Linda L. Zern's Blog, page 23
October 25, 2015
Pointless
I knew when I put the DVD in the shopping cart with the plastic storage bin that the DVD was going to slide under the storage bin. I knew that I would forget about the DVD once it disappeared under the storage bin, and I knew that I would neglect to pay for it.
I said to myself, “You’re going to forget about that DVD and be accused of shoplifting by the little old lady that guards the door at the Walmart.”
I did and I was.
I knew that Conner was going to be stung by the bumble bees that darted hither and thither among the herb plants.
"Conner,” I said, “You’re going to get stung by that bumble bee if you touch it.”
His eyes narrowed and his determination hardened.
“Don’t do it, buddy. I mean it. Don’t grab that . . . bee.”
He inched closer to the bees his hands clenching and unclenching. “Conner, you’re going to be sor . . .” I closed my mouth and saved my breath, because I am fifty plus years old and I know when a kid is about to get the snot stung out of him by a bumble bee.
I knew, and he did.
“Sherwood, don’t you think having an extra bottle of propane on hand might be a good idea to prevent grilling emergencies? You know, just in case?”
My husband’s eyes narrowed and his resistance hardened. I knew that he would not be purchasing an extra bottle of emergency propane, and he didn’t. So when he ran out of gas for the grill at Conner’s birthday party, with approximately seventy-two people standing around with their hotdog buns open and their mustard crusting over, I realized that being right all the time reeks. It’s a useless talent.
Better to spend your days ignoring people and do what ever you want to do anyway—like the government.
Linda (Told You So) Zern
I said to myself, “You’re going to forget about that DVD and be accused of shoplifting by the little old lady that guards the door at the Walmart.”
I did and I was.
I knew that Conner was going to be stung by the bumble bees that darted hither and thither among the herb plants.
"Conner,” I said, “You’re going to get stung by that bumble bee if you touch it.”
His eyes narrowed and his determination hardened.
“Don’t do it, buddy. I mean it. Don’t grab that . . . bee.”
He inched closer to the bees his hands clenching and unclenching. “Conner, you’re going to be sor . . .” I closed my mouth and saved my breath, because I am fifty plus years old and I know when a kid is about to get the snot stung out of him by a bumble bee.
I knew, and he did.
“Sherwood, don’t you think having an extra bottle of propane on hand might be a good idea to prevent grilling emergencies? You know, just in case?”
My husband’s eyes narrowed and his resistance hardened. I knew that he would not be purchasing an extra bottle of emergency propane, and he didn’t. So when he ran out of gas for the grill at Conner’s birthday party, with approximately seventy-two people standing around with their hotdog buns open and their mustard crusting over, I realized that being right all the time reeks. It’s a useless talent.
Better to spend your days ignoring people and do what ever you want to do anyway—like the government.
Linda (Told You So) Zern
October 19, 2015
Sleep Walking Dead
“Be a sadist. No matter how sweet and innocent your leading characters, make awful things happen to them—in order that the reader may see what they are made of.” Kurt Vonnegut
I am an artist. My husband is an engineer. We are different. We like different things.
See Jane watch “The Walking Dead.”
See Dick watch “The Andy Griffith Show.”
See Spot run from a zombie Barney Fife.
We recently invested in the Roku version of entertainment. It’s another computery machine that allows you to watch your favorite television shows in an orgy of endless viewing. Commercial free. Interruption low.
See Jane fall asleep to re-runs of “The Walking Dead.”
See Dick in the middle of the night flip the Roku machine over to re-runs of “The Andy Griffith Show.”
See Spot scratch.
While my husband and I are different in our viewing tastes in television, we are alike in age. We are old-ish. We are becoming acquainted with not sleeping and waking up at two in the morning for nightly wanderings. We have a lifetime of stupid and embarrassing memories that torment us as we try to sleep.
Falling asleep to episodes of “The Walking Dead” distracts our bad memory brains. So it’s nothing to fall asleep to zombies eating everyone and then wake up to Barney Fife and his one bullet.
See Jane toss and turn.
See Dick stumble around, change the channel, and fall asleep just in time to start snoring.
See Spot twitch in her sleep. See Spot chase zombie bunnies in her dreams.
I love “The Walking Dead.” It’s about characters that the writers are constantly throwing into a pit of writhing, zombie snakes and then daring them to find a way out. It’s Kurt Vonnegut’s writing advice on steroids. I appreciate that.
Honestly, “The Andy Griffith’ Show” isn’t all that different. How will Andy and Barney ever tell Aunt Bee that her pickles are NEVER going to win a prize at the country fair because her pickles are absolutely terrible? Same concept. “No matter how sweet and innocent your leading characters, make awful things happen to them.”
Hey! It’s practically the same show. Maybe my husband and I aren’t so different after all?
Linda (Dream Weaver) Zern
I am an artist. My husband is an engineer. We are different. We like different things.
See Jane watch “The Walking Dead.”
See Dick watch “The Andy Griffith Show.”
See Spot run from a zombie Barney Fife.
We recently invested in the Roku version of entertainment. It’s another computery machine that allows you to watch your favorite television shows in an orgy of endless viewing. Commercial free. Interruption low.
See Jane fall asleep to re-runs of “The Walking Dead.”
See Dick in the middle of the night flip the Roku machine over to re-runs of “The Andy Griffith Show.”
See Spot scratch.
While my husband and I are different in our viewing tastes in television, we are alike in age. We are old-ish. We are becoming acquainted with not sleeping and waking up at two in the morning for nightly wanderings. We have a lifetime of stupid and embarrassing memories that torment us as we try to sleep.
