Linda L. Zern's Blog, page 24
August 10, 2015
QUESTION THIS
Least favorite question of all time:
“You know what you should do?”
It’s the question I am most often greeted with when my grown children and their growing children show up at my house. Sometimes there’s a list. With numbers.
They jump out of their various mini-vans and yelp, “You know what you should do first about that big mud hole in your driveway?”
Or . . .
“You know what you should do second after you fix that big mud hole in your driveway?”
Or it’s the same question with a technological twist . . .
“You know what you should do? You should be on Instagram. Are you?”
And then I have to ask questions of my own. “What’s Instagram?” or “What mud hole?” or “Why do I feed you people constantly?”
My grown children are full of great advice on what I should do. I suppose it’s payback for all the years I stood at their grubby childish elbows telling them how they should live their lives.
For example:
“You know what you should do?” I would used to say. “You should shovel the garbage out of this bedroom of yours before I set it on fire or strip it down to a bare mattress on a bare floor and put you in solitary confinement. That’s what you should do.”
Recently, I’ve been working on marketing strategies to sell my latest book “Beyond the Strandline” which means that I’ve had to learn more about marketing than I care to know—now or ever. Slowly but surely, I’m learning the fine art of asking people for money. It’s not my favorite learning curve.
And if I had my way, I’d stand on street corners with boxes of books, handing them out for free, strangely, my one and only investor objects to this business model. So, I struggle with the algorithm of “hand me some cash and I’ll tell you a story.”
“You know what you should do,” my daughter said. “You should be on Instagram. That’s the cool new way of ‘getting your stuff out there,’ Mom.”
I groaned, loudly. “I don’t want to.”
“Sure. It’s easy,” she grabbed my phone. “What’s your I-Tunes password?”
And so the agony began. An hour later, after re-setting seven to one-hundred passwords, losing all my credit cards (inside my own house) and wrestling with a dozen or more blank screens, I am on Instagram.
I still don’t know what it is.
You know what I should do?
Hire an admin.
Unfortunately, administrative assistants want to be paid—with money.
Linda (Books 4-Sale) Zern
“You know what you should do?”
It’s the question I am most often greeted with when my grown children and their growing children show up at my house. Sometimes there’s a list. With numbers.
They jump out of their various mini-vans and yelp, “You know what you should do first about that big mud hole in your driveway?”
Or . . .
“You know what you should do second after you fix that big mud hole in your driveway?”
Or it’s the same question with a technological twist . . .
“You know what you should do? You should be on Instagram. Are you?”
And then I have to ask questions of my own. “What’s Instagram?” or “What mud hole?” or “Why do I feed you people constantly?”
My grown children are full of great advice on what I should do. I suppose it’s payback for all the years I stood at their grubby childish elbows telling them how they should live their lives.
For example:
“You know what you should do?” I would used to say. “You should shovel the garbage out of this bedroom of yours before I set it on fire or strip it down to a bare mattress on a bare floor and put you in solitary confinement. That’s what you should do.”
Recently, I’ve been working on marketing strategies to sell my latest book “Beyond the Strandline” which means that I’ve had to learn more about marketing than I care to know—now or ever. Slowly but surely, I’m learning the fine art of asking people for money. It’s not my favorite learning curve.
And if I had my way, I’d stand on street corners with boxes of books, handing them out for free, strangely, my one and only investor objects to this business model. So, I struggle with the algorithm of “hand me some cash and I’ll tell you a story.”
“You know what you should do,” my daughter said. “You should be on Instagram. That’s the cool new way of ‘getting your stuff out there,’ Mom.”
I groaned, loudly. “I don’t want to.”
“Sure. It’s easy,” she grabbed my phone. “What’s your I-Tunes password?”
And so the agony began. An hour later, after re-setting seven to one-hundred passwords, losing all my credit cards (inside my own house) and wrestling with a dozen or more blank screens, I am on Instagram.
I still don’t know what it is.
You know what I should do?
Hire an admin.
Unfortunately, administrative assistants want to be paid—with money.
Linda (Books 4-Sale) Zern
July 28, 2015
A Drive By Frogging
Yankee women are tough, according to one of my dear friends from the frozen intrepid north.
“We women of New England can give birth on an iceberg, swim back to the mainland across the North Sea, while carrying our newborns in our teeth—naked.”
“The mother is naked or the baby’s naked?”
“Both.”
New England women are tough. Right up until they come to semi-tropical Florida, that is. Give me one Yankee woman from Connecticut for a weekend, and I’ll show you a former Navy Lieutenant rolling around in someone’s St. Augustine grass shrieking “Is it on me? Is it on me?”
Two words. Tree frogs.
Tree frogs are sucker footed, car hopping, slime flinging, gooey-tongued attack animals. They are notorious stowaways and lurkers. It’s common knowledge here in the semi-tropics.
Tree frogs lurk in car doors and automobile air conditioning vents; they cling to windshield wiper blades and plot ways to leap through car windows so they can plaster themselves to northerners—also everybody else. Tree frogs are not Florida’s greatest ambassadors of good will, in my opinion.
“Let’s head over to the beach and experience the glory of a Florida horizon line,” I said to my Yankee friend, anxious that she had a positive semi-tropical visit. She’d already excreted enough sweat to fill a kid’s wading pool in the 150% humidity.
She was game—also gamey.
My son, Adam, decided to go along for the ride.
When Adam jumped into the backseat of the Grand Am, a tree frog followed. It jumped into the car in an elegant curving arc of slimy tree frog goop, landing with a plop on Adam’s leg. It’s little sucker feet attaching with efficient amphibian sucking action.
Let me be clear.
Adam jumped into the car. The frog jumped in. Adam jumped out—screaming. The tree frog stayed in—clinging wetly.
Panic spread like mildew. My friend was out of that car and sprinting for Maine before you could say “Kermit.”
