Linda L. Zern's Blog, page 25
May 26, 2015
How to Review Stuff
Authors and soap makers constantly need reviews and critiques. They need people to read their books or wash with their soap, and then they need those readers/washers to write down and post what they thought of the book or sudsy soap in a public place like Amazon.com.
If a writer can get enough readers to rate and review their book on a single special day, the list maker fairies will sit up and take notice.
“Hey,” the list maker fairies will shout, “Look here! Someone who knows how to post on Amazon has read this book. To the cool book list.”
And then other people see the cool book list and say, “Hey, what’s happening here? I want to be cool too and read that book.”
I don’t know if it’s the same for soap people. I guess it is: soap, suds, rinse, repeat . . . write a review.
It’s possible to review everything from coal tar soap to goat halters on Amazon.com. It can be a lot of fun to say stuff about goat halters.
In the interest of encouraging more reviewing of everything from goat halters to fire starters to gummy calcium chews to my newest book, Beyond the Strandline, soon to be launched and thrown into the happy winds of the book judging public, I’m writing this checklist, “How to Review Anything.”
#1. Go with saying something nice if you can and be specific! Find one to three positive things to say about the soap: nice packaging, good heft, quick delivery. Or about a book: excellent title; snapping dialogue; I wet my pants over the ending. Or about the gummy calcium chews: tasty, gummy, fruity—not chalky at all.
#2. Sometimes a quick description is helpful. Like: “The soap comes in a nice thick black bar and smells like coal tar, but it cleans like Windex for skin.”
#3. Constructive criticism is a fine art. Comparing a book to whale dung is neither helpful nor constructive. Extending the criticism to compare a book to the stuff under whale dung isn’t helpful, nor constructive, or enlightening. How does a writer improve from the stuff under whale dung to actual whale dung? There’s no path to a better way.
#4. Be constructive. Try starting the beginning of a review with an upbeat observation. For example: “While I enjoyed the strong bones the calcium gummies might give me, the chalk-like texture and flavor which cause my tongue to cleave to the roof of my mouth prohibit me from giving this my highest rating.”
#5. If you must be scathing and sometimes you must . . . be brief. All that should be said at times like those, “Yikes.”
#6. Actually, it’s the rule of threes. Find three strengths or likeable aspects and comment then follow that with three areas that could be improved upon. It’s rarely that there isn’t something happy to say or suggest, although I’ll confess I’ve critiqued papers that I’ve struggled with a bit. Don’t underestimate the importance of creative writing.
I learned how to review some real stinkers as a mom with teenagers because there were days it was tough to find something—anything—positive to say about kids who rolled their eyes at me so hard I could heard it. I have been known to say to my grumpy, hostile teenaged offspring, “Hey, no one can breathe in or breathe out like you do, kiddo. I was just hoping you might take this pickaxe and clean that fungus bloom out from under your bed.”
If I were reviewing this posting I would start by saying to myself, “Nice use of the word yikes and chalk-like. The numbers are in the right order. I like the juxtaposition of soap, books, and goat halters.”
And then I would add, “One) Name names: Which kids? What do eye rolls sound like? Any smells you’d like to include? Two) Is everything a joke with you? Get serious once in a while—or not. Three) Try using more dashes. I like them.
And that’s how to review stuff.
Linda (Five Stars) Zern
If a writer can get enough readers to rate and review their book on a single special day, the list maker fairies will sit up and take notice.
“Hey,” the list maker fairies will shout, “Look here! Someone who knows how to post on Amazon has read this book. To the cool book list.”
And then other people see the cool book list and say, “Hey, what’s happening here? I want to be cool too and read that book.”
I don’t know if it’s the same for soap people. I guess it is: soap, suds, rinse, repeat . . . write a review.
It’s possible to review everything from coal tar soap to goat halters on Amazon.com. It can be a lot of fun to say stuff about goat halters.