Falling asleep to episodes of “The Walking Dead” distracts our bad memory brains. So it’s nothing to fall asleep to zombies eating everyone and then wake up to Barney Fife and his one bullet.
See Jane toss and turn.
See Dick stumble around, change the channel, and fall asleep just in time to start snoring.
See Spot twitch in her sleep. See Spot chase zombie bunnies in her dreams.
I love “The Walking Dead.” It’s about characters that the writers are constantly throwing into a pit of writhing, zombie snakes and then daring them to find a way out. It’s Kurt Vonnegut’s writing advice on steroids. I appreciate that.
Honestly, “The Andy Griffith’ Show” isn’t all that different. How will Andy and Barney ever tell Aunt Bee that her pickles are NEVER going to win a prize at the country fair because her pickles are absolutely terrible? Same concept. “No matter how sweet and innocent your leading characters, make awful things happen to them.”
Hey! It’s practically the same show. Maybe my husband and I aren’t so different after all?
Linda (Dream Weaver) Zern
October 13, 2015
Call Me Dawn
Wearing a lot of hats makes my head sweaty.
To “wear many hats” is an idiomatic expression. Idiomatic is a word that means expressions for idiots. An idiot is a person who wouldn’t be able to remember his or her head if it wasn’t attached, and to “wear a lot of hats,” on the head that is attached to you, means you have a lot of jobs and maybe you’re not an idiot.
My head is sweaty a lot.
Consider this post a disclaimer and an explanation. Here’s a few of the hats I wear:
The YaYa Hat: It’s a big floppy hat that I bought in South Korea at the de-militarized zone. It’s the hat I wear, physically and metaphysically, when I have to listen to 101 thousand knock-knock jokes that make absolutely no sense in any reality—ever.
The Wife Hat: Hasn’t arrived yet. I just ordered it on Amazon.
The Foreman Hat: It’s a Texas A&M ball cap that I stole from my oldest son because he had it broken in perfectly. I wear it to keep the sun from eating off the end of my nose when I’m mowing . . . everything, everywhere, all the time.
The Author Hat: It’s imaginary and changes color every time I write a new paragraph.
The Book Marketer Hat: It’s shaped like a dunces cap because of the endless learning curve required in the shifting, evolving world of selling books.
The My-Name-Is-Dawn Hat: Worn at yoga, it has the name Dawn embroidered on it, apparently. My yoga instructor calls me Dawn. I’ve told her my name isn’t Dawn, but she . . . well . . . insists on calling me Dawn. So, that’s that. Dawn is my yoga name. Dawn it is. Sigh. When I go to Zumba my name is Conchita.
The Primary President Hat: Primary is our Sunday School/Children’s Program at my church. I’m the president. There are about seventy children on the rolls in our program. This hat is made of puppets and stickers.
The Community Volunteer Hat: It’s a riding helmet.
The Science Club Leader Hat: This isn’t a hat as much as it is a butterfly net and a jar with holes poked in the lid.
Blogger Hat: For years and years, I’ve worn a hat that resembles Clark Kent’s fedora. As I watch and gather information for the blogs that I participate in www.beyondthestrandline.blogspot.com (serious) and www.zippityzerns.blogspot.com (silly) I try to look like the mild mannered reporter. Once in a while, I take Clark’s hat off and I put on a cape. No hat required.
I thought when I got older there would be less hats.
Linda (Mad Hatter) Zern
To “wear many hats” is an idiomatic expression. Idiomatic is a word that means expressions for idiots. An idiot is a person who wouldn’t be able to remember his or her head if it wasn’t attached, and to “wear a lot of hats,” on the head that is attached to you, means you have a lot of jobs and maybe you’re not an idiot.
My head is sweaty a lot.
Consider this post a disclaimer and an explanation. Here’s a few of the hats I wear:
The YaYa Hat: It’s a big floppy hat that I bought in South Korea at the de-militarized zone. It’s the hat I wear, physically and metaphysically, when I have to listen to 101 thousand knock-knock jokes that make absolutely no sense in any reality—ever.
The Wife Hat: Hasn’t arrived yet. I just ordered it on Amazon.
The Foreman Hat: It’s a Texas A&M ball cap that I stole from my oldest son because he had it broken in perfectly. I wear it to keep the sun from eating off the end of my nose when I’m mowing . . . everything, everywhere, all the time.
The Author Hat: It’s imaginary and changes color every time I write a new paragraph.
The Book Marketer Hat: It’s shaped like a dunces cap because of the endless learning curve required in the shifting, evolving world of selling books.
The My-Name-Is-Dawn Hat: Worn at yoga, it has the name Dawn embroidered on it, apparently. My yoga instructor calls me Dawn. I’ve told her my name isn’t Dawn, but she . . . well . . . insists on calling me Dawn. So, that’s that. Dawn is my yoga name. Dawn it is. Sigh. When I go to Zumba my name is Conchita.
The Primary President Hat: Primary is our Sunday School/Children’s Program at my church. I’m the president. There are about seventy children on the rolls in our program. This hat is made of puppets and stickers.
The Community Volunteer Hat: It’s a riding helmet.
The Science Club Leader Hat: This isn’t a hat as much as it is a butterfly net and a jar with holes poked in the lid.
Blogger Hat: For years and years, I’ve worn a hat that resembles Clark Kent’s fedora. As I watch and gather information for the blogs that I participate in www.beyondthestrandline.blogspot.com (serious) and www.zippityzerns.blogspot.com (silly) I try to look like the mild mannered reporter. Once in a while, I take Clark’s hat off and I put on a cape. No hat required.
I thought when I got older there would be less hats.
Linda (Mad Hatter) Zern
October 12, 2015
NEIGHBOR DOG BLUES - HERE WE GO AGAIN!
