Linda L. Zern's Blog, page 19
October 7, 2016
HUNKER MUCH?
The first time I heard the word “hunker” I was on a raccoon hunt. We were standing at the bottom of a massively tall oak tree where a couple of raccoons were hiding out. The ‘coon’ dogs stared up at the invisible raccoons. The hunters stared up at the invisible animals. I stared up at . . . nothing. Those raccoons had either discovered a black hole in the fork of that oak tree or they had perfected the art of hunkering. Hunter number one said, “Well!” He chewed and spat. “Those beasts are sure hunkered down.”
For a long time, I thought hunkered meant, having an invisibility cloak. But no . . .
It means: to squat or crouch down low, to take cover. Really?
Do people know that? Are they really telling people to squat down in the face of a cat-4 hurricane, or are they telling folks to take cover in the hollow of an oak tree?
I wouldn’t pick the tree option. It might be crowded in there, what with all those raccoons stuffed inside.
What is it about hurricanes that make people use the word hunker? Don’t get me wrong. I love the word. I think it’s underused. I’d like to see it enjoy a renaissance of popularity.
Don’t be afraid. I will hunker near you all night.
Come! Let’s us hunker together.
I would have been on time to work, but I was busy hunkering.
I have hunkered long enough. I shall stop squatting now.
No one can hunker down like Matt.
To hunker is to squat—also crouch.
Don’t tell that jerk where I’ve been hunkering down!
Such a great word.
So many possibilities.
HURRICANE DRINKING GAME: Every time I hear the word hunker I take a drink—of Gatorade. I don’t drink that other stuff. Never needed to. Never wanted to be drunk. Saw too much of someone else who needed to be drunk—a lot—when I was a kid.
I have hunkered down, however, and not just during hurricanes.
Linda (Huntress) Zern
PS No raccoons were harmed in the telling of this story!
October 1, 2016
Published Today! SHORT STORY ON KINDLE - Before the Strandline: "Puppies"
BEFORE THE STRANDLINE: "PUPPIES" is a short story. Twenty-four pages and a glimpse into the lives of the inhabitants of the Strandline BEFORE . . .
GET YOURS TODAY!!!!
www.amazon.com/Before-Strandline-Linda-L-Zern-ebook/dp/B01LWQIAIA/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1475325298&sr=8-1&keywords=before+the+strandline
Published Today! SHORT STORY ON KINDLE - Before the Strandline: "Puppies"
BEFORE THE STRANDLINE: "PUPPIES" is a short story. Twenty-four pages and a glimpse into the lives of the inhabitants of the Strandline BEFORE . . .
GET YOURS TODAY!!!!
www.amazon.com/Before-Strandline-Linda-L-Zern-ebook/dp/B01LWQIAIA/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1475325298&sr=8-1&keywords=before+the+strandline
September 26, 2016
Double Bubble Trouble - Forever
In honor of our upcoming wedding anniversary I would like to hie back to a simpler time; a time when my husband and I realized we were outnumbered by the children, and we were forced to institute the following rule: The first one in the marriage to break and run had to take the kids with them—all the crazy, gum chomping, kids. Good times.
When Sherwood and I were young we produced a lot of little kids, a lot of grubby, grimy little kids, who because of their love affair with dirt and grime required a ton of hosing off—also bathing. When these little kids took baths they sometimes chewed huge wads of bubble gum. I didn’t mind; it kept them quiet. (For a while they tried to bring peanut butter and jelly sandwiches with them into the tub, but I put the hoodoo on that right away.)
In the early days and even though we had a lot of filthy children, we had only one bathroom. It had one bathtub. One fine evening, Sherwood decided to take a bath in our one and only bathtub, the very same tub our children had used earlier that evening.
From the bathroom I heard the haunting boom of my husband’s voice.
“Linda, get in here.” His voice was thick with some emotion I found hard to identify. It was repugnance.
Naked and dripping, he stood leaning against the sink, his arms braced against the porcelain, bent slightly forward at the waist. He was not smiling or winking.
“Look at this.” He pointed to his hairy damp backside bits. He added, “Is that what I think it is?”
Me, I’m a funny girl, I asked, “Is this a test?” I did not look.
“No, I mean it. Look at my butt.”
“I’m not looking at your butt. You can’t make me.”
He pointed harder at his backside, completely devoid of any spirit of good-natured high jinx. There was more back and forth, denial and insistence and such, but I’ll spare you. I finally realized that this might be a serious situation causing real distress for my husband because he’d been standing there leaning against the sink, naked and pointing at himself for, well, longer than was good for either one of us.
I bent down and I did look.
Sure enough, there it was, a wad of Double Bubble chewing gum the size of a hamster’s head nestled in . . . ummm. . . well, just nestled.
I said, “Oops.”
He said, “Get it off.”
I asked, “How?”