I tried to appeal to my friend’s Puritan heritage and “can-do” Yankee spirit.
“It’s just a little tree frog. The whole thing could fit on a nickel.” She continued to panic. “You’re too big to swallow. Come back. What’s a little frog toe glue?”
I watched as she stopped, dropped, and rolled her way across a neatly manicured lawn in suburbia. Just in case, the attack frog had secreted itself about her person, I suppose. Adam shuddered and brushed at imaginary suction cup glue on his leg.
My head started to hurt from excessive snorting, howling, and guffawing—all glazed over with a dash of nasal drip.
I kept right on laughing until out of the corner of my sharply trained eye, I caught sight of the tree frog making another grand leap. It jumped over my car seat like a thoroughbred riding to the hounds and landed on my right anklebone. There was a wet sound when it hit and sucked on.
I was out of that car and screaming, “Find it. Find it. Find it,” before you could say sucker feet.
There in a quiet Florida cul de sac, two middle-aged women stood weeping and shuddering. We yelled—okay—I yelled at Adam to begin a perimeter search. My formerly intrepid friend didn’t yell. She just faded away into “no-can-do” whimpering.
“Adam, you have to find it, or I will not hesitate to wreck this car should it jump on me while I’m busy exceeding the speed limit.”
“No-can-do, Mom, I’m still in recovery.”
We looked toward the car. Nothing moved. We looked at each other; no one moved. Time passed. Still nothing.
Without warning or explanation, the nickel sized tree frog jumped out and disappeared into the green, green grass of home. We had been the victims of a drive by frogging . . .
. . . and survived—not gracefully, or well, or even with our self respect in tact—but we had survived.
Bring on the icebergs.
Linda (Two Words) Zern
“We women of New England can give birth on an iceberg, swim back to the mainland across the North Sea, while carrying our newborns in our teeth—naked.”
“The mother is naked or the baby’s naked?”
“Both.”
New England women are tough. Right up until they come to semi-tropical Florida, that is. Give me one Yankee woman from Connecticut for a weekend, and I’ll show you a former Navy Lieutenant rolling around in someone’s St. Augustine grass shrieking “Is it on me? Is it on me?”
Two words. Tree frogs.
Tree frogs are sucker footed, car hopping, slime flinging, gooey-tongued attack animals. They are notorious stowaways and lurkers. It’s common knowledge here in the semi-tropics.
Tree frogs lurk in car doors and automobile air conditioning vents; they cling to windshield wiper blades and plot ways to leap through car windows so they can plaster themselves to northerners—also everybody else. Tree frogs are not Florida’s greatest ambassadors of good will, in my opinion.
“Let’s head over to the beach and experience the glory of a Florida horizon line,” I said to my Yankee friend, anxious that she had a positive semi-tropical visit. She’d already excreted enough sweat to fill a kid’s wading pool in the 150% humidity.
She was game—also gamey.
My son, Adam, decided to go along for the ride.
When Adam jumped into the backseat of the Grand Am, a tree frog followed. It jumped into the car in an elegant curving arc of slimy tree frog goop, landing with a plop on Adam’s leg. It’s little sucker feet attaching with efficient amphibian sucking action.
Let me be clear.
Adam jumped into the car. The frog jumped in. Adam jumped out—screaming. The tree frog stayed in—clinging wetly.
Panic spread like mildew. My friend was out of that car and sprinting for Maine before you could say “Kermit.”
I tried to appeal to my friend’s Puritan heritage and “can-do” Yankee spirit.
“It’s just a little tree frog. The whole thing could fit on a nickel.” She continued to panic. “You’re too big to swallow. Come back. What’s a little frog toe glue?”
I watched as she stopped, dropped, and rolled her way across a neatly manicured lawn in suburbia. Just in case, the attack frog had secreted itself about her person, I suppose. Adam shuddered and brushed at imaginary suction cup glue on his leg.
My head started to hurt from excessive snorting, howling, and guffawing—all glazed over with a dash of nasal drip.
I kept right on laughing until out of the corner of my sharply trained eye, I caught sight of the tree frog making another grand leap. It jumped over my car seat like a thoroughbred riding to the hounds and landed on my right anklebone. There was a wet sound when it hit and sucked on.
I was out of that car and screaming, “Find it. Find it. Find it,” before you could say sucker feet.
There in a quiet Florida cul de sac, two middle-aged women stood weeping and shuddering. We yelled—okay—I yelled at Adam to begin a perimeter search. My formerly intrepid friend didn’t yell. She just faded away into “no-can-do” whimpering.
“Adam, you have to find it, or I will not hesitate to wreck this car should it jump on me while I’m busy exceeding the speed limit.”
“No-can-do, Mom, I’m still in recovery.”
We looked toward the car. Nothing moved. We looked at each other; no one moved. Time passed. Still nothing.
Without warning or explanation, the nickel sized tree frog jumped out and disappeared into the green, green grass of home. We had been the victims of a drive by frogging . . .
. . . and survived—not gracefully, or well, or even with our self respect in tact—but we had survived.
Bring on the icebergs.
Linda (Two Words) Zern
July 24, 2015
Breaking Even
I am a southern woman of a certain age, born in a decade known for its stability, modesty, conservatism, and success—even hippies were pro-America. It was a different time. The greatest generation was still alive and bringing Kentucky Fried Chicken for dinner on the weekends to the grandkids.
We had a black and white television and Jiffy Pop was the first product that Madison Avenue seduced us to buy over the airwaves. Marketing was in its infancy.
Now, several way-out decades later, I’m a self-published author in a sex tape kind of world, and I’m having a hard time with self-promotion.
Self-promotion feels like bragging and bragging is bad and when you brag people will tell you that, “children are seen and not heard.”
Oh wait! That’s what my mother used to tell me when I was kid—twenty-four, seven.