In the interest of encouraging more reviewing of everything from goat halters to fire starters to gummy calcium chews to my newest book, Beyond the Strandline, soon to be launched and thrown into the happy winds of the book judging public, I’m writing this checklist, “How to Review Anything.”
#1. Go with saying something nice if you can and be specific! Find one to three positive things to say about the soap: nice packaging, good heft, quick delivery. Or about a book: excellent title; snapping dialogue; I wet my pants over the ending. Or about the gummy calcium chews: tasty, gummy, fruity—not chalky at all.
#2. Sometimes a quick description is helpful. Like: “The soap comes in a nice thick black bar and smells like coal tar, but it cleans like Windex for skin.”
#3. Constructive criticism is a fine art. Comparing a book to whale dung is neither helpful nor constructive. Extending the criticism to compare a book to the stuff under whale dung isn’t helpful, nor constructive, or enlightening. How does a writer improve from the stuff under whale dung to actual whale dung? There’s no path to a better way.
#4. Be constructive. Try starting the beginning of a review with an upbeat observation. For example: “While I enjoyed the strong bones the calcium gummies might give me, the chalk-like texture and flavor which cause my tongue to cleave to the roof of my mouth prohibit me from giving this my highest rating.”
#5. If you must be scathing and sometimes you must . . . be brief. All that should be said at times like those, “Yikes.”
#6. Actually, it’s the rule of threes. Find three strengths or likeable aspects and comment then follow that with three areas that could be improved upon. It’s rarely that there isn’t something happy to say or suggest, although I’ll confess I’ve critiqued papers that I’ve struggled with a bit. Don’t underestimate the importance of creative writing.
I learned how to review some real stinkers as a mom with teenagers because there were days it was tough to find something—anything—positive to say about kids who rolled their eyes at me so hard I could heard it. I have been known to say to my grumpy, hostile teenaged offspring, “Hey, no one can breathe in or breathe out like you do, kiddo. I was just hoping you might take this pickaxe and clean that fungus bloom out from under your bed.”
If I were reviewing this posting I would start by saying to myself, “Nice use of the word yikes and chalk-like. The numbers are in the right order. I like the juxtaposition of soap, books, and goat halters.”
And then I would add, “One) Name names: Which kids? What do eye rolls sound like? Any smells you’d like to include? Two) Is everything a joke with you? Get serious once in a while—or not. Three) Try using more dashes. I like them.
And that’s how to review stuff.
Linda (Five Stars) Zern
May 19, 2015
As the Group Turns
Group work in college is all the rage. It teaches social interaction and village building. The problem with village building is trying to figure out who is going to be the village idiot.
And so went my group project for the short story “The Yellow Wallpaper.” If you are not familiar with the wildly popular and oft used short story “The Yellow Wallpaper” let me summarize.
Once upon a hateful time, men were dogs who keep their women in rooms with ugly wallpaper. Eventually, the hideous wallpaper makes the women go nuts. It’s a classic tale of women who cannot figure out where the paint department at the Home Depot is located.
Explaining the project to my youngest daughter, I said, “So, to start, we’ve got this guy in the group who’s going to show a YouTube video that makes you see hallucinations. His name is Marcus.”
“Does Marcus do drugs?” she asked.
“Only in class.” I waved away her concerns. “The hallucination video represents how the ugly wallpaper makes the helpless woman in the story see stuff creeping around, under, and in the wallpaper.” I scratched the end of my nose and then added, “I don’t know what she was worrying about. I’ve seen mildew that could form a kick line.”
She shuddered and muttered the word ‘bleach’ under her breath.
“And I’m creating faux nasty wallpaper out of poster board, which I’m making everyone stare at during the entire presentation except when we’re making them have hallucinations. Josef, the foreign exchange member of the group, is happy about that. He doesn’t want anyone looking at him while he’s giving his oral report. I think his student visa has expired.”
“What village is he from?”
“Exactly! Anyway then for the big finish we’re going to do an interpretive dance under a yellow bed sheet.”