It was a good question. I believe I missed the chapter in Home Economics dealing with “butt hair gum removal.”
I’d heard a rumor once—something club soda—stains or something, but I didn’t think club soda was going to apply in this case. I knew you could use ice to freeze gum and then chip it off of stuff, but chipping seemed the wrong sort of action to take. Pulling was right out. Shaving/cutting seemed promising, but it was going to be close work.
I can remember hoping that my hand was going to be steady enough, what with the laughing and all.
The real problem is that there just isn’t any kind of hotline for this. I blame the government.
Let me just report that the operation was a success, and I employed a combination of techniques.
To the children and now grandchildren I would like to say, “Let this be a lesson to you. Never chew gum in the bathtub. Chewing gum in the bathtub can make your father have to have his posterior shaved. There are reasons for family rules. Rules are our friends, and YaYa doesn’t make this stuff up. She has experience. She’s lived.”
Linda (Steady Now) Zern
When Sherwood and I were young we produced a lot of little kids, a lot of grubby, grimy little kids, who because of their love affair with dirt and grime required a ton of hosing off—also bathing. When these little kids took baths they sometimes chewed huge wads of bubble gum. I didn’t mind; it kept them quiet. (For a while they tried to bring peanut butter and jelly sandwiches with them into the tub, but I put the hoodoo on that right away.)
In the early days and even though we had a lot of filthy children, we had only one bathroom. It had one bathtub. One fine evening, Sherwood decided to take a bath in our one and only bathtub, the very same tub our children had used earlier that evening.
From the bathroom I heard the haunting boom of my husband’s voice.
“Linda, get in here.” His voice was thick with some emotion I found hard to identify. It was repugnance.
Naked and dripping, he stood leaning against the sink, his arms braced against the porcelain, bent slightly forward at the waist. He was not smiling or winking.
“Look at this.” He pointed to his hairy damp backside bits. He added, “Is that what I think it is?”
Me, I’m a funny girl, I asked, “Is this a test?” I did not look.
“No, I mean it. Look at my butt.”
“I’m not looking at your butt. You can’t make me.”
He pointed harder at his backside, completely devoid of any spirit of good-natured high jinx. There was more back and forth, denial and insistence and such, but I’ll spare you. I finally realized that this might be a serious situation causing real distress for my husband because he’d been standing there leaning against the sink, naked and pointing at himself for, well, longer than was good for either one of us.
I bent down and I did look.
Sure enough, there it was, a wad of Double Bubble chewing gum the size of a hamster’s head nestled in . . . ummm. . . well, just nestled.
I said, “Oops.”
He said, “Get it off.”
I asked, “How?”
It was a good question. I believe I missed the chapter in Home Economics dealing with “butt hair gum removal.”
I’d heard a rumor once—something club soda—stains or something, but I didn’t think club soda was going to apply in this case. I knew you could use ice to freeze gum and then chip it off of stuff, but chipping seemed the wrong sort of action to take. Pulling was right out. Shaving/cutting seemed promising, but it was going to be close work.
I can remember hoping that my hand was going to be steady enough, what with the laughing and all.
The real problem is that there just isn’t any kind of hotline for this. I blame the government.
Let me just report that the operation was a success, and I employed a combination of techniques.
To the children and now grandchildren I would like to say, “Let this be a lesson to you. Never chew gum in the bathtub. Chewing gum in the bathtub can make your father have to have his posterior shaved. There are reasons for family rules. Rules are our friends, and YaYa doesn’t make this stuff up. She has experience. She’s lived.”
Linda (Steady Now) Zern
Double Bubble Trouble - Forever
In honor of our upcoming wedding anniversary I would like to hie back to a simpler time; a time when my husband and I realized we were outnumbered by the children, and we were forced to institute the following rule: The first one in the marriage to break and run had to take the kids with them—all the crazy, gum chomping, kids. Good times.
When Sherwood and I were young we produced a lot of little kids, a lot of grubby, grimy little kids, who because of their love affair with dirt and grime required a ton of hosing off—also bathing. When these little kids took baths they sometimes chewed huge wads of bubble gum. I didn’t mind; it kept them quiet. (For a while they tried to bring peanut butter and jelly sandwiches with them into the tub, but I put the hoodoo on that right away.)
In the early days and even though we had a lot of filthy children, we had only one bathroom. It had one bathtub. One fine evening, Sherwood decided to take a bath in our one and only bathtub, the very same tub our children had used earlier that evening.
From the bathroom I heard the haunting boom of my husband’s voice.
“Linda, get in here.” His voice was thick with some emotion I found hard to identify. It was repugnance.
Naked and dripping, he stood leaning against the sink, his arms braced against the porcelain, bent slightly forward at the waist. He was not smiling or winking.
“Look at this.” He pointed to his hairy damp backside bits. He added, “Is that what I think it is?”