So anyway . . . I’m a self-published author, publishing my fifth book, and I’m trying that marketing/self promotion thing for the first time, and it’s confusing. How do I toot my horn louder than the ten-hundred-million other people tooting their horns, many of them without their clothes on, especially when tooting my horn feels vaguely creepy?
Oh well . . . here’s the news. I’ve written my fifth book. BEYOND the STRANDLINE. It’s my first full-length novel. It’s an action, adventure, dystopian, grid-collapse, romance, survival, young adult story set in Central Florida, in the tradition of Pat Frank’s “Alas Babylon.” It’s been edited by a champ and re-edited and then re-checked.
And the advanced reader’s reviews are GLOWING:
“Okay, seriously, I devoured your book.”
“It was awesome.”
“This book has it all.”
“My heart beat faster and faster . . .”
“CAN’T PUT IT DOWN.”
And here’s the best part: I’m not the one saying it without my clothes on!!!
When I was little and I would ask my mother if I was pretty, she would say, “I’m not going to tell you that. I don’t want you to get a big head.”
I don’t want a big head or to make a sex tape or to have to set myself on fire to get attention. I want to write great stories that people enjoy and want to read—and maybe even break even. That would be pretty cool.
Linda (Toot My Own Horn) Zern
We had a black and white television and Jiffy Pop was the first product that Madison Avenue seduced us to buy over the airwaves. Marketing was in its infancy.
Now, several way-out decades later, I’m a self-published author in a sex tape kind of world, and I’m having a hard time with self-promotion.
Self-promotion feels like bragging and bragging is bad and when you brag people will tell you that, “children are seen and not heard.”
Oh wait! That’s what my mother used to tell me when I was kid—twenty-four, seven.
So anyway . . . I’m a self-published author, publishing my fifth book, and I’m trying that marketing/self promotion thing for the first time, and it’s confusing. How do I toot my horn louder than the ten-hundred-million other people tooting their horns, many of them without their clothes on, especially when tooting my horn feels vaguely creepy?
Oh well . . . here’s the news. I’ve written my fifth book. BEYOND the STRANDLINE. It’s my first full-length novel. It’s an action, adventure, dystopian, grid-collapse, romance, survival, young adult story set in Central Florida, in the tradition of Pat Frank’s “Alas Babylon.” It’s been edited by a champ and re-edited and then re-checked.
And the advanced reader’s reviews are GLOWING:
“Okay, seriously, I devoured your book.”
“It was awesome.”
“This book has it all.”
“My heart beat faster and faster . . .”
“CAN’T PUT IT DOWN.”
And here’s the best part: I’m not the one saying it without my clothes on!!!
When I was little and I would ask my mother if I was pretty, she would say, “I’m not going to tell you that. I don’t want you to get a big head.”
I don’t want a big head or to make a sex tape or to have to set myself on fire to get attention. I want to write great stories that people enjoy and want to read—and maybe even break even. That would be pretty cool.
Linda (Toot My Own Horn) Zern
July 7, 2015
FACE TIME
My husband is the world traveler. I am the woman that goes with him but not too often. Mostly, I’m the woman who stays at home in my easy chair, staring at a vintage atlas . . . happy . . . that I am not being yelled at by TSA agents.
I know that traveling is the goal of all smarty types. Ask a college student what’s on their future agenda and you’ll hear, “Graduate. Work for a non-profit. Travel.” Apparently, non-profits pay more than they used to pay.
Wishing them well, I say, “Bon voyage” and “Don’t over pack because you’ll be mocked by strangers.”
Seriously, not only is traveling the new standard of “all things meaningful,” it’s traveling while carrying a single pair of underwear and a tiny bottle of hand sanitizer in a worn backpack slung over one languid shoulder. Anything else is considered over packing.
As an older traveler, packing that light can be challenging. I need stuff: shoes that work with a variety of outfits and foot stiffness; a variety of outfits; gummy fiber and other assorted supplements; lotions and potions designed to relieve stiffness, dryness, soreness, hairiness, and rumpledness; enough makeup to cover the ravages of life out in the open, and, of course, a makeup mirror with enough magnification to see craters on the moon.
On a recent trip to North Carolina, I forget the mirror and my face disappeared. It was distressing.
I literally had to stab at where I thought my eyelashes might be when I put on mascara, hoping that I wouldn’t wind up looking like that lady I saw coming out of Home Depot one day. She looked like she’d forgotten her makeup mirror and had used crayons to sketch in the missing bits.
So I travel, once in a while and with way too much luggage. Better that, then wondering where my face went off to without me, and wishing for my vintage atlas and an easy chair.
Linda (Blink Twice) Zern
I know that traveling is the goal of all smarty types. Ask a college student what’s on their future agenda and you’ll hear, “Graduate. Work for a non-profit. Travel.” Apparently, non-profits pay more than they used to pay.
Wishing them well, I say, “Bon voyage” and “Don’t over pack because you’ll be mocked by strangers.”
Seriously, not only is traveling the new standard of “all things meaningful,” it’s traveling while carrying a single pair of underwear and a tiny bottle of hand sanitizer in a worn backpack slung over one languid shoulder. Anything else is considered over packing.
As an older traveler, packing that light can be challenging. I need stuff: shoes that work with a variety of outfits and foot stiffness; a variety of outfits; gummy fiber and other assorted supplements; lotions and potions designed to relieve stiffness, dryness, soreness, hairiness, and rumpledness; enough makeup to cover the ravages of life out in the open, and, of course, a makeup mirror with enough magnification to see craters on the moon.
On a recent trip to North Carolina, I forget the mirror and my face disappeared. It was distressing.
I literally had to stab at where I thought my eyelashes might be when I put on mascara, hoping that I wouldn’t wind up looking like that lady I saw coming out of Home Depot one day. She looked like she’d forgotten her makeup mirror and had used crayons to sketch in the missing bits.