A pit bull puppy/dog loped around our yard wagging his tail, wee-weeing on blades of grass, and sniffing random butts.
“Oh great, someone’s dumped off another dog,” my husband said.
Note: It’s a problem for folks “out in the country.” People figure that the kindly country folks will take in random kittens, cats, parrots, and pit bulls and let them live in their barns where the abandoned animals will write best selling books about their travails and adventures. Then these people (presumably) lie to their children claiming, “Hitler ran away.”
The suspect puppy/dog continued to frolic about. His enormous boy-dog parts bouncing wildly.
“Nope,” I said. “That’s the neighbor’s dog.” The young, happy-go-lucky puppy/dog sniffed my butt. “I don’t see this ending well.”
The pit bull squeezed under our fence into our neighbor’s pasture. A pasture stuffed with baby goats and baby sheep. Our horses stamped nervously. The duck peeked over the rim of his three hundred and fifty gallon water tank.
A week later in the dark of night, I came home from school and walked onto our back porch and gagged. The smell made me start speculating as only a writer can.
To no one in particular I huffed, “Good grief, someone’s been murdered on my back porch and everything that should be on the inside of a body is now on the outside of the body.”
I stepped lightly. I didn’t want to mess up the DNA evidence. Snapping the back porch lights on I realized we had been dog slimmed. Our neighbor’s happy-go-lucky puppy/dog had punched through the porch screen, jumped onto a private porch, and pooped once, twice, and then—for good measure—three times. I lost count of the puddles of happy-go-lucky puppy/dog pee. There was a steaming pile of dog stuff on a couch pillow.
Our dogs stared at me from behind window glass. Ploodle, the Yorkshire terrier, rolled his eyes and shrugged.
“Oh man, this is not going to end well.”
While chatting with our neighbor about the neighborhood dog trouble, which was really not a dog issue but an owner issue, happy-go-lucky pit bull puppy/dog hopped into our duck pool and grabbed our duck by its skinny duck neck. His tail never stopped wagging—the dog’s tail not the duck’s. I screamed and ran for the phone and a leash.
The duck survived. The dog was arrested. And the dog’s owner spent the Fourth of July shooting his gun at . . . something . . . from his back porch. He practiced all day long.
“Do you think that guy knows I ratted out his dog?” I asked my husband. “How big do you think his gun is? Do you think he’s a better shot than me? How much do you think bulletproof vests are? Do you think a bulletproof vest would make me look fat? Should I invest in a Gatling gun for the roof of the house? How soon so you think you’ll remarry?”
I ran out of breath. He considered.
“He suspects. It’s a forty-five. Probably. They ain’t cheap. They make everyone look thick. No. I’ll probably bring a date to the funeral.”
“Smart guy, statistics show that the sooner a man remarries after becoming a widower indicates how happy he was in his marriage. You must be delirious with happiness.”
“You know it.”
“Well, I wouldn’t remarry. I’m just going to sit around and wait for someone to drop off a parrot or a monkey or ten cats for companionship.”
He smiled. When night fell, our neighbor put his gun away and pulled out a grenade launcher. I started to stack sand bags around the duck pool.
Linda (Bullet Proof) Zern
“Oh great, someone’s dumped off another dog,” my husband said.
Note: It’s a problem for folks “out in the country.” People figure that the kindly country folks will take in random kittens, cats, parrots, and pit bulls and let them live in their barns where the abandoned animals will write best selling books about their travails and adventures. Then these people (presumably) lie to their children claiming, “Hitler ran away.”
The suspect puppy/dog continued to frolic about. His enormous boy-dog parts bouncing wildly.
“Nope,” I said. “That’s the neighbor’s dog.” The young, happy-go-lucky puppy/dog sniffed my butt. “I don’t see this ending well.”
The pit bull squeezed under our fence into our neighbor’s pasture. A pasture stuffed with baby goats and baby sheep. Our horses stamped nervously. The duck peeked over the rim of his three hundred and fifty gallon water tank.
A week later in the dark of night, I came home from school and walked onto our back porch and gagged. The smell made me start speculating as only a writer can.
To no one in particular I huffed, “Good grief, someone’s been murdered on my back porch and everything that should be on the inside of a body is now on the outside of the body.”
I stepped lightly. I didn’t want to mess up the DNA evidence. Snapping the back porch lights on I realized we had been dog slimmed. Our neighbor’s happy-go-lucky puppy/dog had punched through the porch screen, jumped onto a private porch, and pooped once, twice, and then—for good measure—three times. I lost count of the puddles of happy-go-lucky puppy/dog pee. There was a steaming pile of dog stuff on a couch pillow.
Our dogs stared at me from behind window glass. Ploodle, the Yorkshire terrier, rolled his eyes and shrugged.
“Oh man, this is not going to end well.”
While chatting with our neighbor about the neighborhood dog trouble, which was really not a dog issue but an owner issue, happy-go-lucky pit bull puppy/dog hopped into our duck pool and grabbed our duck by its skinny duck neck. His tail never stopped wagging—the dog’s tail not the duck’s. I screamed and ran for the phone and a leash.
The duck survived. The dog was arrested. And the dog’s owner spent the Fourth of July shooting his gun at . . . something . . . from his back porch. He practiced all day long.
“Do you think that guy knows I ratted out his dog?” I asked my husband. “How big do you think his gun is? Do you think he’s a better shot than me? How much do you think bulletproof vests are? Do you think a bulletproof vest would make me look fat? Should I invest in a Gatling gun for the roof of the house? How soon so you think you’ll remarry?”
I ran out of breath. He considered.
