Home » Blog Subscribe to RSS Feed

In case you haven’t figured this out before, I have a bit of an evil streak. I admit to it. And, just like everyone else, I get the urge to get a little vengeance when people are mean to me.

We all want to bash in some headlights when someone steals our parking space. But we don’t do it. Because we don’t have a baseball bat handy. Or because we really don’t want to go to jail. And occasionally we think, maybe he had a good reason for taking that spot. Maybe there’s a pregnant lady in the back of the car and she’s in labor and they really need something from . . . Autozone/the mall/my apartment building before they head on to the hospital. Yeah, I haven’t come up with a good excuse for it either, but I try to be a good person and imagine there was a good reason . . . But in the end I want my revenge.

People shouldn’t steal parking spaces from those who were waiting. People shouldn’t park just over the line. If you don’t fit, don’t take the spot. You should also know that your Yukon doesn’t fit into compact spaces – no matter how good a driver you believe you are.

People shouldn’t park in two spots up close to entrance. If you are too bad a driver to park in the lines, then just try again. You’ll get it! I have faith. Besides it’s better to look like a bad driver than an A-hole, right? If anyone gives you funny looks, tell them you borrowed your neighbor’s car. If you want to take up two spots, that’s fine. Maybe you have a very nice or expensive car and you’re worried about dings and scratches. I understand that. But you shouldn’t take those two spots right near the entrance. And I’m not just talking the mall at Christmas either. Any time. You know who you are.

Taking up two prime spots is not a good practice for anyone worried about scratches. You’re likely to come back and find your car covered in scratches. Scratches that spell out words. Words like “Don’t take two parking spots, Jackhole.”

I have never done this. I have wanted to – especially after some able-bodied person emerges from the spot-stealing car, usually talking on his or her cell phone. Keying a car might be satisfying, but it can lead to serious fines and jail time. And I do worry that there was something I missed. Maybe her mother just died and she’s paying no attention. It could happen. I’m sure that the vast majority of the spot-stealers and double parkers aren’t in that situation, though. And because of that, we need some good, legal revenge.

My first hit went down like this: one of the tenants in my apartment building used to take up the first two spots right by the door. She did have a flashy little red car, and she always got the best spots she could. One day she parked in the two spots next to the fire hydrant right by the entrance, and I thought I could squeeze my little Civic in the remaining space. I mean, it was only raining cats and dogs and the only other space was on the other side of the lot. But I didn’t really fit, and I wound up getting really wet.

But I left her a note! Yes, the strongly worded letter can work. But it goes something like this: “Dear Sheri” – her name was on her front plate – “I’m so sorry, I was trying to squeeze in next to you last night in the rain and I’m afraid I scratched your car. My insurance will cover it. Please call me! – Drew”

I had not scratched her car at all. (I’m a better/nicer driver than that.) My name isn’t Drew. (I purposefully chose something gender-neutral.) And it wasn’t due to forgetfulness that there was no phone number after the ‘please call me’.

I had a friend leave the note at six a.m. because in my early days I was a pansy. But at nine I found Sheri, note in hand, checking her car. By ten-thirty when I pulled back into the lot, Sheri had two friends and was still looking for this phantom mark. I hid my smile. Not only did my little note cost Sheri several hours of her day, but she never parked up close again. She politely took two spots at the far corner of the lot. Probably only out of fear that some fool would try to squeeze in next to her precious Mustang. But hey, it worked.

Emboldened by such a strong early success, I stuck a small pad of paper in my glove box. I never park without it. When people commit parking sins, I write. I vary the note. Sometimes I say the scratch was accidental. Sometimes I confess to being so mad I keyed their car. But, knowing it was wrong, I feel the need to fess up and cover the damage. Sometimes I admit to putting tiny holes in their tires.

But I don’t do any of it. The only time I touch the car is to lift the windshield wiper to tuck my half-sheet of plain paper under it. *sigh* I haven’t threatened anyone. I didn’t damage any property. It’s just a nice, legal note. But it feels so good!

Listen to AJ's Podcast SMART CHICKENS

Because Sometimes We All Just Want to Fly the Coop!

Subscribe to my podcast SMART CHICKENS in iTunes -

Tweet This Post  Digg This Post 

Many people think the game Guitar Hero isn’t any kind of blessing. My father says if my sister practiced a real guitar half the amount of time she spends playing ‘that game’ she’d be a skilled musician by now. Instead, she is very skilled at making a plastic guitar click in an abnormal rhythm.

Everyone in my family plays the game . . . except me. That could be because I suck at it. And for a while I agreed with my father. It was just a video game sucking everyone’s time.