Me, I’m a funny girl, I asked, “Is this a test?” I did not look.
“No, I mean it. Look at my butt.”
“I’m not looking at your butt. You can’t make me.”
He pointed harder at his backside, completely devoid of any spirit of good-natured high jinx. There was more back and forth, denial and insistence and such, but I’ll spare you. I finally realized that this might be a serious situation causing real distress for my husband because he’d been standing there leaning against the sink, naked and pointing at himself for, well, longer than was good for either one of us.
I bent down and I did look.
Sure enough, there it was, a wad of Double Bubble chewing gum the size of a hamster’s head nestled in . . . ummm. . . well, just nestled.
I said, “Oops.”
He said, “Get it off.”
I asked, “How?”
It was a good question. I believe I missed the chapter in Home Economics dealing with “butt hair gum removal.”
I’d heard a rumor once—something club soda—stains or something, but I didn’t think club soda was going to apply in this case. I knew you could use ice to freeze gum and then chip it off of stuff, but chipping seemed the wrong sort of action to take. Pulling was right out. Shaving/cutting seemed promising, but it was going to be close work.
I can remember hoping that my hand was going to be steady enough, what with the laughing and all.
The real problem is that there just isn’t any kind of hotline for this. I blame the government.
Let me just report that the operation was a success, and I employed a combination of techniques.
To the children and now grandchildren I would like to say, “Let this be a lesson to you. Never chew gum in the bathtub. Chewing gum in the bathtub can make your father have to have his posterior shaved. There are reasons for family rules. Rules are our friends, and YaYa doesn’t make this stuff up. She has experience. She’s lived.”
Linda (Steady Now) Zern
When Sherwood and I were young we produced a lot of little kids, a lot of grubby, grimy little kids, who because of their love affair with dirt and grime required a ton of hosing off—also bathing. When these little kids took baths they sometimes chewed huge wads of bubble gum. I didn’t mind; it kept them quiet. (For a while they tried to bring peanut butter and jelly sandwiches with them into the tub, but I put the hoodoo on that right away.)
In the early days and even though we had a lot of filthy children, we had only one bathroom. It had one bathtub. One fine evening, Sherwood decided to take a bath in our one and only bathtub, the very same tub our children had used earlier that evening.
From the bathroom I heard the haunting boom of my husband’s voice.
“Linda, get in here.” His voice was thick with some emotion I found hard to identify. It was repugnance.
Naked and dripping, he stood leaning against the sink, his arms braced against the porcelain, bent slightly forward at the waist. He was not smiling or winking.
“Look at this.” He pointed to his hairy damp backside bits. He added, “Is that what I think it is?”
Me, I’m a funny girl, I asked, “Is this a test?” I did not look.
“No, I mean it. Look at my butt.”
“I’m not looking at your butt. You can’t make me.”
He pointed harder at his backside, completely devoid of any spirit of good-natured high jinx. There was more back and forth, denial and insistence and such, but I’ll spare you. I finally realized that this might be a serious situation causing real distress for my husband because he’d been standing there leaning against the sink, naked and pointing at himself for, well, longer than was good for either one of us.
I bent down and I did look.
Sure enough, there it was, a wad of Double Bubble chewing gum the size of a hamster’s head nestled in . . . ummm. . . well, just nestled.
I said, “Oops.”
He said, “Get it off.”
I asked, “How?”
It was a good question. I believe I missed the chapter in Home Economics dealing with “butt hair gum removal.”
I’d heard a rumor once—something club soda—stains or something, but I didn’t think club soda was going to apply in this case. I knew you could use ice to freeze gum and then chip it off of stuff, but chipping seemed the wrong sort of action to take. Pulling was right out. Shaving/cutting seemed promising, but it was going to be close work.
I can remember hoping that my hand was going to be steady enough, what with the laughing and all.
The real problem is that there just isn’t any kind of hotline for this. I blame the government.
Let me just report that the operation was a success, and I employed a combination of techniques.
To the children and now grandchildren I would like to say, “Let this be a lesson to you. Never chew gum in the bathtub. Chewing gum in the bathtub can make your father have to have his posterior shaved. There are reasons for family rules. Rules are our friends, and YaYa doesn’t make this stuff up. She has experience. She’s lived.”
Linda (Steady Now) Zern
Double Bubble Trouble - Forever
In honor of our upcoming wedding anniversary I would like to hie back to a simpler time; a time when my husband and I realized we were outnumbered by the children, and we were forced to institute the following rule: The first one in the marriage to break and run had to take the kids with them—all the crazy, gum chomping, kids. Good times.
When Sherwood and I were young we produced a lot of little kids, a lot of grubby, grimy little kids, who because of their love affair with dirt and grime required a ton of hosing off—also bathing. When these little kids took baths they sometimes chewed huge wads of bubble gum. I didn’t mind; it kept them quiet. (For a while they tried to bring peanut butter and jelly sandwiches with them into the tub, but I put the hoodoo on that right away.)
