Linda L. Zern's Blog, page 15
March 3, 2017
Jittery
Reports of my imagined death are false—also incorrect. I’m not dead.
To recap: I am not dead. I’m just concentrating really hard.
Several years ago, my husband couldn’t instantly get a hold of me via my cell phone, because it was dead, the cell phone. NOT ME. When he couldn’t immediately contact me from Kuala Lumpur or Detroit or Walmart or wherever to let me know he’d forgotten to take out the garbage or something equally informative, he panicked.
So he called our daughter, Heather.
Who called our daughter, Maren.
Who told her friends at school that I’m a hermit and a nut.
Who called my husband, her father.
Who called our daughter, Heather, again.
Who called each other, over and over, whipping each other into a frenzy.
Heather finally broke the cycle of hysteria by calling her friend, Maria, and saying, “I’m at work. Could you drive out to my parent’s house and check on my AGED mother?”
Maria! Marie who lives in a whole other village, Marie, who got in her car, drove to our country home (also our city home) and finding all the doors, window, and portholes open assumed that I had been eaten by cats—also raccoons.
I was in my office—working.
Proving that what we’ve got here is a hefty case of the jitters.
While it is true that I live alone a great deal of time, I am not a complete idiot. I try to wait for when my husband is home to clean the chimney, re-organize the hayloft, chop down trees, or check the crawlspace for expired squirrels.
And as far as being murdered in my sleep by criminal types, I believe that most criminal types are stupid people, the kind of people that get stuck in chimneys. And if I can’t outsmart some nimrod stuck in my chimney then shame on me.
That’s why I sleep with the cat. Plan A is that I will throw the cat at the stupid intruder and make my escape out of the bathroom window. At which point I will run to the ditch out front and hide behind the enormous stump that the county hasn’t carted away from storm damage. It’s the main reason I haven’t called the county about the eyesore stump by the road. That stump is part of my master plan. I have a detailed schematic drawn up.
Please note: That stump has been hauled off since I first reported on the above foolishness, thus changing plan A to plan B.
Unfortunately, plan B has me hiding in my neighbor’s barn in my *scanties. So sometimes I sleep in my bathrobe with my cell phone in the pocket, except that my cell phone is quite often “dead,” thus kicking off jittery meltdowns in the first place. Go figure.
Linda (Chimney Sweep) Zern
*Scanties is a southern word for clothing you don’t want to be caught wearing while hiding in a ditch.
To recap: I am not dead. I’m just concentrating really hard.
Several years ago, my husband couldn’t instantly get a hold of me via my cell phone, because it was dead, the cell phone. NOT ME. When he couldn’t immediately contact me from Kuala Lumpur or Detroit or Walmart or wherever to let me know he’d forgotten to take out the garbage or something equally informative, he panicked.
So he called our daughter, Heather.
Who called our daughter, Maren.
Who told her friends at school that I’m a hermit and a nut.
Who called my husband, her father.
Who called our daughter, Heather, again.
Who called each other, over and over, whipping each other into a frenzy.
Heather finally broke the cycle of hysteria by calling her friend, Maria, and saying, “I’m at work. Could you drive out to my parent’s house and check on my AGED mother?”
Maria! Marie who lives in a whole other village, Marie, who got in her car, drove to our country home (also our city home) and finding all the doors, window, and portholes open assumed that I had been eaten by cats—also raccoons.
I was in my office—working.
Proving that what we’ve got here is a hefty case of the jitters.
While it is true that I live alone a great deal of time, I am not a complete idiot. I try to wait for when my husband is home to clean the chimney, re-organize the hayloft, chop down trees, or check the crawlspace for expired squirrels.
And as far as being murdered in my sleep by criminal types, I believe that most criminal types are stupid people, the kind of people that get stuck in chimneys. And if I can’t outsmart some nimrod stuck in my chimney then shame on me.
That’s why I sleep with the cat. Plan A is that I will throw the cat at the stupid intruder and make my escape out of the bathroom window. At which point I will run to the ditch out front and hide behind the enormous stump that the county hasn’t carted away from storm damage. It’s the main reason I haven’t called the county about the eyesore stump by the road. That stump is part of my master plan. I have a detailed schematic drawn up.