So I travel, once in a while and with way too much luggage. Better that, then wondering where my face went off to without me, and wishing for my vintage atlas and an easy chair.
Linda (Blink Twice) Zern
June 22, 2015
Ring, Croak, Ring
I am getting older and no part of me is getting younger.
Just ask Conner. He is nine years old and my grandson. His skin is pristine and without wrinkle. His eyes are keen. His powers of observation are laser-like.
I have forbidden him to look at me—for the rest of my natural life.
This weekend I caught him staring. I always know when he’s going to comment on some unfortunate aspect of my advancing decrepitude. He shuts his mouth. And he quits blinking.
Sure enough.
“YaYa,” he began.
“What, Conner?” I said, girding up my wrinkled forehead.
“You know what you could be for Halloween?”
No good could come of this, but I asked anyway. “Oh good grief! What? What could I be for Halloween?”
He leaned over, pinched the fat under my chin and said, “You could be a frog or a lizard. You know, one of those lizards with that flapping thing under their chin.”
“A dewlap? Are you saying that I could be a lizard with a dewlap for Halloween?”
He smiled a cherubic smile. “Yes.”
I sighed. “I was thinking more of a pelican with a pouch.”
His smile widened; his dimples flashed; his eyes twinkled. I searched his profile for a hint of a gene-induced double chin. Nothing.
Getting old is making me crazy. I thought I would be better at it or not care so much! But wow! It’s the worst and not because it limits your Halloween costume choices.
Stuff is starting to break, hang, and quit outright, all over the place.
And if Conner isn’t happily reminding me about my dewlap trouble, it’s the television telling me that my ears are shot.
Tinnitus. Ringing in my ears. I have it. I don’t know when I got it, but now I have it. The television commercial said that I might get tinnitus, and then I got it, which means that I got it from the television . . . or from Conner, telling me that I should be a frog for Halloween. Either way, it stinks.
Linda (Croak-Croak) Zern
Just ask Conner. He is nine years old and my grandson. His skin is pristine and without wrinkle. His eyes are keen. His powers of observation are laser-like.
I have forbidden him to look at me—for the rest of my natural life.
This weekend I caught him staring. I always know when he’s going to comment on some unfortunate aspect of my advancing decrepitude. He shuts his mouth. And he quits blinking.
Sure enough.
“YaYa,” he began.
“What, Conner?” I said, girding up my wrinkled forehead.
“You know what you could be for Halloween?”
No good could come of this, but I asked anyway. “Oh good grief! What? What could I be for Halloween?”
He leaned over, pinched the fat under my chin and said, “You could be a frog or a lizard. You know, one of those lizards with that flapping thing under their chin.”
“A dewlap? Are you saying that I could be a lizard with a dewlap for Halloween?”
He smiled a cherubic smile. “Yes.”
I sighed. “I was thinking more of a pelican with a pouch.”
His smile widened; his dimples flashed; his eyes twinkled. I searched his profile for a hint of a gene-induced double chin. Nothing.
Getting old is making me crazy. I thought I would be better at it or not care so much! But wow! It’s the worst and not because it limits your Halloween costume choices.
Stuff is starting to break, hang, and quit outright, all over the place.
And if Conner isn’t happily reminding me about my dewlap trouble, it’s the television telling me that my ears are shot.
Tinnitus. Ringing in my ears. I have it. I don’t know when I got it, but now I have it. The television commercial said that I might get tinnitus, and then I got it, which means that I got it from the television . . . or from Conner, telling me that I should be a frog for Halloween. Either way, it stinks.
Linda (Croak-Croak) Zern
June 19, 2015
SHOE BABE
A lovely woman came up to me at our local shoe kiosk the other day (they’re having a snappy shoe sale) and informed me, “You know you’re old when the latest styles are too dangerous to wear because you may fall and break a hip.”
She was a delightful woman. Never met her before in my life.
“True,” I agreed, and then added. “I know I’m old because all the latest styles remind me of Viet Nam. Everything my daughters put on their feet look like the North Viet Cong cut them out of bicycle tires on the Ho Chi Men trail.
“That’s because everything IS made by the Viet Cong these days, also the Koreans, but mostly the Chinese.”
She laughed sweetly and hobbled off atop pale pink platform sandals.
Lovely woman. Excellent shoes.
Aren’t shoe shoppers the friendliest people and so well informed on the current import-export situation? I believe it has something to do with squashing your feet into the very same pair of shoes that the lady next to you just finished squashing her feet into. It gives you a sense of sisterhood. That’s why bowlers are so warm and friendly, because everyone wears everyone else’s shoes. Nice and cozy.
My shoe wearing philosophy: I’m short. I always wear heels. I’ve told my daughters that the day they see me in flats is the day they should throw dirt on me, because I’m done.
Best shoe related quote: “Those shoes are just too Cha-Cha for words.” (From Steel Magnolias)
Best reason to be a girl: The assortment of shoe choices, of course. I couldn’t be a man because their shoes are so plain, not to mention blah—also boring.
Why shoes are magic: Because you can tap them together three times and cool stuff happens.
The smartest reason to have lots of shoes: So you can justify having lots of clothes to make “outfits” inspired by all the shoes you own.
Shoes that had the most influence on me: Those white Go-Go boots from the sixties that were the coolest, hippest fashion statement ever created by the hand of fashion designers in any time period, and I’m including those saber tooth tiger boots that every one was into in the ice age.
Why I never feel guilty buying shoes: Think of all the jobs I’m providing all those former Viet Cong, Koreans, and Chinese. I’m feeding the peoples of the world and looking too cha-cha for words all at the same time. It’s win-win.
Linda (Well-Heeled) Zern
She was a delightful woman. Never met her before in my life.
