Linda L. Zern's Blog, page 14

Down on the Farm, Way Down

Consider this another disclaimer.

If you're going to come to a farm, you're going to see animals in their natural state. If you're going to read about a farm you're going to read about animals in their natural state: Be warned!

Our neighbor, Mr. M, has goats. We have goats. Fences separate our goats. Sometimes the goats actually pay attention to the fences and stay where they're supposed to stay, but in the spring . . . all bets are off. It's spring after all.

Because in the spring a young buck's heart turns to love or . . . how to say this genteelly . . . er . . . um . . . oh forget it! Humping! Their hearts turn to humping and fences are for jumping.

We have a buck goat. He's seven feet tall when he stands on his hind legs. He has devil eyes and jacked up horns. Grown men are frightened of him. He's a complete sweetheart. His name is Tramp. Tramp's companion goat, wife's name is Eleven.

Mr. M has a buck goat, a little, snorty, aggressive, headbutting sex monster. We'll call him Pest.

One fresh spring day I heard the grandchildren sounding the alarm. Screams echoed from the pasture lands.

"Goats. Goats! There are goats everywhere."

True. There were goats everywhere. Led by Pest the buck goat, Mr. M's goats had jumped the fence and invaded our Tramp's territory. Massive headbutting began, followed by snorting, stiff leg stamping, face peeing and lip curling.

I should explain. Boy goats are gross. They have scent glands between their horns that reek when they're in rut, and to top it off they pee on their own faces. It's a poor goat's cologne and drives girl goats crazy.

Pest the neighbor's goat jumped one fence, squeezed under a gate, and finally crawled into Tramp and Eleven's pen. And then it got wild.

Eleven ran for her life. Tramp, inspired by all the head butting and urine face ramping ran after Eleven. Pest the Buck ran after Tramp. Everyone had love on the mind. It was a goat threesome.

Children screamed. The dog barked. I raced after the goats trying to lasso one or all of them. Another neighbor showed up and hollered, "Linda, what have you got going on back here?" My daughter kept hollering, "Why? Why?" and, "What is happening?" Periodically I had to stop and bend over at the waist to laugh manically, and around and 'round we went.

Yesterday, Mr. M, my neighbor, had a kid's birthday party at his house. All the children tramped out to the barnyard to "see" the animals. I heard one bright young man yell, "It's pooping. It's pooping. Everyone look! It's pooping all over the place." What kind of animal was pooping? I have no clue, but they all do it--a lot.

Poor city kids!

Not only do animals poop and pee, sometimes they pee on their own faces, in addition to jumping fences and going on wild date rape adventures. Be warned! Farm life is real life in its natural state: no pants, no manners, no singing, no dancing, no autograph signing. Be warned!

Linda (Pimp Daddy) Zern

Down on the Farm, Way Down

Consider this another disclaimer. 

If you're going to come to a farm, you're going to see animals in their natural state. If you're going to read about a farm you're going to read about animals in their natural state: Be warned!

Our neighbor, Mr. M, has goats. We have goats. Fences separate our goats. Sometimes the goats actually pay attention to the fences and stay where they're supposed to stay, but in the spring . . . all bets are off. It's spring after all.

Because in the spring a young buck's heart turns to love or . . . how to say this genteelly . . . er . . . um . . . oh forget it! Humping! Their hearts turn to humping and fences are for jumping.

We have a buck goat. He's seven feet tall when he stands on his hind legs. He has devil eyes and jacked up horns. Grown men are frightened of him. He's a complete sweetheart. His name is Tramp. Tramp's companion goat, wife's name is Eleven. 

Mr. M has a buck goat, a little, snorty, aggressive, headbutting sex monster. We'll call him Pest.

One fresh spring day I heard the grandchildren sounding the alarm. Screams echoed from the pasture lands.

"Goats. Goats! There are goats everywhere."

True. There were goats everywhere. Led by Pest the buck goat, Mr. M's goats had jumped the fence and invaded our Tramp's territory. Massive headbutting began, followed by snorting, stiff leg stamping, face peeing and lip curling. 

I should explain. Boy goats are gross. They have scent glands between their horns that reek when they're in rut, and to top it off they pee on their own faces. It's a poor goat's cologne and drives girl goats crazy.

Pest the neighbor's goat jumped one fence, squeezed under a gate, and finally crawled into Tramp and Eleven's pen. And then it got wild.