In the early days and even though we had a lot of filthy children, we had only one bathroom. It had one bathtub. One fine evening, Sherwood decided to take a bath in our one and only bathtub, the very same tub our children had used earlier that evening.
From the bathroom I heard the haunting boom of my husband’s voice.
“Linda, get in here.” His voice was thick with some emotion I found hard to identify. It was repugnance.
Naked and dripping, he stood leaning against the sink, his arms braced against the porcelain, bent slightly forward at the waist. He was not smiling or winking.
“Look at this.” He pointed to his hairy damp backside bits. He added, “Is that what I think it is?”
Me, I’m a funny girl, I asked, “Is this a test?” I did not look.
“No, I mean it. Look at my butt.”
“I’m not looking at your butt. You can’t make me.”
He pointed harder at his backside, completely devoid of any spirit of good-natured high jinx. There was more back and forth, denial and insistence and such, but I’ll spare you. I finally realized that this might be a serious situation causing real distress for my husband because he’d been standing there leaning against the sink, naked and pointing at himself for, well, longer than was good for either one of us.
I bent down and I did look.
Sure enough, there it was, a wad of Double Bubble chewing gum the size of a hamster’s head nestled in . . . ummm. . . well, just nestled.
I said, “Oops.”
He said, “Get it off.”
I asked, “How?”
It was a good question. I believe I missed the chapter in Home Economics dealing with “butt hair gum removal.”
I’d heard a rumor once—something club soda—stains or something, but I didn’t think club soda was going to apply in this case. I knew you could use ice to freeze gum and then chip it off of stuff, but chipping seemed the wrong sort of action to take. Pulling was right out. Shaving/cutting seemed promising, but it was going to be close work.
I can remember hoping that my hand was going to be steady enough, what with the laughing and all.
The real problem is that there just isn’t any kind of hotline for this. I blame the government.
Let me just report that the operation was a success, and I employed a combination of techniques.
To the children and now grandchildren I would like to say, “Let this be a lesson to you. Never chew gum in the bathtub. Chewing gum in the bathtub can make your father have to have his posterior shaved. There are reasons for family rules. Rules are our friends, and YaYa doesn’t make this stuff up. She has experience. She’s lived.”
Linda (Steady Now) Zern
When Sherwood and I were young we produced a lot of little kids, a lot of grubby, grimy little kids, who because of their love affair with dirt and grime required a ton of hosing off—also bathing. When these little kids took baths they sometimes chewed huge wads of bubble gum. I didn’t mind; it kept them quiet. (For a while they tried to bring peanut butter and jelly sandwiches with them into the tub, but I put the hoodoo on that right away.)
In the early days and even though we had a lot of filthy children, we had only one bathroom. It had one bathtub. One fine evening, Sherwood decided to take a bath in our one and only bathtub, the very same tub our children had used earlier that evening.
From the bathroom I heard the haunting boom of my husband’s voice.
“Linda, get in here.” His voice was thick with some emotion I found hard to identify. It was repugnance.
Naked and dripping, he stood leaning against the sink, his arms braced against the porcelain, bent slightly forward at the waist. He was not smiling or winking.
“Look at this.” He pointed to his hairy damp backside bits. He added, “Is that what I think it is?”
Me, I’m a funny girl, I asked, “Is this a test?” I did not look.
“No, I mean it. Look at my butt.”
“I’m not looking at your butt. You can’t make me.”
He pointed harder at his backside, completely devoid of any spirit of good-natured high jinx. There was more back and forth, denial and insistence and such, but I’ll spare you. I finally realized that this might be a serious situation causing real distress for my husband because he’d been standing there leaning against the sink, naked and pointing at himself for, well, longer than was good for either one of us.
I bent down and I did look.
Sure enough, there it was, a wad of Double Bubble chewing gum the size of a hamster’s head nestled in . . . ummm. . . well, just nestled.
I said, “Oops.”
He said, “Get it off.”
I asked, “How?”
It was a good question. I believe I missed the chapter in Home Economics dealing with “butt hair gum removal.”
I’d heard a rumor once—something club soda—stains or something, but I didn’t think club soda was going to apply in this case. I knew you could use ice to freeze gum and then chip it off of stuff, but chipping seemed the wrong sort of action to take. Pulling was right out. Shaving/cutting seemed promising, but it was going to be close work.
I can remember hoping that my hand was going to be steady enough, what with the laughing and all.
The real problem is that there just isn’t any kind of hotline for this. I blame the government.
Let me just report that the operation was a success, and I employed a combination of techniques.