“True,” I agreed, and then added. “I know I’m old because all the latest styles remind me of Viet Nam. Everything my daughters put on their feet look like the North Viet Cong cut them out of bicycle tires on the Ho Chi Men trail.
“That’s because everything IS made by the Viet Cong these days, also the Koreans, but mostly the Chinese.”
She laughed sweetly and hobbled off atop pale pink platform sandals.
Lovely woman. Excellent shoes.
Aren’t shoe shoppers the friendliest people and so well informed on the current import-export situation? I believe it has something to do with squashing your feet into the very same pair of shoes that the lady next to you just finished squashing her feet into. It gives you a sense of sisterhood. That’s why bowlers are so warm and friendly, because everyone wears everyone else’s shoes. Nice and cozy.
My shoe wearing philosophy: I’m short. I always wear heels. I’ve told my daughters that the day they see me in flats is the day they should throw dirt on me, because I’m done.
Best shoe related quote: “Those shoes are just too Cha-Cha for words.” (From Steel Magnolias)
Best reason to be a girl: The assortment of shoe choices, of course. I couldn’t be a man because their shoes are so plain, not to mention blah—also boring.
Why shoes are magic: Because you can tap them together three times and cool stuff happens.
The smartest reason to have lots of shoes: So you can justify having lots of clothes to make “outfits” inspired by all the shoes you own.
Shoes that had the most influence on me: Those white Go-Go boots from the sixties that were the coolest, hippest fashion statement ever created by the hand of fashion designers in any time period, and I’m including those saber tooth tiger boots that every one was into in the ice age.
Why I never feel guilty buying shoes: Think of all the jobs I’m providing all those former Viet Cong, Koreans, and Chinese. I’m feeding the peoples of the world and looking too cha-cha for words all at the same time. It’s win-win.
Linda (Well-Heeled) Zern
June 16, 2015
Freckle You
I’m weighing in. I’m sounding off. I’m tossing in my two cents. And I’m doing it before it’s illegal to weigh, sound, or toss my opinion around.
In a day when feelings trump facts or DNA or actual freckle count on actual skin, I want to say that I’m all for relative reality, because there’s a list of stuff I have believed about myself that my society has not believed about me. A. List. Of. Stuff.
But the biggest one is freckles. I reject them as a skin option. I do not identify as a freckly person.
Recently, my husband of thirty plus years looked at me with narrowed eyes, thoughtfully. I could tell he was being thoughtful because his mouth wasn’t moving.
A long minute passed, and then he said, “Wow! You have a lot of freckles. I never noticed before.”
I was less thoughtful. “WHAT???? Who have you been looking at for the last thirty years???? Are you insane???? I look like a commercial for one of those hip clothes companies where they feature freaky people with freckles.”
But he is right. I do have a lot of freckles. Here’s the catch. I don’t want a lot of freckles, in that freckles tend to be accompanied by skin so white, it’s see-through. No, I’m serious. See-through skin. So, imagine my delight with all the folks out there in society leading the way to new and improved genetic realities.
Born a boy? Want to be a girl? Both parents white? Rather be black? Hate your hair? Enjoy hair made in Indonesia? Sure. Sure.
Well, GOOD because I want new skin. I have always felt that I am really a human with gloriously freckle-free skin. In truth, it is the color of golden sunlight, undershot with a hint of glitter. My hair is spun lightning. My check bones are sharp enough to cut glass. And I’m five feet, nine inches tall, so that my wings don’t drag.
That, my friends, is what I feel that I am. And I’m not kidding, so you have to take me seriously. You. Have. To.
If you laugh at me or mock or talk about me behind your hand I will become irritatingly whiney—even bratty. Be warned.
Or . . .
I can embrace the package that “evolution” and DNA and life have handed me, rejoice in the air in my lungs, the wind in my hair, and the grandchildren at my feet. When I look in the mirror I can see that my scars are reminders of battles fought and won against time and cancer. My freckles are a genetic banner of the islands, fiords, and the wild North Sea where my people lived and died and dreamed.
And that more importantly than my outside, is my spirit. A spirit whose Father is God, making me the daughter of Heaven. Who needs human wings?
Linda (Winged Fury) Zern
In a day when feelings trump facts or DNA or actual freckle count on actual skin, I want to say that I’m all for relative reality, because there’s a list of stuff I have believed about myself that my society has not believed about me. A. List. Of. Stuff.
But the biggest one is freckles. I reject them as a skin option. I do not identify as a freckly person.
Recently, my husband of thirty plus years looked at me with narrowed eyes, thoughtfully. I could tell he was being thoughtful because his mouth wasn’t moving.
A long minute passed, and then he said, “Wow! You have a lot of freckles. I never noticed before.”
I was less thoughtful. “WHAT???? Who have you been looking at for the last thirty years???? Are you insane???? I look like a commercial for one of those hip clothes companies where they feature freaky people with freckles.”
But he is right. I do have a lot of freckles. Here’s the catch. I don’t want a lot of freckles, in that freckles tend to be accompanied by skin so white, it’s see-through. No, I’m serious. See-through skin. So, imagine my delight with all the folks out there in society leading the way to new and improved genetic realities.
Born a boy? Want to be a girl? Both parents white? Rather be black? Hate your hair? Enjoy hair made in Indonesia? Sure. Sure.
Well, GOOD because I want new skin. I have always felt that I am really a human with gloriously freckle-free skin. In truth, it is the color of golden sunlight, undershot with a hint of glitter. My hair is spun lightning. My check bones are sharp enough to cut glass. And I’m five feet, nine inches tall, so that my wings don’t drag.
That, my friends, is what I feel that I am. And I’m not kidding, so you have to take me seriously. You. Have. To.
If you laugh at me or mock or talk about me behind your hand I will become irritatingly whiney—even bratty. Be warned.
Or . . .