Please note: That stump has been hauled off since I first reported on the above foolishness, thus changing plan A to plan B.
Unfortunately, plan B has me hiding in my neighbor’s barn in my *scanties. So sometimes I sleep in my bathrobe with my cell phone in the pocket, except that my cell phone is quite often “dead,” thus kicking off jittery meltdowns in the first place. Go figure.
Linda (Chimney Sweep) Zern
*Scanties is a southern word for clothing you don’t want to be caught wearing while hiding in a ditch.
Jittery
Reports of my imagined death are false—also incorrect. I’m not dead.
To recap: I am not dead. I’m just concentrating really hard.
Several years ago, my husband couldn’t instantly get a hold of me via my cell phone, because it was dead, the cell phone. NOT ME. When he couldn’t immediately contact me from Kuala Lumpur or Detroit or Walmart or wherever to let me know he’d forgotten to take out the garbage or something equally informative, he panicked.
So he called our daughter, Heather.
Who called our daughter, Maren.
Who told her friends at school that I’m a hermit and a nut.
Who called my husband, her father.
Who called our daughter, Heather, again.
Who called each other, over and over, whipping each other into a frenzy.
Heather finally broke the cycle of hysteria by calling her friend, Maria, and saying, “I’m at work. Could you drive out to my parent’s house and check on my AGED mother?”
Maria! Marie who lives in a whole other village, Marie, who got in her car, drove to our country home (also our city home) and finding all the doors, window, and portholes open assumed that I had been eaten by cats—also raccoons.
I was in my office—working.
Proving that what we’ve got here is a hefty case of the jitters.
While it is true that I live alone a great deal of time, I am not a complete idiot. I try to wait for when my husband is home to clean the chimney, re-organize the hayloft, chop down trees, or check the crawlspace for expired squirrels.
And as far as being murdered in my sleep by criminal types, I believe that most criminal types are stupid people, the kind of people that get stuck in chimneys. And if I can’t outsmart some nimrod stuck in my chimney then shame on me.
That’s why I sleep with the cat. Plan A is that I will throw the cat at the stupid intruder and make my escape out of the bathroom window. At which point I will run to the ditch out front and hide behind the enormous stump that the county hasn’t carted away from storm damage. It’s the main reason I haven’t called the county about the eyesore stump by the road. That stump is part of my master plan. I have a detailed schematic drawn up.
Please note: That stump has been hauled off since I first reported on the above foolishness, thus changing plan A to plan B.
Unfortunately, plan B has me hiding in my neighbor’s barn in my *scanties. So sometimes I sleep in my bathrobe with my cell phone in the pocket, except that my cell phone is quite often “dead,” thus kicking off jittery meltdowns in the first place. Go figure.
Linda (Chimney Sweep) Zern
*Scanties is a southern word for clothing you don’t want to be caught wearing while hiding in a ditch.
To recap: I am not dead. I’m just concentrating really hard.
Several years ago, my husband couldn’t instantly get a hold of me via my cell phone, because it was dead, the cell phone. NOT ME. When he couldn’t immediately contact me from Kuala Lumpur or Detroit or Walmart or wherever to let me know he’d forgotten to take out the garbage or something equally informative, he panicked.
So he called our daughter, Heather.
Who called our daughter, Maren.
Who told her friends at school that I’m a hermit and a nut.
Who called my husband, her father.
Who called our daughter, Heather, again.
Who called each other, over and over, whipping each other into a frenzy.
Heather finally broke the cycle of hysteria by calling her friend, Maria, and saying, “I’m at work. Could you drive out to my parent’s house and check on my AGED mother?”
Maria! Marie who lives in a whole other village, Marie, who got in her car, drove to our country home (also our city home) and finding all the doors, window, and portholes open assumed that I had been eaten by cats—also raccoons.
I was in my office—working.
Proving that what we’ve got here is a hefty case of the jitters.
While it is true that I live alone a great deal of time, I am not a complete idiot. I try to wait for when my husband is home to clean the chimney, re-organize the hayloft, chop down trees, or check the crawlspace for expired squirrels.
And as far as being murdered in my sleep by criminal types, I believe that most criminal types are stupid people, the kind of people that get stuck in chimneys. And if I can’t outsmart some nimrod stuck in my chimney then shame on me.