To the children and now grandchildren I would like to say, “Let this be a lesson to you. Never chew gum in the bathtub. Chewing gum in the bathtub can make your father have to have his posterior shaved. There are reasons for family rules. Rules are our friends, and YaYa doesn’t make this stuff up. She has experience. She’s lived.”
Linda (Steady Now) Zern
September 6, 2016
COUNTRY LOVING
Many of you know that my husband and I live in a rural setting. Right now, the setting resembles an episode of Hillbilly Hand Fishing. (There is a lot of standing water, due to the semi-tropical weather with a name.)
Folks sometimes come out to the country to visit us. They wear flip-flops and short-shorts. We recommend long pants and steel-toed boots—even for the babies. The country is no joke. There are snakes in the water, horse poop in piles, fire ants in heaps, and animals doing what animals do all over the place.
Warning! Graphic! Farm related animal talk and scenarios featuring animals in their natural habitat. They will not be wearing clothes—of any kind—ever. They do not act like people, no matter how much we insist.
On one side of our property is the “weekend” home of Mr. Abe. Mr. Abe likes to fill his fields with boy goats—lots and lots and lots of boy goats. He sells the goats to other Muslims to eat; these are goats considered clean, pure, and unsullied by hands, knives, or products that have touched or are pork.
Try to understand: There are sixty or more horny boy goats next door to my house at any given time waiting for the knife of purity. It’s like Sodom and Gomorrah over there because boy goats will . . . um . . . er . . . oh forget it . . . they will hump anything that stands still long enough to let them try. They are not gay. They are just boy goats, sans girl goats.
Picture it! Sixty to one thousand boy goats attempting to dominate, rut, hump, and get their freak on with sixty to one thousand other boy goats. It's like a game: King of the Mountain. I've forbidden myself from looking over at Mr. Abe's, afraid that I'll turn to salt.
I once saw a boy donkey running away from a giant Nubian boy goat that was trying to declare his inter-species love, both of which were being chased by their owner—my neighbor who lives on the other side of me.
Do not visit the country if you are unprepared to explain donkey/goat sex to your children. I mean it. Unless, of course, you want to go with the standard, “They’re just wrestling, dear.” Because that’s a lot of wrestling.
And the wrestling dodge will not explain Porno Pete, the overly amorous donkey that used to stand on the other side of the fence, trying to appeal to our girl horses. His method of asking for a date was to display his . . . rather . . . ambitious . . . personal . . . oh forget it . . . he let it all hang out CONSTANTLY. It was gross. I finally had to forbid the grandchildren from looking over at Porno Pete, telling them that they would turn to salt if they did.
Do not visit the country if you are unprepared to explain the anatomy of a boy donkey in love.
“What is that thing, Mommy?”
Go ahead, explain; I’ll hold your coat.
And whatever you do, don’t visit after a smashing, good semi-tropical downpour. It’s a regular frog freak fest, closely resembling a frat party, resulting in about ten trillion tadpoles swimming across the front yard. It’s life, and it just goes on and on and on.
Life! Messy, funny, dramatic, lusty life.
On second thought, come on out, any old time, but just remember to wear long pants and boots and be prepared for a hefty dose of Mother Nature.
Linda (Salt Pillar) Zern
Folks sometimes come out to the country to visit us. They wear flip-flops and short-shorts. We recommend long pants and steel-toed boots—even for the babies. The country is no joke. There are snakes in the water, horse poop in piles, fire ants in heaps, and animals doing what animals do all over the place.
Warning! Graphic! Farm related animal talk and scenarios featuring animals in their natural habitat. They will not be wearing clothes—of any kind—ever. They do not act like people, no matter how much we insist.
On one side of our property is the “weekend” home of Mr. Abe. Mr. Abe likes to fill his fields with boy goats—lots and lots and lots of boy goats. He sells the goats to other Muslims to eat; these are goats considered clean, pure, and unsullied by hands, knives, or products that have touched or are pork.
Try to understand: There are sixty or more horny boy goats next door to my house at any given time waiting for the knife of purity. It’s like Sodom and Gomorrah over there because boy goats will . . . um . . . er . . . oh forget it . . . they will hump anything that stands still long enough to let them try. They are not gay. They are just boy goats, sans girl goats.
Picture it! Sixty to one thousand boy goats attempting to dominate, rut, hump, and get their freak on with sixty to one thousand other boy goats. It's like a game: King of the Mountain. I've forbidden myself from looking over at Mr. Abe's, afraid that I'll turn to salt.
I once saw a boy donkey running away from a giant Nubian boy goat that was trying to declare his inter-species love, both of which were being chased by their owner—my neighbor who lives on the other side of me.
Do not visit the country if you are unprepared to explain donkey/goat sex to your children. I mean it. Unless, of course, you want to go with the standard, “They’re just wrestling, dear.” Because that’s a lot of wrestling.