“He suspects. It’s a forty-five. Probably. They ain’t cheap. They make everyone look thick. No. I’ll probably bring a date to the funeral.”
“Smart guy, statistics show that the sooner a man remarries after becoming a widower indicates how happy he was in his marriage. You must be delirious with happiness.”
“You know it.”
“Well, I wouldn’t remarry. I’m just going to sit around and wait for someone to drop off a parrot or a monkey or ten cats for companionship.”
He smiled. When night fell, our neighbor put his gun away and pulled out a grenade launcher. I started to stack sand bags around the duck pool.
Linda (Bullet Proof) Zern
October 4, 2015
FOGGED UP
It started with the goats. No! A goat. One goat. It started with Tramp the Lovelorn goat. He got his head stuck in the fence trying to make love to the neighbor’s girl goats. So I tried to move the goats around to a new pasture but they kept getting out.
So I worried. I worried they were out and wandering the neighborhood with their heads stuck in fences and knotholes under the blood moon and that made me start to wander around in the middle of the night with a flashlight looking for stuck goats.
It distracted me, so much so that one morning I got up and found the front door open—wide open—swinging wide open. I think the goats unlocked it.
Later that day, still worried and completely distracted, I mowed the yard. When I came into the house—the faucet was running full blast and the fridge door was hanging wide open. I couldn’t remember being hungry or thirsty. Goats stared at me through the kitchen window—bawling.
Sleep eluded me. I began to move through the days like a zombie, the nights like a banshee.
My truck broke down: five days and five hundred dollars later and the pickup was liberated. The fridge started to wheeze: the sensor was going; the official seventy-five dollar diagnosis? It’s going to crap out. Went to the doctor, so that she could use the word polyp in a sentence.
On overload, I missed a really important family event—no, make that—two REALLY important family events. I called my husband on his business trip in hysterics. He thought someone had been killed in a car accident.
“I missed the baby’s blessing,” I screamed. “The kid’s primary program. I was so tired. I was on zombie auto-pilot.” The rest was wailing, weeping, and goats yowling in the distance.
From Costa Rica my husband dove right into the heart of . . . my darkness. “What???? The primary program????? I thought someone had died in a fire. You forgot? If that’s the worst thing you ever do. Relax.”
A red haze of disbelief filmed/fogged/sloshed through my brain. “The. Worst. Thing . . . That’s it? That’s your idea of empathy?”
I said something to him that we tell the kids never to say to anyone, and then I hung up on him. It felt good. I’m not going to lie.
Today, I got up at three in the morning and put two pork roasts in the crock-pot for a dinner party that isn’t supposed to happen until next week.
Truthfully, it may not be the goat’s fault.
Linda (Foggy Top) Zern
So I worried. I worried they were out and wandering the neighborhood with their heads stuck in fences and knotholes under the blood moon and that made me start to wander around in the middle of the night with a flashlight looking for stuck goats.
It distracted me, so much so that one morning I got up and found the front door open—wide open—swinging wide open. I think the goats unlocked it.
Later that day, still worried and completely distracted, I mowed the yard. When I came into the house—the faucet was running full blast and the fridge door was hanging wide open. I couldn’t remember being hungry or thirsty. Goats stared at me through the kitchen window—bawling.
Sleep eluded me. I began to move through the days like a zombie, the nights like a banshee.
My truck broke down: five days and five hundred dollars later and the pickup was liberated. The fridge started to wheeze: the sensor was going; the official seventy-five dollar diagnosis? It’s going to crap out. Went to the doctor, so that she could use the word polyp in a sentence.
On overload, I missed a really important family event—no, make that—two REALLY important family events. I called my husband on his business trip in hysterics. He thought someone had been killed in a car accident.
“I missed the baby’s blessing,” I screamed. “The kid’s primary program. I was so tired. I was on zombie auto-pilot.” The rest was wailing, weeping, and goats yowling in the distance.
From Costa Rica my husband dove right into the heart of . . . my darkness. “What???? The primary program????? I thought someone had died in a fire. You forgot? If that’s the worst thing you ever do. Relax.”
A red haze of disbelief filmed/fogged/sloshed through my brain. “The. Worst. Thing . . . That’s it? That’s your idea of empathy?”
I said something to him that we tell the kids never to say to anyone, and then I hung up on him. It felt good. I’m not going to lie.
Today, I got up at three in the morning and put two pork roasts in the crock-pot for a dinner party that isn’t supposed to happen until next week.
Truthfully, it may not be the goat’s fault.
Linda (Foggy Top) Zern
September 24, 2015
HERDING GOATS
Our boy goat hit puberty, which sent him spiraling into mindless wooing. Mindless wooing consists of getting his head stuck in field fence and grunting at the neighbor’s girl goats.
So I had to move him to a pasture, one field removed from the neighbor’s trampy girl goats.
Herding goats is like herding goats. They’re all over the place. So I got a bucket of feed to trick them into a new pasture.
But then the horses hear the tink, tink, tink of oats in a bucket so they come running.
Except that Tracker, a big bully boy, hates the goats, so the goats can’t be with the horses, but before I know what’s happened, the horses—hearing that tink sound—have snuck through the open work shop door and into the barn with the goats.
But they can’t be with the goats because Tracker will stomp goats into goat paste.
So I wrangle Tracker out of the barn and into the goat pasture that the goats can’t be in because our boy goat is in love.
While I’m wrangling Tracker, Mavis the Goat—who is related to a magician and a prison escapee—slips out of the barn through a crack, wanders over to her old pasture, jumps up on her goat house, burps up a wad of goat oats, and settles in with Tracker, the goat hater.
The other goats, envying Mavis her agency, began to probe the fences for weaknesses. I reinforce every microscopic goat exit with epoxy and rope.