I can embrace the package that “evolution” and DNA and life have handed me, rejoice in the air in my lungs, the wind in my hair, and the grandchildren at my feet. When I look in the mirror I can see that my scars are reminders of battles fought and won against time and cancer. My freckles are a genetic banner of the islands, fiords, and the wild North Sea where my people lived and died and dreamed.
And that more importantly than my outside, is my spirit. A spirit whose Father is God, making me the daughter of Heaven. Who needs human wings?
Linda (Winged Fury) Zern
June 11, 2015
Attack of the Bad Stinger Goat
In the weak sunshine of a Florida winter, it is customary for some Floridians to sit on their septic tanks, their faces tipped up to the sky, their sinuses exposed to the gentle medicinal comfort of the sun’s warmth, their hope as raw as their throats that God and nature will heal them of their Ebola-Rhino-Flu-Plague. Okay, sometimes I pull a lawn chair over to the septic tank and sit in the sun and hope that it will make me feel better when I’m sick. Sometimes, Phillip, my son-in-law, brings the grandkids over and sits on the septic tank with me. What can I say; it’s Saint Cloud.
Once upon a time, we (Philip and I) sat in the sun on the septic tank. I was feeling as weak as two kittens in a sinking sack from Ebola-Rhino-Flu-Plague, while Conner and Zoe (the grand-kidlets) cavorted merrily under a Japanese Plum tree.
Zoe sang, “Fruit-fruit-fruit, I want two fruits.” Conner pooped in his pants.
The world spun gently, right up to the point when Conner, poop in drawers, stumbled in the direction of a strange, horned, white goat that had mysteriously appeared in our yard, having journeyed from somewhere beyond next door.
“Phillip, grab that boy before Billy Goat Gruff knocks your kid down.”
The goat flipped his scraggly beard in the direction of my voice. Phillip ran and scooped Conner up, setting him next to me in my pool of medicinal sunshine on the septic tank. The goat, a smallish—no higher than my knee variety—with dirty blond hair and “come hither” yellow devil eyes, started a slow determined trot in our direction.
Phillip, never a lover of goats or farm creatures in general, said, “What does it want with us?” He sounded nervous—also squeamish.
“Oh, he’s probably just seeing what’s what.” I tried to sound confident.
The goat kept trotting.
I closed my eyes in exhaustion brought on by the Ebola-Rhino-Flu-Plague. The odor of goat, BOY goat, engulfed me, and wow, did he smell close! When I opened my eyes, it was to the sight of this stinker of a goat trying to French kiss the sleeve of my shirt and the sound of obscene noises of goat love. I bolted out of my lawn chair.
I yelled, “Or he could be looking for a date.”
The goat made a lunge at my leg. I dodged.
“Grab the kids before it’s too late—this stinky goat is in full on goat whoopee love mode.”
Phillip scooped up Conner but Zoe, misunderstanding what I had said, began running wildly around waving and yelling, “Go away stinger goat. Go away.”
Confused, but hopeful, the goat surveyed the scene and then lunged at the closest leg—Phillip’s leg.
Zoe waved and yelled, “Leave my daddy’s leg alone.”
“It’s having its’ way with your leg,” I screamed, as I ripped the garden house from the side of the house.
“Run!” I ordered.
Expecting a torrent of water, I turned the spigot on full blast, but lying advertising and crap marketing had given me a false sense of security in my new never-kink hose. A weak drip of water taunted me, and I cringed to see more crimps and kinks than hose.
Phillip shrieked.
Zoe shrieked. “Bad Stinger Goat!!”
I whipped the hose from side to side to un-kink the kinks and to defend whatever honor Phillip had left in his right leg. The goat continued to lust.
Finally, the hose kinks came free and I fire-hosed that nasty, stinker of a goat. The goat loved it. The distraction gave Phillip enough of a head start that he, Conner, and Zoe made it to the screened porch. I brought up the rear, not two steps ahead of the now wet and super rank horn-dog of a goat.
What I saw in my son-in-law’s eyes still brings a shudder to my soul. What he said next, I cannot forget.
“I showed fear,” he said. “I showed fear.” He hung his head.
Conner tried to pet the goat through the porch screen. I tipped over a lawn table and shoved it against the screen door.
“You smell like a bad stinger goat,” I said, avoiding Phillip’s eyes. “I hope you have a change of clothes.”
Before he finished slinking off to wash himself, I said, “We will never speak of this.” His chin collapsed onto his chest. He continued slinking. Somewhere in the yard a goat bawled his loneliness.
This is the story that I started my website with several years ago. To catch up on all my tales of hose kinks, goat attacks, and family shame check out www.zippityzerns.com
Once upon a time, we (Philip and I) sat in the sun on the septic tank. I was feeling as weak as two kittens in a sinking sack from Ebola-Rhino-Flu-Plague, while Conner and Zoe (the grand-kidlets) cavorted merrily under a Japanese Plum tree.
Zoe sang, “Fruit-fruit-fruit, I want two fruits.” Conner pooped in his pants.
The world spun gently, right up to the point when Conner, poop in drawers, stumbled in the direction of a strange, horned, white goat that had mysteriously appeared in our yard, having journeyed from somewhere beyond next door.
“Phillip, grab that boy before Billy Goat Gruff knocks your kid down.”
The goat flipped his scraggly beard in the direction of my voice. Phillip ran and scooped Conner up, setting him next to me in my pool of medicinal sunshine on the septic tank. The goat, a smallish—no higher than my knee variety—with dirty blond hair and “come hither” yellow devil eyes, started a slow determined trot in our direction.
Phillip, never a lover of goats or farm creatures in general, said, “What does it want with us?” He sounded nervous—also squeamish.
“Oh, he’s probably just seeing what’s what.” I tried to sound confident.
The goat kept trotting.