Eleven ran for her life. Tramp, inspired by all the head butting and urine face ramping ran after Eleven. Pest the Buck ran after Tramp. Everyone had love on the mind. It was a goat threesome. 

Children screamed. The dog barked. I raced after the goats trying to lasso one or all of them. Another neighbor showed up and hollered, "Linda, what have you got going on back here?" My daughter kept hollering, "Why? Why?" and, "What is happening?" Periodically I had to stop and bend over at the waist to laugh manically, and around and 'round we went.

Yesterday, Mr. M, my neighbor, had a kid's birthday party at his house. All the children tramped out to the barnyard to "see" the animals. I heard one bright young man yell, "It's pooping. It's pooping. Everyone look! It's pooping all over the place." What kind of animal was pooping? I have no clue, but they all do it--a lot.

Poor city kids! 

Not only do animals poop and pee, sometimes they pee on their own faces, in addition to jumping fences and going on wild date rape adventures. Be warned! Farm life is real life in its natural state: no pants, no manners, no singing, no dancing, no autograph signing. Be warned!

Linda (Pimp Daddy) Zern 

How I Know God is Real . . .

. . . Because He [God] never lets me get smug. Never. Ever. That’s how I know. Just about the time I get to thinking I’ve got some street stuff or cool juice, God enjoys serving me up some humble pie with an extra helping of humiliation on the side.

Here’s how it always goes. I do something pretty keen, even dazzling, and then bam, one of my shoes falls in the toilet, and I have to dive in and fish it out. True story. Don’t ask.

I’m pretty good at saying the words that people hear with their ears. My college speech teacher remarked that “Linda is just this side of an inspirational speaker.” This side of what he never clarified.

It might be the Irish in me. It might be all the practice I get talking to myself. Either way, I can put the words together pretty okay when in front of a congregation, class, or captive audience. Recently, I spoke at a Saturday night church meeting with some excellent feedback from those that attended: I was passionate. I was sincere. I was loud. People said nice things to me afterward. I believed them.

Not going to lie, after giving my rousing speech I felt pretty pumped, stoked, and a bit up-tempo. My esteem of self enjoyed a moment of highness.

It was nice . . . while it lasted.

But then I set the table for the following Sunday dinner, and God put me back in my place where I belong.

As I covered our giant dining room table with an enormous oversized tablecloth smoothing, de-wrinkling, straightening and finally removing the gigantic lump under the cloth. It was a pair of my scanties, clinging to the back of the tablecloth like a cocklebur in a dog’s tail.

I should explain. Scanties are a genteel southern term for a girl’s under clothing or as my mother used to say, “Foundation garments.” Sort of like a cement slab holding up steel girders, I guess. Or in this case the bit of clothing that comes before the mom jeans. All right. Fine. My underwear. My underwear was balled up in the tablecloth from the dryer.

With a crackle of static, I pulled my scanties free and stuffed them out of the way in a bookcase next to the table saying in my head, “Now, Linda, don’t put those there. You know you’re going to forget them, and that will not end well.”

I was right. Sunday dinner commenced, and before the green beans had made their way to the end of the table, someone was waving my underwear over their head saying, “Hey, YaYa, what’s been going on around here?” Mad laughter boomed off the ceiling.

What could I say? It was humiliation mixed with goofy embarrassment. Great.

“Hey! Ask me how my speech went last night. I was dazzling. Ask anybody.”

But it was too late; my triumphant Saturday evening dissolved into my humbling Sunday afternoon, and that’s how I know that God is real because just when I think I’m big stuff someone finds my underwear stuffed between Ben Hur and The Turning of the Screw.

Sigh. Now I know that there may be a few skeptics who don't believe that God throws shoes in toilets or prompts the leaving of underclothing in bookcases and to you, I say, "Just when that Samson guy thought he was pretty hot stuff he got a bad haircut and things went south--fast."

Linda (Smug Muffin) Zern

HOW I KNOW GOD IS REAL . . .

. . . Because He [God] never lets me get smug. Never. Ever. That’s how I know. Just about the time I get to thinking I’ve got some street stuff or cool juice, God enjoys serving me up some humble pie with an extra helping of humiliation on the side. 

Here’s how it always goes. I do something pretty keen, even dazzling, and then bam, one of my shoes falls in the toilet, and I have to dive in and fish it out. True story. Don’t ask. 

I’m pretty good at saying the words that people hear with their ears. My college speech teacher remarked that “Linda is just this side of an inspirational speaker.” This side of what he never clarified.