In the meantime, Charlie, goat neutral horse, has been snacking it up with random goats. I chase him into another paddock, slam the gate shut, and then count the number of beads of sweat rolling down my nose.
Six hours have passed and no one is where they’re supposed to be all because one boy goat fell in love.
Linda (We All Fall Down) Zern
So I had to move him to a pasture, one field removed from the neighbor’s trampy girl goats.
Herding goats is like herding goats. They’re all over the place. So I got a bucket of feed to trick them into a new pasture.
But then the horses hear the tink, tink, tink of oats in a bucket so they come running.
Except that Tracker, a big bully boy, hates the goats, so the goats can’t be with the horses, but before I know what’s happened, the horses—hearing that tink sound—have snuck through the open work shop door and into the barn with the goats.
But they can’t be with the goats because Tracker will stomp goats into goat paste.
So I wrangle Tracker out of the barn and into the goat pasture that the goats can’t be in because our boy goat is in love.
While I’m wrangling Tracker, Mavis the Goat—who is related to a magician and a prison escapee—slips out of the barn through a crack, wanders over to her old pasture, jumps up on her goat house, burps up a wad of goat oats, and settles in with Tracker, the goat hater.
The other goats, envying Mavis her agency, began to probe the fences for weaknesses. I reinforce every microscopic goat exit with epoxy and rope.
In the meantime, Charlie, goat neutral horse, has been snacking it up with random goats. I chase him into another paddock, slam the gate shut, and then count the number of beads of sweat rolling down my nose.
Six hours have passed and no one is where they’re supposed to be all because one boy goat fell in love.
Linda (We All Fall Down) Zern
September 22, 2015
I'll Scratch You All Over
The fourth brother in the grandkid gang was snotty, crying, dirty, and done. I pointed at it and told my daughter, “Take that one home, wash it, pat it, and put it to bed.”
The third brother in the gang felt that I had dissed his littlest brother. He began to mutter. His face closed like a fist.
I tried to interpret his three-year old muttering.
Nothing.
“Heather,” I said to my daughter, “what’s he saying?”
She listened for a while.
With more optimism and hope than knowledge she reported, “He’s saying, ‘I’ll love you forever.’”
Zac’s face now resembled angry granite.
“Heather, look at his face. I don’t think he’s saying, ‘I’ll love you forever.’”
She sighed and then reported, “He’s saying, ‘I’ll scratch you all over.’”
Ah ha! That was more like it.
This incident typifies what I like to call the Wishful Thinking Syndrome. It was wishful thinking that Zac was waving a fond goodbye to his old YaYa with charming declarations of undying devotion.
There’s a lot of Wishful Thinking Syndrome going around I’ve noticed.
It’s wishful thinking that professors who are busy trying to sell their books will be available to help you sell yours.
It’s wishful thinking that low self esteem, broken hearts, damaged egos, and sociopathic behavior can be fixed with quick cash.
It’s wishful thinking that food without butter, salt, fat, and sugar is going to be as good as food with butter, salt, fat, and sugar.
It’s wishful thinking that bread and circuses are going to work forever. (See history of the Roman Empire)
It’s wishful thinking to believe that hot flashes will make you grow taller after age fifty or before age fifty.
It’s wishful . . . well, you get the picture.
Wishful thinking is a direct result of the modern notions that human beings deserve trophies for breathing, that buying a Wraptastic will change your life, and that everything billed as ‘based on a true story’ is true.
Get real. The three-year old kid is not telling you he’s going to love you forever—this time. This time he’s threatening to claw you with grubby fingernails. Sigh. It happens.
The news isn’t all bad, however.
It is my hopeful wishful belief that for every busted thought-wish, there are those rare and dazzling moments when our wishful thoughts actually reflect reality and the kid is saying that he’s going to love you forever and the purchase of a Wraptastic does, in fact, change your life. But those moments are both rare and dazzling, which makes reality way better than wishful thinking—sort of like having a unicorn to ride to the free puppy store.
Linda (Scratch Resistant) Zern
The third brother in the gang felt that I had dissed his littlest brother. He began to mutter. His face closed like a fist.
I tried to interpret his three-year old muttering.
Nothing.
“Heather,” I said to my daughter, “what’s he saying?”
She listened for a while.
With more optimism and hope than knowledge she reported, “He’s saying, ‘I’ll love you forever.’”
Zac’s face now resembled angry granite.
“Heather, look at his face. I don’t think he’s saying, ‘I’ll love you forever.’”
She sighed and then reported, “He’s saying, ‘I’ll scratch you all over.’”
Ah ha! That was more like it.
This incident typifies what I like to call the Wishful Thinking Syndrome. It was wishful thinking that Zac was waving a fond goodbye to his old YaYa with charming declarations of undying devotion.
There’s a lot of Wishful Thinking Syndrome going around I’ve noticed.
It’s wishful thinking that professors who are busy trying to sell their books will be available to help you sell yours.
It’s wishful thinking that low self esteem, broken hearts, damaged egos, and sociopathic behavior can be fixed with quick cash.
It’s wishful thinking that food without butter, salt, fat, and sugar is going to be as good as food with butter, salt, fat, and sugar.
It’s wishful thinking that bread and circuses are going to work forever. (See history of the Roman Empire)
It’s wishful thinking to believe that hot flashes will make you grow taller after age fifty or before age fifty.
It’s wishful . . . well, you get the picture.
Wishful thinking is a direct result of the modern notions that human beings deserve trophies for breathing, that buying a Wraptastic will change your life, and that everything billed as ‘based on a true story’ is true.
Get real. The three-year old kid is not telling you he’s going to love you forever—this time. This time he’s threatening to claw you with grubby fingernails. Sigh. It happens.