I closed my eyes in exhaustion brought on by the Ebola-Rhino-Flu-Plague. The odor of goat, BOY goat, engulfed me, and wow, did he smell close! When I opened my eyes, it was to the sight of this stinker of a goat trying to French kiss the sleeve of my shirt and the sound of obscene noises of goat love. I bolted out of my lawn chair.
I yelled, “Or he could be looking for a date.”
The goat made a lunge at my leg. I dodged.
“Grab the kids before it’s too late—this stinky goat is in full on goat whoopee love mode.”
Phillip scooped up Conner but Zoe, misunderstanding what I had said, began running wildly around waving and yelling, “Go away stinger goat. Go away.”
Confused, but hopeful, the goat surveyed the scene and then lunged at the closest leg—Phillip’s leg.
Zoe waved and yelled, “Leave my daddy’s leg alone.”
“It’s having its’ way with your leg,” I screamed, as I ripped the garden house from the side of the house.
“Run!” I ordered.
Expecting a torrent of water, I turned the spigot on full blast, but lying advertising and crap marketing had given me a false sense of security in my new never-kink hose. A weak drip of water taunted me, and I cringed to see more crimps and kinks than hose.
Phillip shrieked.
Zoe shrieked. “Bad Stinger Goat!!”
I whipped the hose from side to side to un-kink the kinks and to defend whatever honor Phillip had left in his right leg. The goat continued to lust.
Finally, the hose kinks came free and I fire-hosed that nasty, stinker of a goat. The goat loved it. The distraction gave Phillip enough of a head start that he, Conner, and Zoe made it to the screened porch. I brought up the rear, not two steps ahead of the now wet and super rank horn-dog of a goat.
What I saw in my son-in-law’s eyes still brings a shudder to my soul. What he said next, I cannot forget.
“I showed fear,” he said. “I showed fear.” He hung his head.
Conner tried to pet the goat through the porch screen. I tipped over a lawn table and shoved it against the screen door.
“You smell like a bad stinger goat,” I said, avoiding Phillip’s eyes. “I hope you have a change of clothes.”
Before he finished slinking off to wash himself, I said, “We will never speak of this.” His chin collapsed onto his chest. He continued slinking. Somewhere in the yard a goat bawled his loneliness.
This is the story that I started my website with several years ago. To catch up on all my tales of hose kinks, goat attacks, and family shame check out www.zippityzerns.com
June 8, 2015
Realistic Fantasy - 2.1
My husband is an engineer. He likes the solid reality of computer languages and Internet access.
I enjoy the idea that trolls live in the knothole of our live oak tree in the backyard.
In that one Batman movie, when Robin knocked on the giant metal island with his fist and joked, “Holy rusted metal, Batman,” my husband snorted through his nose and declared, loudly, “Oh, that’s so unbelievable.”
Astounded, I looked at him and said, “Which part of this movie did you find believable? The bat suit with the rubber man nipples?”
Movie watchers sitting near us in the theater were happy to tell us to shut up.
Fantasy is not my husband’s thing.
I love Godzilla and Mothra and horse riding wizards.
Sherwood loves jock straps.
Sigh.
After watching the latest incarnation of the great Godzilla franchise, I waxed enthusiastic.
“Godzilla as he was meant to be. Big. Tough. Ticked off. Loved it. Loved the train full of atomic bombs, conveniently lined up for radiation eating monsters—to eat! Loved it!”
I never told my husband to go see Godzilla. Never. Why would I? He is NOT a true fan. He is an engineer, forced to see the world as a giant Sudoku puzzle—poor linear man.
He went to see Godzilla . . .
And found it wildly flawed.
Then he went to see X-Men with our son, the same kid that used to wear fish shaped oven mitts on his feet and stomp around my kitchen pretending to crush some guy named Tokyo. After the movie, my husband, the computer engineer, came home on a tear.
“So how was the movie?” I asked.
“Ugh! It was so ridiculous. All the creatures are so fantastic.”
“Sure. Sure. Fantasy tends to be kind of fantastic.”
“But why? Why can’t there be realistic fantasy?”
“It’s called the suspension of disbelief or pulling the stick out of one’s bottom for a bit and having fun with monsters. That’s all. You have to want to believe.”
“But I can’t.”
“I know, honey. I know. It’s okay. You don’t have to believe. Just sit here next to me. I’ll believe for both of us. See there,” I said, pointing. “In that big old oak tree over there, I think I see a troll peeking out of that knothole. Just squint your eyes up a bit.”
He never did squint.
Linda (Run, Tokyo, Run) Zern
I enjoy the idea that trolls live in the knothole of our live oak tree in the backyard.
In that one Batman movie, when Robin knocked on the giant metal island with his fist and joked, “Holy rusted metal, Batman,” my husband snorted through his nose and declared, loudly, “Oh, that’s so unbelievable.”
Astounded, I looked at him and said, “Which part of this movie did you find believable? The bat suit with the rubber man nipples?”
Movie watchers sitting near us in the theater were happy to tell us to shut up.
Fantasy is not my husband’s thing.
I love Godzilla and Mothra and horse riding wizards.
Sherwood loves jock straps.
Sigh.
After watching the latest incarnation of the great Godzilla franchise, I waxed enthusiastic.
“Godzilla as he was meant to be. Big. Tough. Ticked off. Loved it. Loved the train full of atomic bombs, conveniently lined up for radiation eating monsters—to eat! Loved it!”
I never told my husband to go see Godzilla. Never. Why would I? He is NOT a true fan. He is an engineer, forced to see the world as a giant Sudoku puzzle—poor linear man.
He went to see Godzilla . . .
And found it wildly flawed.
Then he went to see X-Men with our son, the same kid that used to wear fish shaped oven mitts on his feet and stomp around my kitchen pretending to crush some guy named Tokyo. After the movie, my husband, the computer engineer, came home on a tear.
“So how was the movie?” I asked.