Sure, it’s a phenomena. South Park made an episode about it. Bands are dying to be on it. Every kid dreams of being immortalized in a poor CGI rendition as one of the rockers. And I have to admit, (CGI aside) the game is well put together. I laughed my butt off the first time actually didn’t ‘fail’ a song and was rewarded with a nice paycheck. Which the game immediately rescinded to pay for my ‘trashed hotel room’ and ‘new leather pants’.

So while this game eats away at my children’s lives – and other family members’ too! I have to remember what it has done for us.

I don’t know about you, but I have a fourteen-year-old brother. (Nuclear family, long story, another day.) When I tell him about my favorite bands, he knows some of them. But every now and then, I say something like “It’s ’30 Seconds to Mars’. (Love those guys, but they are on the ‘alternative’ circuit.) Still, little brother knows them because he’s played one of their songs on Guitar Hero.

Let’s take a moment here to point out that I can’t even see 30 Seconds to Mars on my Guitar Hero - as I suck. Apparently, you have to perform better than I do to open new songs. I’m afraid I’m forever stuck with some very basic Joan Jett and Motley Crue. Both because I lack the ambition to play enough to learn, and because I lack whatever neural connection allows a person to click a key in time with dots coming at you that are actually just a tad off from the actual rhythm. *sigh* Hey at least I peeled my sorry butt off ‘beginner’ level and made it up to ‘easy’. I know, I know. I feel shame.

My elementary aged kids can kick my butt at this game, too. And, in the end that’s okay. Because yesterday they picked up real electric guitars and put in their ‘learn to play’ DVD and had a few chords by the end. With these three chords they made up a silly song. Hey, I hear U2 started this way . . .

I would worry about all this. The kids actually show some talent, and they really seem to like playing and singing. I’d fear I was breeding the next ‘Hanson’ or ‘Jonas Brothers’. But, thanks to Guitar Hero, I don’t have to worry about that.

Yeah. The other day I almost wrecked the car because the two of them were beat-boxing. And no, it wasn’t the odd noises from the back of the car that almost drove me off the road. It wasn’t that they were harmonizing. It was that four notes in I was relatively sure what they were performing. And by ten notes I was positive. I nearly crashed when I swung my head around and blurted “Where did you two learn ‘Eye of the Tiger’?!”

Yes, they know ‘Eye of the Tiger’, ‘Cliffs of Dover’ and ‘I love Rock n Roll’, among others. At age three my little girl would bust into ‘Smokin in the Boys Room’ every time she had to use a public bathroom. And at ages six and nine, they are far more interested in “The Who” and “Metallica” than anything from any kids-TV music crap-factory.

For that, I say “God Bless you, Guitar Hero!”

Listen to AJ's Podcast SMART CHICKENS

Because Sometimes We All Just Want to Fly the Coop!

Subscribe to my podcast SMART CHICKENS in iTunes -

Tweet This Post  Digg This Post 

Since moving out of the city I have to say that I have encountered a whole new share of yard issues.

In Los Angeles, one of the major problems was that we needed to park the cars on the street, just to reclaim those last square feet of driveway as yard space. Where should we put the six foot, inflatable leprechaun for St Patrick’s Day? He took up the bulk of the grass area and left a precious little play spot for children who didn’t have much of that inside either. We got a push mower so we wouldn’t make noise and disturb the neighbors (and, yes, I do mean the kind with no motor whatsoever, two wheels, and blades that you kept really sharp because they didn’t go really fast.)

We tell people that we live in Nashville now, but that’s really a bit of a lie. Our address is listed as one of the smaller satellite towns further out. And, like is the case with many big cities, if you look at the map, you can see where Nashville was, where this old small town was, and where newer smaller cities/districts/suburbs have sprung up to fill the space in between.

Yet to say that we live in this smaller town is also really more of a lie than a truth. Our address is for this city, but we have to drive five miles before we get to the “Welcome to” city limits sign. What this gives us is ‘county’ land and a really big yard.

We weren’t stupid enough to bring the push-mower when we moved. And we went straight from the bottom rung (push mower) to the top (how wide a blade can we possibly get on the riding mower? – because an extra three inches of chopped grass on each pass can add up in a yard this size.) Because the last guy who lived here was a golfer and we are still finding golf balls in the grass, we have fondly dubbed the back yard ‘the back nine’.