And the wrestling dodge will not explain Porno Pete, the overly amorous donkey that used to stand on the other side of the fence, trying to appeal to our girl horses. His method of asking for a date was to display his . . . rather . . . ambitious . . . personal . . . oh forget it . . . he let it all hang out CONSTANTLY. It was gross. I finally had to forbid the grandchildren from looking over at Porno Pete, telling them that they would turn to salt if they did.
Do not visit the country if you are unprepared to explain the anatomy of a boy donkey in love.
“What is that thing, Mommy?”
Go ahead, explain; I’ll hold your coat.
And whatever you do, don’t visit after a smashing, good semi-tropical downpour. It’s a regular frog freak fest, closely resembling a frat party, resulting in about ten trillion tadpoles swimming across the front yard. It’s life, and it just goes on and on and on.
Life! Messy, funny, dramatic, lusty life.
On second thought, come on out, any old time, but just remember to wear long pants and boots and be prepared for a hefty dose of Mother Nature.
Linda (Salt Pillar) Zern
August 23, 2016
RAGGEDY MAN
Amazon.com is a marvel of virtual shopping. I love it. They love me. I type in my, sometimes strange, criteria—goat de-wormer, dog dandruff shampoo, owl pellets, size five kitten heels—and bam! Elves bring me my every heart’s desire—for free. I have a Prime account.
The day that the grid finally does collapse, and my keyboard goes still and silent, will be a dark, dark shopping day indeed.
People ask me, “Where did you get that Steampunk skull head walking stick?”
“Amazon, of course,” I chirp. “ No shipping. I’m prime.”
My husband, Sherwood the Stoic Shopper, does not often order online, but when he does . . .
He buys shoe polish. That’s it. Or so I thought.
In the jumble of boxes, packages, and envelopes, I noticed a small manila envelope that looked as if it had circumnavigated the globe in the wheel well of a UPS jet with engine trouble. I opened the envelope. Shoe polish wrapped in bubble wrap and . . . a rag . . . fell out. Weird. I tossed the garbage and kept the shoe polish.
Sherwood the Stoic Shopper called me, from some foreign land—I think in this case it was Detroit, and asked, “Did my package come?”
“Sure. Sure. Your exotic shoe polish from the Himalayas arrived.”
“How about the rag?”
The word garbage shot into my mind like a bullet. “Rag? What rag?”
“The seven dollar buffing rag that came with the polish. I’ve been tracking it.”
It’s in moments like this that knowing what nuttiness to address first can be a challenge.
“You’ve been tracking a rag.”
“Yeah, I’ve been pretty pumped about getting my buffing rag—seven dollars.”
“Sherwood, did I know that you were waiting on a rag? A rag that not only looked like a rag but looked like a hunk of stuff someone had cut off of a moth eaten curtain? A hunk of stuff that you paid seven dollars for? Did I know?”
“Linda, where’s my rag?”
“You might want to start tracking the garbage.”
His broken hearted moan echoed. “I was so looking forward to getting it,” he whispered.
“Babe, it was a rag. I thought it was a junky kind of packing material. What the heck?”
My husband is a computer systems senior analyst, meaning he speaks software. Human communication is not his best thing. He seemed to believe that I should have magically 1) known the rag was more than a rag 2) known he’d ordered a rag 3) known he’s paid more for the rag than the polish 4) known his heart was set on getting his ‘buffing rag . . . and so forth.
PEOPLE! IT WAS A RAG!
Don’t worry, he got his revenge; he hid my brand new travel blow dryer in the closet so that I would 1) think I was going crazy 2) unable to dry my hair, forcing me to wear it in a ridiculous ponytail for a work meeting 3) wandering around the house crying my eyes out 4) pretty sure the grandboys had stolen it to use for a “gun” . . . and so forth.
There’s a great line in “Mad Max – Beyond Thunderdome.” At the end of the movie, Aunty says to Max, “Ain’t we a pair, Raggedy Man?”
Yeah. What she said.
I’m ordering myself a t-shirt with that line printed on it. From Amazon. No shipping. I’m prime.
Linda (Thunderdome) Zern
The day that the grid finally does collapse, and my keyboard goes still and silent, will be a dark, dark shopping day indeed.
People ask me, “Where did you get that Steampunk skull head walking stick?”
“Amazon, of course,” I chirp. “ No shipping. I’m prime.”
My husband, Sherwood the Stoic Shopper, does not often order online, but when he does . . .
He buys shoe polish. That’s it. Or so I thought.
In the jumble of boxes, packages, and envelopes, I noticed a small manila envelope that looked as if it had circumnavigated the globe in the wheel well of a UPS jet with engine trouble. I opened the envelope. Shoe polish wrapped in bubble wrap and . . . a rag . . . fell out. Weird. I tossed the garbage and kept the shoe polish.
Sherwood the Stoic Shopper called me, from some foreign land—I think in this case it was Detroit, and asked, “Did my package come?”