The news isn’t all bad, however.
It is my hopeful wishful belief that for every busted thought-wish, there are those rare and dazzling moments when our wishful thoughts actually reflect reality and the kid is saying that he’s going to love you forever and the purchase of a Wraptastic does, in fact, change your life. But those moments are both rare and dazzling, which makes reality way better than wishful thinking—sort of like having a unicorn to ride to the free puppy store.
Linda (Scratch Resistant) Zern
September 9, 2015
The Internet-A Force for Porn, Also Corn
Race Bannon was my Intro to Computers professor. Race Bannon was also a character from the television cartoon “Johnny Quest” in 1964.
He was a spy—the cartoon character, not the professor. I think. Dr. Bannon could have been a spy.
When Dr. Bannon told us his name, I may have been the only one in the room to look surprised, being the only one who was alive and watching Friday evening cartoons in 1964. I probably was the only one to remember the Cuban Missile Crisis and the panic that went with it as well. But that’s another post.
I had high hopes for Dr. Bannon. Shoot, I had high hopes for Intro to Computers. He insisted that we memorize the two-page explanation for how the letter A gets from the computer keyboard to the computer screen. It took half the entire test time to write out the sequence, which was only one question. I still don’t know how the A gets from the keyboard to the screen. Sigh.
In addition, Dr. Bannon was a bit of a . . . creeper. He seemed fascinated to impress on our class how many porn sites existed on the Internet. (He used an actual number; I can’t remember what it was, and I threw those notes out.) He talked about porn every single class. He also liked to hit on the bosomy coeds during our class breaks, but that’s another post too.
It’s true; there’s a ton of pointless, destructive websites out there, but I have since learned that the Internet is more than porn.
Did you know, that you can type in the question, what are the top 100 “Prepper” websites and the Google machine will answer you?
Did you know, that you can type in the question, what is the recipe for making bleach for long term storage AND THERE IS A RECIPE?
Did you know that there are hundreds of sources for buying food storage, often with free or minimal shipping?
Sure. Sure. Plenty of porn but there’s also a heap of dehydrated, freeze-dried corn in number ten cans that can keep your family going even in the worst of times, which is the opposite of the best of times, also beans, meat, soup bases, milk, rice, pasta . . . and so forth.
Now there a lot of highly educated, academic types that might point fingers and call you a crazy, conspiracy, prepper kook. Sure. Sure. My advice: Take a few computer classes, you’ll get over caring.
Dr. Race Bannon? He was arrested halfway through Intro to Computers and escorted off the campus in handcuffs.
I made an A.
Linda (Ready Steady) Zer
www.beyondthestrandline.blogspot.com
He was a spy—the cartoon character, not the professor. I think. Dr. Bannon could have been a spy.
When Dr. Bannon told us his name, I may have been the only one in the room to look surprised, being the only one who was alive and watching Friday evening cartoons in 1964. I probably was the only one to remember the Cuban Missile Crisis and the panic that went with it as well. But that’s another post.
I had high hopes for Dr. Bannon. Shoot, I had high hopes for Intro to Computers. He insisted that we memorize the two-page explanation for how the letter A gets from the computer keyboard to the computer screen. It took half the entire test time to write out the sequence, which was only one question. I still don’t know how the A gets from the keyboard to the screen. Sigh.
In addition, Dr. Bannon was a bit of a . . . creeper. He seemed fascinated to impress on our class how many porn sites existed on the Internet. (He used an actual number; I can’t remember what it was, and I threw those notes out.) He talked about porn every single class. He also liked to hit on the bosomy coeds during our class breaks, but that’s another post too.
It’s true; there’s a ton of pointless, destructive websites out there, but I have since learned that the Internet is more than porn.
Did you know, that you can type in the question, what are the top 100 “Prepper” websites and the Google machine will answer you?
Did you know, that you can type in the question, what is the recipe for making bleach for long term storage AND THERE IS A RECIPE?
Did you know that there are hundreds of sources for buying food storage, often with free or minimal shipping?
Sure. Sure. Plenty of porn but there’s also a heap of dehydrated, freeze-dried corn in number ten cans that can keep your family going even in the worst of times, which is the opposite of the best of times, also beans, meat, soup bases, milk, rice, pasta . . . and so forth.
Now there a lot of highly educated, academic types that might point fingers and call you a crazy, conspiracy, prepper kook. Sure. Sure. My advice: Take a few computer classes, you’ll get over caring.
Dr. Race Bannon? He was arrested halfway through Intro to Computers and escorted off the campus in handcuffs.
I made an A.
Linda (Ready Steady) Zer
www.beyondthestrandline.blogspot.com
September 7, 2015
The Grind
Because I am so engrossing and we live in an era that celebrates the glory of accomplishing absolutely nothing, I’d like to share with my friends and family a day in my fascinating, engrossing life.
3:00am – I am awakened from a troubled sleep by a circus troop of raccoons assaulting the family trashcans.
3:13am – Motion sensor light comes on as the raccoons form “HUMAN” pyramid. That’s right; I said HUMAN. I imagine the raccoon heap now measures 4’ 11” inches in height and comes up to my chin.
3:20am – I race outside in my fluffy bathrobe with a broom to confront raccoon troop. Trip over garbage slung thirty feet in all directions. Realize raccoons have thrown invisibility cloak over themselves.
3:27am – Shake broom at nothing. Watch hair on arms stand up when the coyotes start howling.
3:28am – Go back to bed. Attempt to sleep.
5:00am – QUIT trying to attempt to sleep.