“Fitted or flat?”
“Flat,” I snapped. “Who would bring a fitted sheet to an interpretive dance? Anyway we’re going to take turns running around under the sheet like the crazy people the woman sees creeping behind that butt ugly wallpaper.”
She frowned and started to say something else, but I kept going.
“Then I’m going to dance last, and after I run around, I’m going to faint and they’re going to cover me with the yellow sheet in a solemn, artistic, interpretive dance kind of way.”
I twirled for effect.
She sighed and asked, “Mom, have you ever thought about just trying to blend in—for once?”
“Gosh no! Because then The Man would win!” I pumped my clenched fist at the ceiling. I don’t know who this guy is that they call The Man, but all the college kids in my group talk about him like they know him personally.
Mike brought a fitted sheet for the dance. It never occurred to me to tell Mike to bring the flat one. Ever try to cram seven members of a group under a clingy, elasticized sheet?
That’s modern education: group projects, interpretive dancing, and “The Yellow Wallpaper,” a short story that you’ll study ten to twenty-three times, until you figure out that the village idiot might not know the difference between a fitted and a flat sheet.
Linda (Sheet Dancing Queen) Zern
And so went my group project for the short story “The Yellow Wallpaper.” If you are not familiar with the wildly popular and oft used short story “The Yellow Wallpaper” let me summarize.
Once upon a hateful time, men were dogs who keep their women in rooms with ugly wallpaper. Eventually, the hideous wallpaper makes the women go nuts. It’s a classic tale of women who cannot figure out where the paint department at the Home Depot is located.
Explaining the project to my youngest daughter, I said, “So, to start, we’ve got this guy in the group who’s going to show a YouTube video that makes you see hallucinations. His name is Marcus.”
“Does Marcus do drugs?” she asked.
“Only in class.” I waved away her concerns. “The hallucination video represents how the ugly wallpaper makes the helpless woman in the story see stuff creeping around, under, and in the wallpaper.” I scratched the end of my nose and then added, “I don’t know what she was worrying about. I’ve seen mildew that could form a kick line.”
She shuddered and muttered the word ‘bleach’ under her breath.
“And I’m creating faux nasty wallpaper out of poster board, which I’m making everyone stare at during the entire presentation except when we’re making them have hallucinations. Josef, the foreign exchange member of the group, is happy about that. He doesn’t want anyone looking at him while he’s giving his oral report. I think his student visa has expired.”
“What village is he from?”
“Exactly! Anyway then for the big finish we’re going to do an interpretive dance under a yellow bed sheet.”
“Fitted or flat?”
“Flat,” I snapped. “Who would bring a fitted sheet to an interpretive dance? Anyway we’re going to take turns running around under the sheet like the crazy people the woman sees creeping behind that butt ugly wallpaper.”
She frowned and started to say something else, but I kept going.
“Then I’m going to dance last, and after I run around, I’m going to faint and they’re going to cover me with the yellow sheet in a solemn, artistic, interpretive dance kind of way.”
I twirled for effect.
She sighed and asked, “Mom, have you ever thought about just trying to blend in—for once?”
“Gosh no! Because then The Man would win!” I pumped my clenched fist at the ceiling. I don’t know who this guy is that they call The Man, but all the college kids in my group talk about him like they know him personally.
Mike brought a fitted sheet for the dance. It never occurred to me to tell Mike to bring the flat one. Ever try to cram seven members of a group under a clingy, elasticized sheet?
That’s modern education: group projects, interpretive dancing, and “The Yellow Wallpaper,” a short story that you’ll study ten to twenty-three times, until you figure out that the village idiot might not know the difference between a fitted and a flat sheet.
Linda (Sheet Dancing Queen) Zern
May 13, 2015
Signs, Portents, and Omens
As our day (as in ‘the day of the dinosaur’ or the ‘last days’ or ‘The Days of Our Lives’) darkens all around us, and the world devolves into a spinning orb of nuttiness, I believe we should actively be looking for signs, omens, and portents.