It might be the Irish in me. It might be all the practice I get talking to myself. Either way, I can put the words together pretty okay when in front of a congregation, class, or captive audience. Recently, I spoke at a Saturday night church meeting with some excellent feedback from those that attended: I was passionate. I was sincere. I was loud. People said nice things to me afterward. I believed them.

Not going to lie, after giving my rousing speech I felt pretty pumped, stoked, and a bit up-tempo. My esteem of self enjoyed a moment of highness. 

It was nice . . . while it lasted.

But then I set the table for the following Sunday dinner, and God put me back in my place where I belong.

As I covered our giant dining room table with an enormous oversized tablecloth smoothing, de-wrinkling, straightening and finally removing the gigantic lump under the cloth. It was a pair of my scanties, clinging to the back of the tablecloth like a cocklebur in a dog’s tail.

I should explain. Scanties are a genteel southern term for a girl’s under clothing or as my mother used to say, “Foundation garments.” Sort of like a cement slab holding up steel girders, I guess. Or in this case the bit of clothing that comes before the mom jeans. All right. Fine. My underwear. My underwear was balled up in the tablecloth from the dryer.

With a crackle of static, I pulled my scanties free and stuffed them out of the way in a bookcase next to the table saying in my head, “Now, Linda, don’t put those there. You know you’re going to forget them, and that will not end well.”

I was right. Sunday dinner commenced, and before the green beans had made their way to the end of the table, someone was waving my underwear over their head saying, “Hey, YaYa, what’s been going on around here?” Mad laughter boomed off the ceiling.

What could I say? It was humiliation mixed with goofy embarrassment. Great. 

“Hey! Ask me how my speech went last night. I was dazzling. Ask anybody.”

But it was too late; my triumphant Saturday evening dissolved into my humbling Sunday afternoon, and that’s how I know that God is real because just when I think I’m big stuff someone finds my underwear stuffed between Ben Hur and The Turning of the Screw.

Sigh. Now I know that there may be a few skeptics who don't believe that God throws shoes in toilets or prompts the leaving of underclothing in bookcases and to you, I say, "Just when that Samson guy thought he was pretty hot stuff he got a bad haircut and things went south--fast." 

Linda (Smug Muffin) Zern 

MOTHER NATURE BITES

Last year at this time on the calendar, our property was under water. It was a rainy spring. It's happened before. A dozen years ago it rained every single day for twenty-eight days during the Easter season. Knee high rain boots were all the fashion rage around here.

This year we are dry as a dust bowl. There's a burn ban. There's a wildfire alert. There's a lot of crunchy grass.

But isn't that Mother Nature for you? The answer is yes.

Too much. Not enough.

For a dame that gets a lot of adoration and awe, Mother Nature is a real biddy. For those not of the Southern persuasion a biddy, or old biddy is an ugly, frightening old woman: beldam, crone, hag, witch.

When I hear people worshipping at the feet of their Earth day protest signs about how lovely Mother Nature is I have to laugh, thinking, "Have they ever met the old witch."

For example yesterday, I was shocked to see a huge, mature bald eagle standing in my next door neighbor's pasture. Mother Nature dictates that eagles don't walk about unless they're sick or eating something. This one was eating something. It was eating a newborn baby goat.

The kid's mother was bawling her guts out as the eagle tore her baby to bloody bits. I sighed. The mother goat continued to cry as she trotted over to her little herd. Frantically, she stirred up the other goats, until they galvanized themselves into a juggernaut of retribution, turned as one body, and charged the bloody-beaked raptor. They drove him off.

And then the goats promptly lost focus, forgot what they were about, and wandered off to try to find something to eat that wasn't deep fried by the sun. The mommy goat continued to bawl her lungs out as the eagle returned to his feast.

And that is the real Mother Nature, the old biddy that requires the "graphic content" warning on the Discovery Channel.

Sitting under our ancient oak tree that is showing signs of death and dying (also Mother Nature at work) something natural stung the back of my arm. Theories abound - wasp, scorpion, flesh-eating butterfly, T-Rex.

Whatever it was left a welt the size of a softball, felt like liquid lava, and hurt so bad I couldn't sleep . . . until I took unnatural drugs created in a lab.

And that's the real Mother Nature, not the sissy worshiped by humans who've never met her in person.