6:00am – Say a simple prayer of thanks that every man-jack of us have lived to see another day. (Note: We will be the first to admit that our family may occasionally merit Biblical destruction.)
6:09am – Check out cable news. Feel vindicated that every prediction I’ve ever made is coming true. Turn up the volume when it’s reported that a woman in North Carolina was attacked in her sleep IN HER BED by a surly—also rabid—raccoon.
6:12am – Shuffle to the bathroom and because I’ve caught my great grandmother’s arthritis, I daydream about my granddaughters having to push me to the mailbox in a wheelchair every day. They will chatter happily as they push. Say a prayer of gratitude for such a wonderful granddaughters.
6:31am – Limbs and appendages begin to bend. Postpone nursing home reservation.
7:27am – Feed good animals (not garbage eating night marauders) stuff.
9:00am – Go to yoga and during meditation time, when I’m supposed to be emptying my mind of all stressful thoughts, I try to calculate the force necessary to kill a raccoon with a rock.
10:07am – Declare yoga a bust. Decide to try combat kick boxing next time.
Noon – Eat macaroni or rice or beans. I’m not kidding.
12:00pm to When-I-run-out-of-steam-or-the-coyotes-howl: I scribble and scribble words on virtual paper. Words that no one may ever read, but I still feel compelled to write, in spite of the fact that it makes me look like an agoraphobic shut-in.
Bedtime – When the sun sets and the chickens go to sleep, because I’m saving precious energy and resources for future generations—also I can work in bed while wearing pajamas. Don’t be jealous.
Tomorrow – Rinse and Repeat
Linda (Night Stalker and Fascinating Person) Zern
3:00am – I am awakened from a troubled sleep by a circus troop of raccoons assaulting the family trashcans.
3:13am – Motion sensor light comes on as the raccoons form “HUMAN” pyramid. That’s right; I said HUMAN. I imagine the raccoon heap now measures 4’ 11” inches in height and comes up to my chin.
3:20am – I race outside in my fluffy bathrobe with a broom to confront raccoon troop. Trip over garbage slung thirty feet in all directions. Realize raccoons have thrown invisibility cloak over themselves.
3:27am – Shake broom at nothing. Watch hair on arms stand up when the coyotes start howling.
3:28am – Go back to bed. Attempt to sleep.
5:00am – QUIT trying to attempt to sleep.
6:00am – Say a simple prayer of thanks that every man-jack of us have lived to see another day. (Note: We will be the first to admit that our family may occasionally merit Biblical destruction.)
6:09am – Check out cable news. Feel vindicated that every prediction I’ve ever made is coming true. Turn up the volume when it’s reported that a woman in North Carolina was attacked in her sleep IN HER BED by a surly—also rabid—raccoon.
6:12am – Shuffle to the bathroom and because I’ve caught my great grandmother’s arthritis, I daydream about my granddaughters having to push me to the mailbox in a wheelchair every day. They will chatter happily as they push. Say a prayer of gratitude for such a wonderful granddaughters.
6:31am – Limbs and appendages begin to bend. Postpone nursing home reservation.
7:27am – Feed good animals (not garbage eating night marauders) stuff.
9:00am – Go to yoga and during meditation time, when I’m supposed to be emptying my mind of all stressful thoughts, I try to calculate the force necessary to kill a raccoon with a rock.
10:07am – Declare yoga a bust. Decide to try combat kick boxing next time.
Noon – Eat macaroni or rice or beans. I’m not kidding.
12:00pm to When-I-run-out-of-steam-or-the-coyotes-howl: I scribble and scribble words on virtual paper. Words that no one may ever read, but I still feel compelled to write, in spite of the fact that it makes me look like an agoraphobic shut-in.
Bedtime – When the sun sets and the chickens go to sleep, because I’m saving precious energy and resources for future generations—also I can work in bed while wearing pajamas. Don’t be jealous.
Tomorrow – Rinse and Repeat
Linda (Night Stalker and Fascinating Person) Zern
August 24, 2015
FLASH FICTION: FIXTURE
“Remember one man’s trash is another man’s treasure,” Daddy said when they got to the garage sale and handed her a one dollar bill. It’s what he always said.
Mia hated the way the wrinkled dollar smelled, but she loved the way it made her feel and what it meant—time with Daddy.
“Daddy, doesn’t it make you think of the beach?” Mia pointed at the sheets, stretching over the lawn and covered with candy dishes and yellowed Tupperware. The breeze tickled at the frayed edges of the sheets and tangled her ponytail.
His crooked smile made her think of a question mark.
She tried again.
“You know the beach . . . that raggedy line of seaweed after the water goes out? That’s all mixed up with broken shells but if you walk slow and look hard you can find a whole sand dollar that’s not all broken to bits—sometimes. It’s like that to me here.”
He patted her head. "Like finding a great deal."
Daddy held her hand as they wandered through card tables piled with blouses and winter sweaters. He always wore his work coveralls streaked with grease on the pockets when they went treasure hunting together; his name stitched in blue and black on his chest.
“Like sea treasures,” she said.
“You’re a funny girl, Mia.” That's what he always said.
She felt itchy when grownups said that stuff to her, not sure if it was a good thing to be a funny girl who saw seaweed in the flutter of sheets on the grass at a yard sale.
He left her in front of a table with books and puzzles and games. Sometimes he looked at her like she was a sand dollar hidden under a pile of torn chip bags and barnacles. She thought he looked tired and rumpled like the money.
He left to look for sensible treasures like torque wrenches and channel-lock pliers. She picked up a book and was disappointed to see that she’d read it and was rejecting the puzzles as too easy when the glitter of sun on glass caught her eye. Maybe it was glass or crystal or even diamonds?