“Sure. Sure. Your exotic shoe polish from the Himalayas arrived.”
“How about the rag?”
The word garbage shot into my mind like a bullet. “Rag? What rag?”
“The seven dollar buffing rag that came with the polish. I’ve been tracking it.”
It’s in moments like this that knowing what nuttiness to address first can be a challenge.
“You’ve been tracking a rag.”
“Yeah, I’ve been pretty pumped about getting my buffing rag—seven dollars.”
“Sherwood, did I know that you were waiting on a rag? A rag that not only looked like a rag but looked like a hunk of stuff someone had cut off of a moth eaten curtain? A hunk of stuff that you paid seven dollars for? Did I know?”
“Linda, where’s my rag?”
“You might want to start tracking the garbage.”
His broken hearted moan echoed. “I was so looking forward to getting it,” he whispered.
“Babe, it was a rag. I thought it was a junky kind of packing material. What the heck?”
My husband is a computer systems senior analyst, meaning he speaks software. Human communication is not his best thing. He seemed to believe that I should have magically 1) known the rag was more than a rag 2) known he’d ordered a rag 3) known he’s paid more for the rag than the polish 4) known his heart was set on getting his ‘buffing rag . . . and so forth.
PEOPLE! IT WAS A RAG!
Don’t worry, he got his revenge; he hid my brand new travel blow dryer in the closet so that I would 1) think I was going crazy 2) unable to dry my hair, forcing me to wear it in a ridiculous ponytail for a work meeting 3) wandering around the house crying my eyes out 4) pretty sure the grandboys had stolen it to use for a “gun” . . . and so forth.
There’s a great line in “Mad Max – Beyond Thunderdome.” At the end of the movie, Aunty says to Max, “Ain’t we a pair, Raggedy Man?”
Yeah. What she said.
I’m ordering myself a t-shirt with that line printed on it. From Amazon. No shipping. I’m prime.
Linda (Thunderdome) Zern
August 8, 2016
CUTTING THE OLYMPIC DREAM SHORT
The Olympics are back, and my marriage is on the rocks. Oh, not in the traditional sense, where the husband is out and about looking for dates on the dark web or anything like that. No. Martial bliss is rough and rocky right now because the Olympics are a reminder that my husband always wanted to be an Olympian, and he’s not one.
It’s my fault he never lived the dream.
Why?
Because, Dear Reader, instead of chasing his Olympic “dream” he started chasing me.
I disavow any responsibility.
“It’s your fault that I never went to the Olympics,” he said. “If you’d quit running away and let me catch you, I wouldn’t have been so distracted. And you always wore that ‘Sweet Honesty’ t-shirt.”
“What’s that got to do with it?” I’m well known for not giving an inch in these discussions.
“You insisted on wearing that shirt with those pink shorts and knee socks—pink, all pink.”
“Are you trying to say that I owned and wore an Olympic dream smashing outfit—on purpose?”
“Yep.” He huddled over various computer screens, trying to figure out how to live stream the 2016 Olympics.
Smiling like Alice’s disappearing cat, I asked, “Have you tried the Dark Web, Dear?”
When he does figure out how to watch the Olympics, it will be one long stream of expert couch coaching. Couch coaching is a symptom of a disease I have termed Coach-of-All-Sports Disorder. Often afflicting hobby athletes and former high school runners, it’s the steadfast belief that no matter the sport, the sufferer knows how to coach it.
Synchronized swimming? Absolutely. Dressage? Of course. Women’s shot putting? You bet.
“Oh man! He came out of his tuck way too early. That’ll cost him,” my husband shouted. He was sitting on the edge of the couch like a raccoon spying a box of Ritz Crackers, clutching the channel changer to his chest, while the light of Olympic glory flamed in his eye.
“I wasn’t aware that you’ve done a lot of spring board diving,” I observed.
“I’ve been to the YMCA.” His eyes never left the television screen.
“That’s a hammy. She’s just blown her hammy. Didn’t warm up enough.” He shook his head in disdain.
“Hammy? How do you know?”
“Hamstring,” he said, waving vaguely to his backside. “Classic injury for long jumpers.”
I tried to recall a time when I had seen him jump farther or higher than our dog when she’s sleeping in front of the fridge. Nope. I had nothing.
And on it goes . . . on and on and on . . . for two long weeks.
If only I’d never worn those pink shorts and derailed his dream.
Hey! Wait a minute! It couldn’t have been much of a goal if all it took was a cute girl in a free Avon ‘Sweet Honesty’ t-shirt and a pair of pink shorts to goof it up.
Right?
Linda (Shorts) Zern
It’s my fault he never lived the dream.
Why?
Because, Dear Reader, instead of chasing his Olympic “dream” he started chasing me.
I disavow any responsibility.