Linda (Nature Skeptic) Zern

MOTHER NATURE BITES

Majestic Bald Eagle Tearing a Newborn Goat to Shreds While Mommy Watches
Last year at this time on the calendar, our property was under water. It was a rainy spring. It's happened before. A dozen years ago it rained every single day for twenty-eight days during the Easter season. Knee high rain boots were all the fashion rage around here.

This year we are dry as a dust bowl. There's a burn ban. There's a wildfire alert. There's a lot of crunchy grass.

But isn't that Mother Nature for you? The answer is yes.

Too much. Not enough.

For a dame that gets a lot of adoration and awe, Mother Nature is a real biddy. For those not of the Southern persuasion a biddy, or old biddy is an ugly, frightening old woman: beldam, crone, hag, witch.

When I hear people worshipping at the feet of their Earth day protest signs about how lovely Mother Nature is I have to laugh, thinking, "Have they ever met the old witch."

For example yesterday, I was shocked to see a huge, mature bald eagle standing in my next door neighbor's pasture. Mother Nature dictates that eagles don't walk about unless they're sick or eating something. This one was eating something. It was eating a newborn baby goat.

The kid's mother was bawling her guts out as the eagle tore her baby to bloody bits. I sighed. The mother goat continued to cry as she trotted over to her little herd. Frantically, she stirred up the other goats, until they galvanized themselves into a juggernaut of retribution, turned as one body, and charged the bloody-beaked raptor. They drove him off. 

And then the goats promptly lost focus, forgot what they were about, and wandered off to try to find something to eat that wasn't deep fried by the sun. The mommy goat continued to bawl her lungs out as the eagle returned to his feast.

And that is the real Mother Nature, the old biddy that requires the "graphic content" warning on the Discovery Channel. 

Sitting under our ancient oak tree that is showing signs of death and dying (also Mother Nature at work) something natural stung the back of my arm. Theories abound - wasp, scorpion, flesh-eating butterfly, T-Rex.

Whatever it was left a welt the size of a softball, felt like liquid lava, and hurt so bad I couldn't sleep . . . until I took unnatural drugs created in a lab.

And that's the real Mother Nature, not the sissy worshiped by humans who've never met her in person. 

Linda (Nature Skeptic) Zern 

LIST MANIA

I signed up to be part of a four-day Book Lover’s Book Fair two years ago. I had no idea what I was doing then. I have no clue what I’m doing now. I’ve missed my self-imposed deadlines. I won’t have a new book to highlight. I can’t quite figure out how to stand out in a crowd of authors that do these book fair deals one-hundred-weekends of the year. 

Then there are the classes I’ve been attending at every writer’s conference and seminar with titles in the form of lists. Lists of everything that a writer should not do, or they’ll die a dozen poorly plotted deaths before they’ve gotten out of bed—not to mention when they’re at book fairs. The endless, negative lists that mean well but confirm every deadly fear you’ve ever had as a writer/author/artist/dream weaver/scribble monkey. 

Because, you, my friend, are doing it WRONG! 

Lists! They’re the worst. For example . . .

Seven Mistakes Authors Make Before They Pee In The Morning 

Twelve Horrible Book Covers Authors Should Reject Before Anyone Sees Them, Including You!

Thirty Biggest Writing Goofs That Scream, ‘Silly Amateur Writer Person Trying to Write Some Good Word Stuff Very Okay!’

Twenty Secret Things Every Reader Wants, But You’re Not Stuffing In That Story! 

Ninety-Nine Ways To Make A Cardboard Character HOT Enough To Catch Cardboard on Fire!

Sometimes, I’m not only afraid to think outside the box, but I’m afraid that the box has already swallowed me and is now digesting me in its sleep. But I swim on: typing, backspacing, re-typing, printing, experimenting, trying, retrying, and thinking, “Take your lists and go fold a box.”

So, off to the book fair conference I go. It’s going to be a fact-finding mission if nothing else. I might dress up as a survivalist and hand out chunks of hard tack with a list, Top Ten Ways To Eat Hard Tack, as an introduction to Prepper Fiction. How’s that for thinking outside the box?

Linda (Listing to the Right) Zern

"WICKED"

I dislike the musical “Wicked.” Really. Really.


I know. I know. I’m the only one. But to me, the message that society made her wicked because she was a weird color and smart is so blah, blah, blah. Everyone else did this to me, so I’m going to go steal my sister’s boyfriend—blah, blah, blah. I’ll show them wicked. Blah. Blah. Blah. Cue the spectacular production number and the flying monkeys. 

