but for argument’s sake I have tried to follow her ways...

Being a mother of two boys, Christian is 15 and Noah is 12, is, as it always has been, filled with surprise, wonder, a wayward hippo proposal, and a lot of laughter. They both are rambunctious, energetic, and the absolute, truest loves of my life (but I confess, Vin Diesel ranks up there too). 20 years ago when I met and fell, or rather face-planted, smack down in love with their father I thought our love trumped all. And it did, until I had my boys. I have done many things in my time here on Mother Earth but there is nothing I am more proud of than being their mom. Ok, maybe I am more proud of them than I am in myself, or my mothering abilities. After all, they’ve made it all possible. And I think they’re pretty cool, too – and I concede, they may have gotten that from their father, or perhaps it was Vin Diesel. I gush when I see the fine young men they are growing up to be. They have and will continue to be (if I’m doing this right) the toughest undertaking I have ever come up...

Helping a child with the loss of a pet is tough. We lost our beta fish yesterday. He was with us for almost a year and a half. He was purple; Noah’s favorite color. His name was Betals. My husband scooped him out of the bowl with my kitchen tongs. Placed him on a paper towel and asked Noah, who is 12, if he wanted to say a few words. Noah let a few tears trickle down his cheeks, looked at the fish, and at that moment, chose his words carefully. “I don’t know.” He replied. Our family clustered into the bathroom to bid our beta buddy goodbye. My mate, ever sentimental after I convinced him we shouldn’t bury him in the garden, played ‘Taps’ through his pursed lips. I hid my laughter behind the bathroom door, but wiped the tear from my eye as I watched Noah fight back his own. Christian, my teenager, stood looking at all of us, his expression of absolute embarrassment – perhaps thinking that he couldn’t possibly be related to any of us. Noah, startled out of his mournful trance by t...

Yesterday was the 6th grade field trip to New York City. Noah, my youngest, went with my husband who was a designated chaperone. Who watched whom? I’m not sure I want to know, but I probably already do. The group visited many places - the United Nations building, Ground Zero, Ellis Island, and Liberty Island to name a few. Noah is a collector of things and while being the diligent tourist he purchased his souvenirs. Two of these treasures were for me. One was a pen from Ellis Island because he knows a writer needs her tools to fulfill her mission. I, wanting to live up to my ‘calling’, recently penned an essay entitled “ I Pray for Peace ” written the day prior to the NYC excursion. In it, I wrote of the recent passing of three remarkable, children from my community. Noah had not read this piece yet. As a matter of fact, my family rarely peruses the writing I labor over unless it is force fed to them. So, when he presented me with his thoughtful gifts I was quite surprised by th...

Holidays are great for spending time with family. Yesterday was Easter and my day began early. I prepared a dish to bring to my Mother-in-law’s house for dinner. I woke my children early – not the other way around. Gone are the days when they were too excited to go to sleep and then got up before the Easter Bunny had a chance to finish her work. My husband took me out for a ride on his Harley; a little chilly...but it's a "biker thing". I ate, and then ate some more, and of course devoured enough candy to induce a diabetic coma fit for an elephant. I also went for a walk with some of my family. A detour led us up a rocky hill to the train tracks. The hill topped, maybe, 15 – 20 feet. About half way up, I got stuck. Not because the rocks were loose or the air was thin at that altitude. I froze because I am terrified of heights. Put me on the back of a big, bad motorcycle and I think I’m a badass. Ask me to scale the side of a rocky, fifteen-foot incline and I’m reduce...

Some of you may know that my favorite book happens to be the dictionary. I’m a writer; words are my thing. Yesterday I had an occasion to require the use of the dictionary. The word “balderdash” came up while I was talking and my 12-year-old, who rarely tunes into my voice, took notice. Basically, the gist of the conversation began with, “Every word that comes out of your mouth is complete balderdash!” “Mom, does that mean they’re yelling really fast?” My inquisitive child asked. “No, he wasn’t yelling, he just wasn’t making any sense.” “Then why is it bolder?” This, of course, prompted me to write this piece in terms of how children, who are raised with such languages as “text-speak” and “Hooked on Phonics”, process and then define the words they hear, see, and use. I’ve come up with a few definitions to words, both in the English language and that which is foreign to me. Avoidable – Actually a Spanish word, meaning “Running of the Bulls” Brothel – Wearing one cup-s...

Dear Santa, Yes, Santa, I do believe. I’m only going to ask you for a few things this year for Christmas. I’ll start with the easier requests. I’d like a self-loading dishwasher. And would you be able to make the dust on the shelves look ‘festive’ – like snow or frost – instead of neglected? I’d like my father to call me by my name and not those of my siblings or the dog I had when I was a teenager so long ago. I’d like just a little bit more time in each day. You can give that to me through my children. Please have them turn their clothing right-side-out, before it’s washed. Specifically, their socks. Enough Scotch Tape to wrap ALL the gifts. Oh, and some Duct Tape so I can hold myself together this season. I don’t want leggings or tights. But could you give me legs that might look good in them. In years past, I didn’t always get the things I wanted, but that’s probably because I didn’t ask for them. I wanted things, but I stopped working hard to get them and keep them. ...