“It’s your fault that I never went to the Olympics,” he said. “If you’d quit running away and let me catch you, I wouldn’t have been so distracted. And you always wore that ‘Sweet Honesty’ t-shirt.”
“What’s that got to do with it?” I’m well known for not giving an inch in these discussions.
“You insisted on wearing that shirt with those pink shorts and knee socks—pink, all pink.”
“Are you trying to say that I owned and wore an Olympic dream smashing outfit—on purpose?”
“Yep.” He huddled over various computer screens, trying to figure out how to live stream the 2016 Olympics.
Smiling like Alice’s disappearing cat, I asked, “Have you tried the Dark Web, Dear?”
When he does figure out how to watch the Olympics, it will be one long stream of expert couch coaching. Couch coaching is a symptom of a disease I have termed Coach-of-All-Sports Disorder. Often afflicting hobby athletes and former high school runners, it’s the steadfast belief that no matter the sport, the sufferer knows how to coach it.
Synchronized swimming? Absolutely. Dressage? Of course. Women’s shot putting? You bet.
“Oh man! He came out of his tuck way too early. That’ll cost him,” my husband shouted. He was sitting on the edge of the couch like a raccoon spying a box of Ritz Crackers, clutching the channel changer to his chest, while the light of Olympic glory flamed in his eye.
“I wasn’t aware that you’ve done a lot of spring board diving,” I observed.
“I’ve been to the YMCA.” His eyes never left the television screen.
“That’s a hammy. She’s just blown her hammy. Didn’t warm up enough.” He shook his head in disdain.
“Hammy? How do you know?”
“Hamstring,” he said, waving vaguely to his backside. “Classic injury for long jumpers.”
I tried to recall a time when I had seen him jump farther or higher than our dog when she’s sleeping in front of the fridge. Nope. I had nothing.
And on it goes . . . on and on and on . . . for two long weeks.
If only I’d never worn those pink shorts and derailed his dream.
Hey! Wait a minute! It couldn’t have been much of a goal if all it took was a cute girl in a free Avon ‘Sweet Honesty’ t-shirt and a pair of pink shorts to goof it up.
Right?
Linda (Shorts) Zern
August 2, 2016
A DISCLAIMER: The State of My Village
In a vaguely romanticized quote about some weird village in the wildly fictional hamlet of Me-First-Land, the world was informed that it takes a bunch of other people to raise a kid, your kid. I’m still looking for that abracadabra village, and I’ve got fourteen grandchildren.
It is my studied opinion there is no such place.
What there was: Me and my high school sweetheart and a few members of my crazy family and a lot of friends from church. But mostly it was me and that boy from high school that I married, who worked a full time job and went to school part time (sometimes full time) for TEN years to make sure our “village” didn’t go naked or starve.
What there was not: Someone, who wasn’t me, disciplining the nutty kid who had a tendency to dance naked with Chapstick tucked between the cheeks of her butt crack, while playing the kazoo to annoy her siblings. I. CANNOT. MAKE. THIS. STUFF. UP. The disciplining was all on me, no village in sight.
What I now know: The village cannot afford me. Believe it.
What I learned: That no one tried to make sure my kids could read, write, or compute basic mathematics the way I made sure they could read, write, or compute basic mathematics. In fact, the lovely village representative, that my second-grade son gave a wreath to during Christmas, sent home a thank you note with the word wreath spelled REEF. “Thank you for the Christmas REEF.” True story. Still have the note.
Biggest Payoff: The village kids at our house grew up and moved out; they became healthy, solidly middle class, and wise, and then they came home with fourteen new members for the Zern family village.
Best Kept Secret: Another word for village is family.
Linda (Village Elder) Zern
It is my studied opinion there is no such place.
What there was: Me and my high school sweetheart and a few members of my crazy family and a lot of friends from church. But mostly it was me and that boy from high school that I married, who worked a full time job and went to school part time (sometimes full time) for TEN years to make sure our “village” didn’t go naked or starve.
What there was not: Someone, who wasn’t me, disciplining the nutty kid who had a tendency to dance naked with Chapstick tucked between the cheeks of her butt crack, while playing the kazoo to annoy her siblings. I. CANNOT. MAKE. THIS. STUFF. UP. The disciplining was all on me, no village in sight.
What I now know: The village cannot afford me. Believe it.
What I learned: That no one tried to make sure my kids could read, write, or compute basic mathematics the way I made sure they could read, write, or compute basic mathematics. In fact, the lovely village representative, that my second-grade son gave a wreath to during Christmas, sent home a thank you note with the word wreath spelled REEF. “Thank you for the Christmas REEF.” True story. Still have the note.
Biggest Payoff: The village kids at our house grew up and moved out; they became healthy, solidly middle class, and wise, and then they came home with fourteen new members for the Zern family village.
Best Kept Secret: Another word for village is family.
Linda (Village Elder) Zern