Piled next to her were jars, dishes, mismatched pots and pans, and somewhere in all that jumble the tantalizing sparkle of magic. She felt it. Mia walked to the edge of a paisley blanket and saw it—a glowing face of crystal arching away into an elegant curve. A crystal ball. It was a crystal ball, a real one, half hidden and tipped on its edge against a chipped bowl. She froze when the sun hit the crystal ball and splintered into a hundred shards of glittering fire.
The sign read, Everything One Dollar.
Mia could hardly breathe. She looked at her daddy and flipped a hand at him, not wanting to give it away, but tempted to yell at him to hurry. Hurry, hurry before someone else discovered her crystal ball and scooped it up. She waved harder and then went to get him.
“Daddy,” she said, tugging at his shirtsleeve. “Daddy, do you see it?” She didn’t want to take the chance and point, so she dipped her head towards the blanket, whispering, “Daddy, there. Look! Next to that broken bowl. Can you believe it? And it’s only a dollar. It’s magic for only one dollar.”
“Mia, what do you want me to see?” He squinted.
Dragging him to the edge of the blanket, she said, “There daddy.” She bent down, desperate enough now to pick the crystal ball up, to hold it in front of her like a chalice. He looked at it and then looked at her, puzzled.
“What do you think this is?” He pulled the magical globe out of her hands.
“Shhh, daddy, they’ll hear you.” How could he not know? “Daddy," she whispered. "It’s a crystal ball! Look . . . just look!”
“But honey,” he said, turning the ball of glass in his chapped hands. He shook it. Tipping it over, he watched as a shower of dried up mosquitoes and flies fell out of its hollow center. “We have one just like it in the bathroom.”
He held up her crystal ball to the sun. It became a dusty glass covering for a bathroom light fixture.
“Oh,” she said, softer than a breath. “But I thought . . .”
She covered her mouth with her hand to hide the way she needed to bite her lip—hard. Her hand smelled like the money—sweaty skin and fingernail dirt.
He tossed the light fixture back into the heap and patted her on the head.
“Next time, funny Mia. Next time you’ll find treasure.”
Mia hated the way the wrinkled dollar smelled, but she loved the way it made her feel and what it meant—time with Daddy.
“Daddy, doesn’t it make you think of the beach?” Mia pointed at the sheets, stretching over the lawn and covered with candy dishes and yellowed Tupperware. The breeze tickled at the frayed edges of the sheets and tangled her ponytail.
His crooked smile made her think of a question mark.
She tried again.
“You know the beach . . . that raggedy line of seaweed after the water goes out? That’s all mixed up with broken shells but if you walk slow and look hard you can find a whole sand dollar that’s not all broken to bits—sometimes. It’s like that to me here.”
He patted her head. "Like finding a great deal."
Daddy held her hand as they wandered through card tables piled with blouses and winter sweaters. He always wore his work coveralls streaked with grease on the pockets when they went treasure hunting together; his name stitched in blue and black on his chest.
“Like sea treasures,” she said.
“You’re a funny girl, Mia.” That's what he always said.
She felt itchy when grownups said that stuff to her, not sure if it was a good thing to be a funny girl who saw seaweed in the flutter of sheets on the grass at a yard sale.
He left her in front of a table with books and puzzles and games. Sometimes he looked at her like she was a sand dollar hidden under a pile of torn chip bags and barnacles. She thought he looked tired and rumpled like the money.
He left to look for sensible treasures like torque wrenches and channel-lock pliers. She picked up a book and was disappointed to see that she’d read it and was rejecting the puzzles as too easy when the glitter of sun on glass caught her eye. Maybe it was glass or crystal or even diamonds?
Piled next to her were jars, dishes, mismatched pots and pans, and somewhere in all that jumble the tantalizing sparkle of magic. She felt it. Mia walked to the edge of a paisley blanket and saw it—a glowing face of crystal arching away into an elegant curve. A crystal ball. It was a crystal ball, a real one, half hidden and tipped on its edge against a chipped bowl. She froze when the sun hit the crystal ball and splintered into a hundred shards of glittering fire.
The sign read, Everything One Dollar.
Mia could hardly breathe. She looked at her daddy and flipped a hand at him, not wanting to give it away, but tempted to yell at him to hurry. Hurry, hurry before someone else discovered her crystal ball and scooped it up. She waved harder and then went to get him.
“Daddy,” she said, tugging at his shirtsleeve. “Daddy, do you see it?” She didn’t want to take the chance and point, so she dipped her head towards the blanket, whispering, “Daddy, there. Look! Next to that broken bowl. Can you believe it? And it’s only a dollar. It’s magic for only one dollar.”
“Mia, what do you want me to see?” He squinted.
Dragging him to the edge of the blanket, she said, “There daddy.” She bent down, desperate enough now to pick the crystal ball up, to hold it in front of her like a chalice. He looked at it and then looked at her, puzzled.
“What do you think this is?” He pulled the magical globe out of her hands.
“Shhh, daddy, they’ll hear you.” How could he not know? “Daddy," she whispered. "It’s a crystal ball! Look . . . just look!”
“But honey,” he said, turning the ball of glass in his chapped hands. He shook it. Tipping it over, he watched as a shower of dried up mosquitoes and flies fell out of its hollow center. “We have one just like it in the bathroom.”
He held up her crystal ball to the sun. It became a dusty glass covering for a bathroom light fixture.
“Oh,” she said, softer than a breath. “But I thought . . .”
She covered her mouth with her hand to hide the way she needed to bite her lip—hard. Her hand smelled like the money—sweaty skin and fingernail dirt.
He tossed the light fixture back into the heap and patted her on the head.
“Next time, funny Mia. Next time you’ll find treasure.”