That’s why I sleep with the cat. Plan A is that I will throw the cat at the stupid intruder and make my escape out of the bathroom window. At which point I will run to the ditch out front and hide behind the enormous stump that the county hasn’t carted away from storm damage. It’s the main reason I haven’t called the county about the eyesore stump by the road. That stump is part of my master plan. I have a detailed schematic drawn up.
Please note: That stump has been hauled off since I first reported on the above foolishness, thus changing plan A to plan B.
Unfortunately, plan B has me hiding in my neighbor’s barn in my *scanties. So sometimes I sleep in my bathrobe with my cell phone in the pocket, except that my cell phone is quite often “dead,” thus kicking off jittery meltdowns in the first place. Go figure.
Linda (Chimney Sweep) Zern
*Scanties is a southern word for clothing you don’t want to be caught wearing while hiding in a ditch.
February 25, 2017
Poo-Poo Poppy
Griffin Henry (age 2) related his personal opinion of me. “YaYa mean!”
I sighed.
“Don’t fall in the fire pit, little boy with the fluffly white hair and polyester shirt.” That was it; that’s what I had said to earn my grandson’s disdain. For that I was called names.
I’m the YaYa. I’m the mean one. My husband (the Poppy) is the family celebrity. Of course, he’s the guy with endless supplies of Twix and Pepsi, the guy who lets the grandchildren run wild through our lives.
I walked into the office to find a phalanx of children taping away at an endless line of computers. They were playing something called “Animal Jam” or “AJ” in the vernacular. Poppy sat in the middle of the tapping frenzy, tossing chocolate kisses to grandchildren like a walrus trainer at Sea World. Shoulders had started hunch, spines to curve.
I shouted, “Okay, that’s it. Everybody outside. Get some vitamin D. Attempt to straighten your backbones. Go. Go.”
“Poo-poo, YaYa!” Griffin Henry said. Poo-poo. It’s the worst word he knows—so far.
Later, I discover the lot of them at the sand hill. They’d dug a giant hole, run a garden hose to it, and filled it to the brim with water. It was like a massive open strip mine. Kids blasted each other with water and mud. I estimated the cleanup would require two hours and a Shop Vac.
“Who said you could turn that water on?”
“Poppy!” they chorused.
“Poo-poo, Poppy,” I muttered to myself.
My husband is the celebrity. He never says no, agrees with every wild scheme, finances every whim, and bribes with goodies. He’s the president cutting the fool on Buzz Feed. Me? I’m the libertarian saying, “Sure. Sure. You refused to wear your shoes, stepped on stinging thistles that you were warned about, and now what are YOU going to do about that?”
“YaYa mean!”
Recently, our fourteen grandchildren came pouring into our house saying, “Hi. Where’s Poppy?”
Sighing, I pointed and said, “In the office. Throw away your candy wrappers.” They stampeded.
I went to find the Shop Vac.
Linda (Mean as a Snake) Zern
I sighed.
“Don’t fall in the fire pit, little boy with the fluffly white hair and polyester shirt.” That was it; that’s what I had said to earn my grandson’s disdain. For that I was called names.
I’m the YaYa. I’m the mean one. My husband (the Poppy) is the family celebrity. Of course, he’s the guy with endless supplies of Twix and Pepsi, the guy who lets the grandchildren run wild through our lives.
I walked into the office to find a phalanx of children taping away at an endless line of computers. They were playing something called “Animal Jam” or “AJ” in the vernacular. Poppy sat in the middle of the tapping frenzy, tossing chocolate kisses to grandchildren like a walrus trainer at Sea World. Shoulders had started hunch, spines to curve.
I shouted, “Okay, that’s it. Everybody outside. Get some vitamin D. Attempt to straighten your backbones. Go. Go.”
“Poo-poo, YaYa!” Griffin Henry said. Poo-poo. It’s the worst word he knows—so far.
Later, I discover the lot of them at the sand hill. They’d dug a giant hole, run a garden hose to it, and filled it to the brim with water. It was like a massive open strip mine. Kids blasted each other with water and mud. I estimated the cleanup would require two hours and a Shop Vac.
“Who said you could turn that water on?”