While the size is great and the grass is green and we can play a good game of softball without worrying about taking out a neighbor’s windowpane, the yard itself holds the most wonder. There are tons of frogs. This year we managed to keep the dogs from drinking the tadpoles out of the pond, and we finally learned what our frogs look like. We have both the little peeper varieties and the big croakers. Both the kids can now walk around the back nine and come to the door with a frog in hand. We even have a three legged frog fondly dubbed ‘Stumpy’. He lost an argument with the mower one day, but we are all glad he survived. He’s fairly easy to find as he only moves in clockwise circles.

The cats have brought back other yard creatures that I didn’t know we had. There are field mice – which are really cute when they are still whole. And there are shrews – that one took a look in the ‘Area Mammals’ book to identify. I don’t think I’d ever seen a real shrew before. And I saw five shrews before I finally saw a live one. There are snakes and a small variety of lizards – which required a trip to the local bookstore for an ‘Area Reptiles’ book. But mostly there are moles.

I knew we had moles. We inherited a spate of mole traps along with the lost golf balls on the back nine. I like to think of myself as pretty mechanically savvy, so when I saw this dull silver fob in my yard, I immediately checked it out to see how it worked.

It took a while to confirm that it was indeed a mole trap, because there was no obvious place to keep a live or dead mole upon entrapment. I did pull one out of the ground for a closer look – as the thing was clearly positioned over an opening to a mole tunnel – figuring the trap part might be underground. But no.

To this day, I haven’t figured out how the damned things work. And, me of little faith, I pulled them all up, because clearly it can’t work if I don’t understand it. As best I could reason, one placed these ‘traps’ over the open mole-hole and pull back on the plunger. A small lever clicks the arm back where it is held, tense and waiting for an unsuspecting mole. When the mechanism is released, the flat head slams down toward the hole, effectively . . . bopping the mole on the head?

You can start to see why I yanked them all out. No way do I want a yard full of moles, but even less do I want a yard full of dazed and confused moles. Because I hear when they come around after that head bopping, they are really pissed!

Listen to AJ's Podcast SMART CHICKENS

Because Sometimes We All Just Want to Fly the Coop!

Subscribe to my podcast SMART CHICKENS in iTunes -

Tweet This Post  Digg This Post 

A few weeks ago I had the singular pleasure of watching Steve Martin get inducted into the Grand Ole Opry. You may be thinking that you read that wrong. Or that there’s another Steve Martin. Well, no you didn’t and yes, it’s him. Most people don’t know that the funny man also plays a mean banjo, but the Opry folks do.

Being a Steve Martin fan and a banjo fan (yes really, I do know the difference between ‘Orange Blossom Special’ and ‘Wabash Cannonball’), it seemed like the perfect time to check out the Opry.

It turns out my thirty-five dollars didn’t just get me a ticket, it opened a portal into another world. I thought I knew what was coming, but I was not prepared.

First, there were ads all through the show. A curious blend of old and new, banking commercials on the Jumbo-tron were followed by an announcer standing at the side of the stage telling me that the Cracker Barrel cornmeal mix made the best muffins. Pews lined the back of the stage, where people who had apparently paid more than I had could see the proceedings up close and from the back. (Are these really the best seats?)

A handful of players covered the standard country backup instruments – a guitar, banjo, drums and piano – while singer after singer was paraded across the stage. Oldies but goodies? Some of them. Most I had never heard of, many harkened back to before Barbara Mandrell was ‘sleeping single in a double bed’ and several looked as though they might not live long enough to get through the second performance that evening.

It seemed far too casual a show to be presented to four thousand paying ticket holders. They had several guest DJs come up to the mic just for fun. They called out birthdays and asked who in the audience had traveled the furthest to get there. People milled about at the edges of the stage and at one point our piano player stood up between songs, picked her jeans out of her butt, adjusted her shirt and sat back down. I kid you not.

One guy played a remarkable banjo number while simultaneously talking to people in the audience. His hands were clearly not wired to the same brain that was working his jaw. Another group came out in some remarkable outfits – the lead singer was in a teal button-down shirt with twelve-inch fringe and a puffy cactus tie. His band-mates are indescribable as they were also vying for the ‘creepiest western wear’ award.

I have never seen so many different performers in a two hour period. Nor have I laughed so hard – and most often at the points that weren’t intended to be funny. About halfway through, a group was introduced to play Texas-style country because (and I quote) “the Opry is all about diversity”.

When we all managed to get our hysterics under control, my little group of friends made a bet. It was winner take all – we had to find an African-American in the audience. Only a short while later we expanded the hunt in hopes of having an actual winner – we widened the search to include a person of any skin color other than obvious Caucasian. The Opry’s diversity must be something I can’t see, because we all lost.