Listen up! I grew up in a house with a drinker, and drinking made him turn green—metaphorically speaking—and when he turned green he was wicked. I’m pretty sure that he had a million reasons to turn green. Blah. Blah. Blah. In the end, it doesn’t matter because the results were the same. Misery begets pain and pain begets hurt and hurt becomes misery, and yes everyone IS a hypocrite and round and round you go until someone drops a house on you. 

But you know what you get when everyone feels they have an excuse for why they can’t, won’t, don’t choose the right (and I mean right as in ***righteous or better, a better way to live) you get a world where you have to chain up your neighborhoods and password your life. 

If there is no “right” way to live and be happy then be prepared. 

Be prepared for people to feel justified in trying to steal your income tax return—three times. 

Be prepared for people to order a thousand dollar television in your husband’s name, have it delivered to your house, and then charge you for it. The television went back.

Get ready for the endless passwords that you will not be able to remember but have to have to keep trillions of greedy hackers from stealing your special little numbers.

Don’t be shocked when folks attempt to use your husband’s credit card to buy leopard skin boots—size infant.

Be prepared for wicked—self-righteous wicked.

According to all the studies and research and musicals, I should be green and wicked and drunk. But I’m not. I found a better way. I chose a better way. There is a better way. I don’t feel strong. I feel stubborn. And anyone can be stubborn.

Linda (Designated Driver) Zern 

***NOTE: I know. I know. The word righteous has become synonymous with the concept of self-righteousness which is bad, but that’s not what the word means. Righteous means choosing a better way despite society or jealousy of your beautiful, ditzy sister. It doesn’t mean getting even.

Miscellaneous Excuses Used Randomly

HOW TO CATCH A FREE RANGE BABY!

It's been a bit of time since I've gathered my thoughts, posted my opining, and laughed at everything. 

What?? I've been busy. 

I finished a one hundred thousand word novel, mowed a lot of grass, pressure washed the barn once or twice and began to grow out my gray hair. Like I said, I've been busy.

But here's a few random bits to tide us all over:

Spoke at my first writer's conference last weekend and met some enthusiastic readers, writers, and Indian Chiefs. Had some fun eavesdropping. NOTE: If you are a writer you know the importance of hanging upside down from the eaves to be able to overhear real people trying to talk to each other.

I met a fellow Indie writer who was excited to tell me that he publishes Kindle stories and that his UK fans are the BEST. Another excited writer overheard the discussion and with a lovely, lilting southern accent chimed in to declare, "Oh, you too. My husband is a crazy, wild fan of U. K." 

They tried talking around each other and to each other. I listened in fascination to the big, swirly mess of their attempts to communicate, because he was talking United Kingdom and she was saying University of Kentucky.

To my knowledge, they never arrived on the same page. Random Conclusion: If it's that hard for two wordsmiths to communicate, what chance does the world have to figure stuff out?

We gutted our kitchen . . . after the dishwasher motor burned out. Doesn't that sound frivolous and silly? I wish. The repair individual--not man, because who knows these days--put a new motor in our six-month-old dishwasher, neglecting to hook up the drain. I ran the dishwasher. It drained. It drained all the way to the baseboards. The floor started to float. We complained. The bosses paid for a new floor. We got uppity and thought, "Let's upgrade."

The tile was fancy and cool, but it jacked up the dishwasher one-quarter inch so that it no longer fit in the wonky cabinet built by the original owner/builder. Time to tear out that cabinet which made all the other cabinets come tumbling down like dominoes (metaphorically speaking). Time to refinance the house, and rip the guts out of the nerve center of our home. Start over. Flip your lid. Remodel everything. Sure. Sure. What could go wrong? 

Random Conclusion: Live in the woods.

Grandparenting is eighty percent fun and twenty percent worry. Parenting is twenty percent fun and eighty percent worry. As a grandparent I know that whatever weirdo thing those kids are going to do, are doing, or are going to do, someday they're going to outgrow their goofiness—or not. 

Miscellaneous sentiment: Good luck, young parents, and God's speed. You're going to need it. I'll hold your coat while you worry.

That's it for now. Like I said, "I'm busy trying to figure out if the tile guys are ever coming back since Home Depot finally found that last box of tile they shorted us."

What could go wrong?

Linda (Save the Date) Zern 

A QUICKIE: Posts That Are Short And Sweet

FARM ALERT: Just saw three boys racing by, followed by three running goats. Not sure if the boys think that they're goats or the goats think that they are boys.


It's Mrs. Tramp. First name Eleven.