“Poppy!” they chorused.
“Poo-poo, Poppy,” I muttered to myself.
My husband is the celebrity. He never says no, agrees with every wild scheme, finances every whim, and bribes with goodies. He’s the president cutting the fool on Buzz Feed. Me? I’m the libertarian saying, “Sure. Sure. You refused to wear your shoes, stepped on stinging thistles that you were warned about, and now what are YOU going to do about that?”
“YaYa mean!”
Recently, our fourteen grandchildren came pouring into our house saying, “Hi. Where’s Poppy?”
Sighing, I pointed and said, “In the office. Throw away your candy wrappers.” They stampeded.
I went to find the Shop Vac.
Linda (Mean as a Snake) Zern
February 8, 2017
BULLDOZING HEAVEN!
Because we killed God and bulldozed Heaven, it’s impossible to get someone to repair the engine on my eleven-year old grandson’s go-cart. And that is no joke.
Okay, okay. First things first.
On the first day came the birthday go-cart: a great deal; on Craig’s list; needing a spark plug, and apparently, a total engine overhaul. When the groovy new but “gently used” go-cart showed signs of dead motor syndrome it was time to find someone with small engine savvy and a knack for saving the day.
On the second day, it became the search for the holy grail of reputable go-cart repair. It’s not a huge job. The motor is small. The spark plug is one. The seats are low, and the fun is real. Phone calls commenced.
On the third day-ish, it was discovered that no one is willing to work on go-carts and not because they’re hard or frustrating or tricky . . .
They won’t work on them because no one wants the legal liability inherent in repairing a vehicle designed to give maximum thrills while flipping over when they hit slightly mounded gopher holes. Crazy times.
I blame the ones that bulldozed Heaven.
Without the promise of life after zits and middle age bulge and shingles and death (i.e. Heaven), people get weird about the here and the now. They want heavenly in a world where fire ants do the fire ant tango on babies. They want heaven in a world where dogs do bite, cats absolutely scratch, and the endings aren’t always happy. They want a place where nothing hurts, promises are kept, and everyone always does what they should. They want Heaven.
And what do they get? Sued. Because when the world doesn’t turn out cotton candy swirly goodness, people sue and sue and sue—to get even, to get “fair,” to get what they “deserve.”
Which makes it tough to find someone willing to take on the liability of working on a recreational vehicle built of pipe cleaners and bread ties. Sure. They’re out there, the ones who love the engines more than they fear the legal angels of lawful retribution. Sure. They live in storage sheds in strange off-grid communities ruled by real live super heroes with their own secret identities: Master Legend; Google it.
Sherwood and Phillip found the go-cart repairman brushing his teeth in front of his storage shed in the hinterland of Orlando, who fixed the go-cart, who introduced them to another man, who is a super hero, patrolling the streets of greater Orlando on a motorized bicycle, ensuring truth, justice, and the American Way. Super heroes make the world righteous, and we love them for it. They’re not real, but don’t tell anyone, because they could get sued if the do-gooding goes awry.
I blame the ones that bulldozed Heaven and then wanted heavenly returns on earthly dirt.
Linda (Go-Go) Zern
Okay, okay. First things first.
On the first day came the birthday go-cart: a great deal; on Craig’s list; needing a spark plug, and apparently, a total engine overhaul. When the groovy new but “gently used” go-cart showed signs of dead motor syndrome it was time to find someone with small engine savvy and a knack for saving the day.
On the second day, it became the search for the holy grail of reputable go-cart repair. It’s not a huge job. The motor is small. The spark plug is one. The seats are low, and the fun is real. Phone calls commenced.
On the third day-ish, it was discovered that no one is willing to work on go-carts and not because they’re hard or frustrating or tricky . . .
They won’t work on them because no one wants the legal liability inherent in repairing a vehicle designed to give maximum thrills while flipping over when they hit slightly mounded gopher holes. Crazy times.
I blame the ones that bulldozed Heaven.
Without the promise of life after zits and middle age bulge and shingles and death (i.e. Heaven), people get weird about the here and the now. They want heavenly in a world where fire ants do the fire ant tango on babies. They want heaven in a world where dogs do bite, cats absolutely scratch, and the endings aren’t always happy. They want a place where nothing hurts, promises are kept, and everyone always does what they should. They want Heaven.