The newsletter from school that came home in Noah’s backpack featured a duck reading a book entitled ‘Silly Stories.’ I like silly, it’s what I write about. I started reading. The first column “Where’s Your Funny Bone?” asked what makes your child laugh. Funny noises, being tickled, or maybe a funny picture; nowhere did it mention jumping off the roof of the shed with cardboard attached to arms to see if people can actually fly. So, I moved on. The next column, “Attention All Shoppers” drew me in. I’m the shopping editor for a publication I write for. Surely, this will help me with my next edition. Take your child grocery shopping, it read. I gasped so loudly that the cat fled the room. I’d rather have my eyelids stapled to my brow. As one who loves a good challenge, or simply a kick in the pants, I took my boys shopping. Actually, I take them shopping often, though not my choice; it is what a mom must endure. I thought about the newsletter’s advice and decided it was time for ...

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...

Did You Know? May 27th is Heat Safety Awareness Day. I can only guess that this pertains to either your pets or barbequing in the back yard. As for your pets, National Spay Day (I kid you not), well, that is the in the last week of February so I will get back to you on that. Memorial Day weekend is almost upon us and grills will be firing up all across the country. The aroma of burgers, hotdogs, chicken, chicken that actually tastes like chicken, will awaken the primitive carnivore that sleeps in most of us. In the spirit of this heat safety awareness, there are only two things that people have a primal fear of. One is fire, the other is water. Both are needed to ensure success and safety while grilling out doors. Experts advise not to use a spray bottle of water on ‘flare-ups’. I tend to agree, and the garden hose does provide a safer distance in which to douse the flare-ups that lure enthusiastic firefighters. The spray bottle can, however, be used to keep stray tomcats aw...

Potty training is not about the progression from diapers to big boy underwear. It's a process that continues into adulthood, especially for boys, and sad to say some never become fully trained. Lift the seat and aim. Though this combination may necessitate some study of geometric angles, it isn't rocket science. The task requires no more effort than raising an arm, yet it seems my boys' arms do not move this way. Not unless this action involves hitting or eating. So I thought if eating moves arms then drinking must too. However, the signs I stuck to the seat, "Flip-Top-Lid" gave them no clue. They must have assumed it was a target, since aim only counts in sports and video games. I do dream of some day having my own bathroom, a sanctuary where offenders are ban. Fingers, notes, and cat food don't fit under the door and the dog does not drink from the faucet. The "I have had enough" moment came in an eruption, literally. My child, the one that never ...

I asked for a hysterectomy for my 40 th birthday. What I got instead was bronchitis, a double ear infection, and a mammogram. I had put it off for long enough. I finally made the overdue appointment with my gynecologist. I was told that a mammogram was in order because I am, of course, 40. I took the detailed information the receptionist, so kindly, gave to me even though it wasn't what I asked for. As I sat in the waiting room, I read the pamphlet but couldn't fathom why, after everything else I've gone through with them, would they subject me to more nastiness. "Is there no limit?" I asked while patting my chest in reassurance. I was sure the words printed were encrypted. A secret code my mind readily translated from "It will be fine, it's really not that bad" to "Good, LORD, you want what?" The Procedure: Do not apply deodorant/antiperspirant on the day of the procedure. But, it was here in the decoding process where I began to sweat. ...

I wouldn't have been so alarmed if my children were home, when it hit me on the head. However, I was alone and naked and in my shower. All I thought was it must have been a bug. Probably a big bug by the thwack I suffered. I felt so vulnerable, and exposed, standing there but ran my hand through my wet hair and pried it out. I squinted, cause I can't see without glasses, steadied my shaking hand, and focused in on the Q-Tip. "That's odd." I said, and looked up. There must have been 137 of them just hanging from the ceiling. They were dripping down like stalactite formations from Carlsbad Caverns that tourists pay a ton of money to see. Squinting harder, I discovered the ceiling wasn't the only surface afflicted; they were everywhere. For two boys who wouldn't find the hamper if it was woven out of hundred dollar bills , one of them found the super-sized box of 300 plus Q-tips, and together they transformed my shower into a cavern. I vaguely recalled the s...

I have listened to my motivational tapes, diligently watched the "cleanliness is next to Godliness" infomercials and performed my daily stress reducing yoga, which has eased my mind, but has cause much stress to muscles I haven't used since birthing my children. I am ready to clean my house, not just 'tidy up' but get into places that haven't seen the light of day since…well, my last bout of ambition. Most would consider this a task to perform during the springtime. However, I am a procrastinator so the deed doesn't get started until late summer. I admit I am a disaster at domestication. I have not been declared a Federal disaster yet, but I do make such a mess when I try to clean. I am relieved that the cleaning product gurus recognize this crisis. They are now making bazillions of new and improved devices to help me out. Take Swiffer for example. They have the Sweeper, the Carpet Flick, Swiffer Sweeper+Vac, and for dust, there are Swiffer Duster...