“Ugh! It was so ridiculous. All the creatures are so fantastic.”
“Sure. Sure. Fantasy tends to be kind of fantastic.”
“But why? Why can’t there be realistic fantasy?”
“It’s called the suspension of disbelief or pulling the stick out of one’s bottom for a bit and having fun with monsters. That’s all. You have to want to believe.”
“But I can’t.”
“I know, honey. I know. It’s okay. You don’t have to believe. Just sit here next to me. I’ll believe for both of us. See there,” I said, pointing. “In that big old oak tree over there, I think I see a troll peeking out of that knothole. Just squint your eyes up a bit.”
He never did squint.
Linda (Run, Tokyo, Run) Zern
June 2, 2015
Humorous, Comic, Witty
"I do not claim that I can tell a story as it ought to be told.
I only claim to know how a story ought to be told, for I have been almost daily in the company of the most expert storytellers for many years.
There are several kinds of stories, but only one difficult kind-- the humorous. I will talk mainly about that one. The humorous story is American, the comic story is English, the witty story is French. The humorous story depends for its effect upon the MANNER of the telling; the comic story and the witty story upon the MATTER."
Mark Twain (From his essay “How to Write a Story”)
Storytelling is just this side of lying—the north side. Humorous storytelling is just this side of lying added to hyperbole, mixed with enough wit to make reality look funnier than it actually is.
According to Mr. Twain, any little old thing that happens during the day can become a humorous story if told with the correct amount of art and skill. I agree.
I find that there isn't much in this world that isn't funny, especially now, what with the roving gangs of I-Want-Something-I-Don’t-Have-But-I’m-Pretty-Sure-That-You-Might-Have-It, Therefore-I’m-Going-To-Fling-Poo-At-You-Until-I-Get-It goblins roving about. Note: In this sentence I used the word roving as both an adjective and a verb with possible humorous implications.
Like whistling in the dark, humor keeps the goblins away. They may fling poo and it may stink, but it’s reassuring to be able to compare stinking goblin behavior to the best of monkey etiquette. And who can’t laugh at monkeys?
I know I’m laughing when I practice my anti-goblin tactics and poo dodging drills.
I enjoy humorous stories that involve irony, wit, satire, and the clever use of the word indubitably.
My husband, father-in-law, and grandson find the three stooges wildly funny. The three stooges are known for their clever use of smacking each other in the face with wooden planks, thus illustrating the ethereal nature of what qualifies as funny storytelling.
Some people laugh at the sound of a fart produced by an armpit.
Some laugh at a story full of well-placed verbal barbs, as long as it’s directed at someone they disdain—like goblins.
Some folks laugh at the subtle and not so subtle manipulations used in the advertisements of politicians that have spent sixteen trillion dollars to convince people of their pure and holy intentions. YES THEY CAN sling the bull but is the joke on us?
According to a popular Facebook meme, vulgarity is not wit. Sure. Sure. Tell that to the Sit-Com folks and Hollywood crowd and those that laugh with them.
I love self-deprecating humor. It takes a confident and humble soul, secure in their own skin, to tell a story using themselves as the object of the joke. Love it. Confidence is wildly attractive. Humor is gorgeous and wit as good as abs in attracting the opposite sex. It’s true. They’ve done studies.
Here’s to telling a funny story today.
Linda (Giggle Bottom) Zern
I only claim to know how a story ought to be told, for I have been almost daily in the company of the most expert storytellers for many years.
There are several kinds of stories, but only one difficult kind-- the humorous. I will talk mainly about that one. The humorous story is American, the comic story is English, the witty story is French. The humorous story depends for its effect upon the MANNER of the telling; the comic story and the witty story upon the MATTER."
Mark Twain (From his essay “How to Write a Story”)
Storytelling is just this side of lying—the north side. Humorous storytelling is just this side of lying added to hyperbole, mixed with enough wit to make reality look funnier than it actually is.
According to Mr. Twain, any little old thing that happens during the day can become a humorous story if told with the correct amount of art and skill. I agree.
I find that there isn't much in this world that isn't funny, especially now, what with the roving gangs of I-Want-Something-I-Don’t-Have-But-I’m-Pretty-Sure-That-You-Might-Have-It, Therefore-I’m-Going-To-Fling-Poo-At-You-Until-I-Get-It goblins roving about. Note: In this sentence I used the word roving as both an adjective and a verb with possible humorous implications.
Like whistling in the dark, humor keeps the goblins away. They may fling poo and it may stink, but it’s reassuring to be able to compare stinking goblin behavior to the best of monkey etiquette. And who can’t laugh at monkeys?
I know I’m laughing when I practice my anti-goblin tactics and poo dodging drills.
I enjoy humorous stories that involve irony, wit, satire, and the clever use of the word indubitably.
My husband, father-in-law, and grandson find the three stooges wildly funny. The three stooges are known for their clever use of smacking each other in the face with wooden planks, thus illustrating the ethereal nature of what qualifies as funny storytelling.
Some people laugh at the sound of a fart produced by an armpit.
Some laugh at a story full of well-placed verbal barbs, as long as it’s directed at someone they disdain—like goblins.
Some folks laugh at the subtle and not so subtle manipulations used in the advertisements of politicians that have spent sixteen trillion dollars to convince people of their pure and holy intentions. YES THEY CAN sling the bull but is the joke on us?
According to a popular Facebook meme, vulgarity is not wit. Sure. Sure. Tell that to the Sit-Com folks and Hollywood crowd and those that laugh with them.
I love self-deprecating humor. It takes a confident and humble soul, secure in their own skin, to tell a story using themselves as the object of the joke. Love it. Confidence is wildly attractive. Humor is gorgeous and wit as good as abs in attracting the opposite sex. It’s true. They’ve done studies.
Here’s to telling a funny story today.
Linda (Giggle Bottom) Zern