And what do they get? Sued. Because when the world doesn’t turn out cotton candy swirly goodness, people sue and sue and sue—to get even, to get “fair,” to get what they “deserve.”
Which makes it tough to find someone willing to take on the liability of working on a recreational vehicle built of pipe cleaners and bread ties. Sure. They’re out there, the ones who love the engines more than they fear the legal angels of lawful retribution. Sure. They live in storage sheds in strange off-grid communities ruled by real live super heroes with their own secret identities: Master Legend; Google it.
Sherwood and Phillip found the go-cart repairman brushing his teeth in front of his storage shed in the hinterland of Orlando, who fixed the go-cart, who introduced them to another man, who is a super hero, patrolling the streets of greater Orlando on a motorized bicycle, ensuring truth, justice, and the American Way. Super heroes make the world righteous, and we love them for it. They’re not real, but don’t tell anyone, because they could get sued if the do-gooding goes awry.
I blame the ones that bulldozed Heaven and then wanted heavenly returns on earthly dirt.
Linda (Go-Go) Zern
BULLDOZING HEAVEN
Because we killed God and bulldozed Heaven, it’s impossible to get someone to repair the engine on my eleven-year old grandson’s go-cart. And that is no joke.Okay, okay. First things first.
On the first day came the birthday go-cart: a great deal; on Craig’s list; needing a spark plug, and apparently, a total engine overhaul. When the groovy new but “gently used” go-cart showed signs of dead motor syndrome it was time to find someone with small engine savvy and a knack for saving the day.
On the second day, it became the search for the holy grail of reputable go-cart repair. It’s not a huge job. The motor is small. The spark plug is one. The seats are low, and the fun is real. Phone calls commenced.
On the third day-ish, it was discovered that no one is willing to work on go-carts and not because they’re hard or frustrating or tricky . . .
They won’t work on them because no one wants the legal liability inherent in repairing a vehicle designed to give maximum thrills while flipping over when they hit slightly mounded gopher holes. Crazy times.
I blame the ones that bulldozed Heaven.
Without the promise of life after zits and middle age bulge and shingles and death (i.e. Heaven), people get weird about the here and the now. They want heavenly in a world where fire ants do the fire ant tango on babies. They want heaven in a world where dogs do bite, cats absolutely scratch, and the endings aren’t always happy. They want a place where nothing hurts, promises are kept, and everyone always does what they should. They want Heaven.
And what do they get? Sued. Because when the world doesn’t turn out cotton candy swirly goodness, people sue and sue and sue—to get even, to get “fair,” to get what they “deserve.”
Which makes it tough to find someone willing to take on the liability of working on a recreational vehicle built of pipe cleaners and bread ties. Sure. They’re out there, the ones who love the engines more than they fear the legal angels of lawful retribution. Sure. They live in storage sheds in strange off-grid communities ruled by real live super heroes with their own secret identities: Master Legend; Google it.
Sherwood and Phillip found the go-cart repairman brushing his teeth in front of his storage shed in the hinterland of Orlando, who fixed the go-cart, who introduced them to another man, who is a super hero, patrolling the streets of greater Orlando on a motorized bicycle, ensuring truth, justice, and the American Way. Super heroes make the world righteous, and we love them for it. They’re not real, but don’t tell anyone, because they could get sued if the do-gooding goes awry.
I blame the ones that bulldozed Heaven and then wanted heavenly returns on earthly dirt.
Linda (Go-Go) Zern
February 7, 2017
ONE TREE, TWO TREE
Pine trees are the mini-van of the tree world. There’s a million of ‘em, and they all look alike. Pine trees in the Florida woods are the woods, except when the swamp takes over. The woods are where my husband (Sherwood—yes it’s his first name) and I practice stuff: horseback riding, orienteering, GPS coordinate finding, search and rescue searching, community volunteering, and other words that end in ‘ing.’
We ride through swamps and cypress and live oaks and scrub brush and pine trees, lots and many pine trees.
On a recent training day, my husband and I were given the task of finding five points on a compass course while riding horses and staying married. I know I was excited.
Our first challenge was to calculate our horses’ “pace” for one hundred feet. That’s when you count the steps the horse takes in one hundred feet.