During the show, we worked our way forward through the decades, stopping at every singer who supposedly had a hit I’d never heard of. And finally (finally!) twelve ads, two DJs, twenty-three different acts and thirty songs later, Steve Martin came out.

While he wasn’t there as a comedian, he naturally said funny things. I think it’s just the way he is at this point. Vince Gill introduced him. Then Amy Grant came out and the two sang a song Steve wrote. And somehow it made all the other happenings worth while – like the crazy lady next to me who got mad if one of us spoke during the announcer-read ads, or the hit singer who couldn’t carry a tune and whose ‘hit song’ none of us recognized, or the fact that the one song all of us did recognize involved the phrases ‘all of my wives’ and ‘gun in my truck’.

Of course, after the amazing Mr. Martin thanked everyone for being there for him, Vince Gill – who had been waiting patiently at the side of the stage chatting with the folks in the pews – called Steve back out for one more. And Vince said “Can you join us for a little ‘Foggy Mountain Breakdown’?”

A hush settled over the audience. These people knew. For those of you who don’t, “Foggy Mountain Breakdown” is no “Stairway to Heaven”. It’s really more of a “One”. And then some.

But Steve Martin shrugged, said “I’ll try” and proceeded to blow us all away with his casual talent.

I highly recommend ‘A Night at the Opry’, though I do suggest that you go when the headliner is someone you really like. That way, at the end of the first two hours, when you are stunned with disbelief, you will be brought out slowly by a performer you enjoy hearing. It helps to keep you from getting ‘the bends’ from coming up too fast. Also, if you are African-American, Asian-American, Native American or have any tinge to your skin color – no matter how slight – please let me know when you’ll be attending, so I can finally win that bet!

Listen to AJ's Podcast SMART CHICKENS

Because Sometimes We All Just Want to Fly the Coop!

Subscribe to my podcast SMART CHICKENS in iTunes -

Tweet This Post  Digg This Post 

You know the economy has changed when the airline that used to be criticized for its cattle-call manner of boarding passengers is now the nicest player in the game. But, even though our standards have lowered, there are still a handful of things that make flying less than it could be. Or even make it devolve into a struggle just to get through security without hurting someone.

Once my shoes have been checked for C4 and I’ve had my bags searched because of that bottle of water I absent-mindedly tucked in my carry-on, I’m ready to be led on board for the flight itself.

I just love flying. I love small foil wrappers housing three to five peanuts each. I like asking for a coke and getting a two ounce glass with one and a half ounces of ice. I like half-done crosswords and sudokus that always seem to kick my butt, even though I do quite fine at home. I like SkyMall.

No wait. I DO like SkyMall. Some things in there are over-priced and ridiculous – who would buy a car from a magazine? Wait, don’t tell me that you did it. I really don’t want to know. But every now and then, there are some things in SkyMall that are really cool.

While SkyMall actually does soothe me, the rules on the plane drive me nuts. Were they put there just to mess with me? I think so.

Really? The three inch difference in my chair back is going to make a difference in how the plane takes off or lands? I can barely feel the change when I push the button, so how can this possibly alter the flight? Or what if my tray table is down? I get that a drink might spill when the plane tilts, but how does having a tray down really change things? Even if ALL the trays were down? Ooooooh, now that would be scary.

They say I should use my seat cushion as a floatation device, but how can I do that when I’m hunched over trying to stick my head between my knees? When I’m in that position, I’m just praying we are crashing over solid ground so I don’t have to worry about getting that seat pad out from under my butt.

Do you know why you have to contort yourself to get your head down when the plane is about to crash? Because the flight attendants don’t want you to see them strapping on the only three parachutes and slipping out the back exit.

And why does my cell phone have to be off? It can’t really interfere with the flight navigation or they would inspect every phone to be sure that it is, in fact, off. They’d make you check it like luggage. But they don’t. Still tell you to turn it off anyway. And all us rule-followers push our power button like good little boys and girls.

Is it because they don’t want us to have contact with the outside world during the flight? So that we can’t complain about the small doses of peanuts unless we remember to do so after we debark? Did they drug us in those tiny shots of soft drinks so that we won’t remember what happened during the flight?

I don’t know. I don’t have any of these answers. But I do have a bit of a mischievous streak. The next time I’m sitting on a plane and we hit a patch of turbulence, I’m going to wait it out calmly. But as soon as it’s over, I’m going to hold up my cell phone and yell out, “I forgot to turn off my cell phone! My bad!”

Subscribe to my podcast SMART CHICKENS in iTunes -

Tweet This Post  Digg This Post