What I learned.
It’s easy to lose count in one hundred feet. Sherwood gets a funny look on his face when he’s counting. Tracker, the horse I was riding, is a bully. When your horse tries to kick another horse in the face it’s hard to keep track of the steps they take. It was a beautiful day to be outside.
We were encouraged to find “points of reference” to keep us on track. A point of reference is a stump, lump, or clump of something that DOES NOT MOVE that can serve as a focal point while you’re trying to count and ride a bucking horse.
Fairly early in the course, I asked my partner/husband/teammate, “What focal point are you using?”
And he said (I kid you not), “That pine tree.”
I looked at the scrubby forest of one trillion jumbled pine trees and asked, “Seriously?” There might have been a tone. I confess; team morale took a bit of a hit at that point.
What I learned.
Engineers sometimes struggle with their describing words. It’s not what you say; it’s how you say it. There are a lot of pine trees in Florida. There’s a learning curve to everything. Dr. Suess was right; some fish are red and some fish are blue, but not pine trees.
Linda (Lost and Found) Zern
*** Feet should read yards, but it sure felt like feet.
January 30, 2017
MONDAY MORNING
MONDAY MORNING CLEANING BLUES: Why is it that vacuum cleaners become invisible when you start searching for them in your house?
January 26, 2017
January 23, 2017
Looking Out For 2017
Sherwood’s horse, Charlie, made it to the nine-mile mark on the Osceola Sheriff’s Office fundraiser trail ride, and then he (the horse, not Sherwood) folded up like a camel on the side of the trail. Sherwood jumped off. It wasn’t very far to jump, he later reported.
Possibly he was colicky (the horse, not Sherwood). He wasn’t.
Possibly he was going lame. He wasn’t.
Probably Charlie the Horse was tired and didn’t want to walk another step. It is quite likely that Charlie the Horse is smart, lazy, and thinking ahead.
Sherwood brought him home early from the fund raiser, whereupon he (the horse, not Sherwood) ran out to his buddy (Tracker), frolicked, whinnied, and got back to the serious business of eating his weight in salad.
Note to self: Try to outsmart the horse in 2017.
I was supposed to be out riding with Sherwood and Charlie the Wonder Horse, but having contracted my traditional New Year’s viral snot head, I felt lousy and stayed home. At 3pm, when Sherwood’s horse was giving up his will to walk, I smelled smoke. I was already in bed and wrapped in a bathrobe, sans brassiere or eyebrows.
I leaped to my feet, sniffing like a bloodhound. Smoke, burning rubber, and the odor of my own panic mixed about my head like gnats looking for a sweaty cowboy. Something was on fire. I checked outside to see if my neighbor was burning crazy crap. Nope.
I screamed for my cell phone. It did not answer. I got lightheaded. I raced to find my phone. It was next to the bed, in its spot, charging—the sneaky bastard. Dialing 911 and struggling into my bra, I breathlessly reported a possible house fire.
The ladder truck, fire chief, ambulance, and a cop roared into the yard ten minutes later. Facts: the garbage disposal tried to burn my house down; it was too hot to touch; there was a short in the wall switch; the fire fighters checked for heat signatures in the wall and turned off the power; they insisted I get an electrician.
The boss fireman said, “Lady, this is exactly the kind of thing that burns down houses.”
All the firemen were cute. I still had no eyebrows.
Note to self: Start the kitchen remodel even if I have to take a sledge hammer to the garbage disposal myself.
Two Sundays before these incidents, Sherwood tried to cut off the end of his thumb with a pocketknife, while trying to hack his way into a cinnamon candy cane. But that’s a story for another day—same year—but another day.
Ahhhhh . . . 2017 . . . I’m worried already.
Linda (Sniffle Gal) Zern
Possibly he was colicky (the horse, not Sherwood). He wasn’t.
Possibly he was going lame. He wasn’t.
Probably Charlie the Horse was tired and didn’t want to walk another step. It is quite likely that Charlie the Horse is smart, lazy, and thinking ahead.
Sherwood brought him home early from the fund raiser, whereupon he (the horse, not Sherwood) ran out to his buddy (Tracker), frolicked, whinnied, and got back to the serious business of eating his weight in salad.
Note to self: Try to outsmart the horse in 2017.
I was supposed to be out riding with Sherwood and Charlie the Wonder Horse, but having contracted my traditional New Year’s viral snot head, I felt lousy and stayed home. At 3pm, when Sherwood’s horse was giving up his will to walk, I smelled smoke. I was already in bed and wrapped in a bathrobe, sans brassiere or eyebrows.
I leaped to my feet, sniffing like a bloodhound. Smoke, burning rubber, and the odor of my own panic mixed about my head like gnats looking for a sweaty cowboy. Something was on fire. I checked outside to see if my neighbor was burning crazy crap. Nope.
I screamed for my cell phone. It did not answer. I got lightheaded. I raced to find my phone. It was next to the bed, in its spot, charging—the sneaky bastard. Dialing 911 and struggling into my bra, I breathlessly reported a possible house fire.
The ladder truck, fire chief, ambulance, and a cop roared into the yard ten minutes later. Facts: the garbage disposal tried to burn my house down; it was too hot to touch; there was a short in the wall switch; the fire fighters checked for heat signatures in the wall and turned off the power; they insisted I get an electrician.
The boss fireman said, “Lady, this is exactly the kind of thing that burns down houses.”
All the firemen were cute. I still had no eyebrows.
Note to self: Start the kitchen remodel even if I have to take a sledge hammer to the garbage disposal myself.
Two Sundays before these incidents, Sherwood tried to cut off the end of his thumb with a pocketknife, while trying to hack his way into a cinnamon candy cane. But that’s a story for another day—same year—but another day.
Ahhhhh . . . 2017 . . . I’m worried already.
Linda (Sniffle Gal) Zern
LOOKING OUT FOR 2017
Sherwood on Tracker, Not Charlie the Wonder HorseSherwood’s horse, Charlie, made it to the nine-mile mark on the Osceola Sheriff’s Office fundraiser trail ride, and then he (the horse, not Sherwood) folded up like a camel on the side of the trail. Sherwood jumped off. It wasn’t very far to jump, he later reported.Possibly he was colicky (the horse, not Sherwood). He wasn’t.
Possibly he was going lame. He wasn’t.
Probably Charlie the Horse was tired and didn’t want to walk another step. It is quite likely that Charlie the Horse is smart, lazy, and thinking ahead.
Sherwood brought him home early from the fund raiser, whereupon he (the horse, not Sherwood) ran out to his buddy (Tracker), frolicked, whinnied, and got back to the serious business of eating his weight in salad.
Note to self: Try to outsmart the horse in 2017.
I was supposed to be out riding with Sherwood and Charlie the Wonder Horse, but having contracted my traditional New Year’s viral snot head, I felt lousy and stayed home. At 3pm, when Sherwood’s horse was giving up his will to walk, I smelled smoke. I was already in bed and wrapped in a bathrobe, sans brassiere or eyebrows.
I leaped to my feet, sniffing like a bloodhound. Smoke, burning rubber, and the odor of my own panic mixed about my head like gnats looking for a sweaty cowboy. Something was on fire. I checked outside to see if my neighbor was burning crazy crap. Nope.
I screamed for my cell phone. It did not answer. I got lightheaded. I raced to find my phone. It was next to the bed, in its spot, charging—the sneaky bastard. Dialing 911 and struggling into my bra, I breathlessly reported a possible house fire.
The ladder truck, fire chief, ambulance, and a cop roared into the yard ten minutes later. Facts: the garbage disposal tried to burn my house down; it was too hot to touch; there was a short in the wall switch; the fire fighters checked for heat signatures in the wall and turned off the power; they insisted I get an electrician.
The boss fireman said, “Lady, this is exactly the kind of thing that burns down houses.”
All the firemen were cute. I still had no eyebrows.
Note to self: Start the kitchen remodel even if I have to take a sledge hammer to the garbage disposal myself.
Two Sundays before these incidents, Sherwood tried to cut off the end of his thumb with a pocketknife, while trying to hack his way into a cinnamon candy cane. But that’s a story for another day—same year—but another day.
Ahhhhh . . . 2017 . . . I’m worried already.
Linda (Sniffle Gal) Zern