For example, Omen Number One: As I stood on the back porch eating a bowl of Rice Puffy Junk, I froze, spoon halfway to my gaping mouth. Why? Because my neighbor’s donkey trotted by, wearing a twelve-foot galvanized gate around its neck. That’s why. I knew immediately what I was looking at; an omen, it was a deep, dark, disturbing, donkey wearing gate omen.
As most of us know, donkeys are best known for the parts they play in live nativity scenes and political cartoons, and a gate is symbolic for being the place where people hang signs that say happy and inviting things like Warning—Attack Dogs Trained by Germans. Clearly, the omen of a donkey wearing a twelve-foot gate around its neck was trying to prepare me for the invasion of Saint Cloud by German dog trainers.
I finished my bowl of Rice Puffy Junk.
Omen number two manifested itself in the form of a bird (variety unknown, it all happened pretty fast) that flew into my truck’s side-view mirror. The impact was grisly. I can’t talk about it, but it was like an episode of “Wives With Knives.”
Obviously, this portent was a warning to avoid air travel and eating fried chicken livers. (I love fried chicken livers but a portent is a portent.)
The final sign is that my ears have started to flush red and heat up, usually while watching press conferences, man-on-the-street style interviews, and election projections. I’m pretty sure that hot-ear-syndrome is a sign of possible drone surveillance or apoplexy. Therefore, I’m stepping up my order of dehydrated green peppers and powdered eggs; clearly weird times are coming when donkeys wear gate necklaces and birds explode willy, nilly.
Stay alert—omens, portents, and signs are on the rise. Stay frosty out there; we’re all in strung out shape.
Linda (Chicken Liver) Zern
For example, Omen Number One: As I stood on the back porch eating a bowl of Rice Puffy Junk, I froze, spoon halfway to my gaping mouth. Why? Because my neighbor’s donkey trotted by, wearing a twelve-foot galvanized gate around its neck. That’s why. I knew immediately what I was looking at; an omen, it was a deep, dark, disturbing, donkey wearing gate omen.
As most of us know, donkeys are best known for the parts they play in live nativity scenes and political cartoons, and a gate is symbolic for being the place where people hang signs that say happy and inviting things like Warning—Attack Dogs Trained by Germans. Clearly, the omen of a donkey wearing a twelve-foot gate around its neck was trying to prepare me for the invasion of Saint Cloud by German dog trainers.
I finished my bowl of Rice Puffy Junk.
Omen number two manifested itself in the form of a bird (variety unknown, it all happened pretty fast) that flew into my truck’s side-view mirror. The impact was grisly. I can’t talk about it, but it was like an episode of “Wives With Knives.”
Obviously, this portent was a warning to avoid air travel and eating fried chicken livers. (I love fried chicken livers but a portent is a portent.)
The final sign is that my ears have started to flush red and heat up, usually while watching press conferences, man-on-the-street style interviews, and election projections. I’m pretty sure that hot-ear-syndrome is a sign of possible drone surveillance or apoplexy. Therefore, I’m stepping up my order of dehydrated green peppers and powdered eggs; clearly weird times are coming when donkeys wear gate necklaces and birds explode willy, nilly.
Stay alert—omens, portents, and signs are on the rise. Stay frosty out there; we’re all in strung out shape.
Linda (Chicken Liver) Zern
May 5, 2015
SWINGERS
It’s a tire swing: rubber, rope, and physics. Okay, it’s a tire swing cleverly designed to look like a rubbery horse swinging from a tree branch. It’s cute. It’s clever. It’s intended to suck in credit card wielding grandmothers like a snake swallowing frogs. It works.
I bought one.
I made the Poppy hang it in the big tree out back. He did. We waited for grandchildren to arrive and be dazzled.
They’re dazzled all right, but mostly, the toddler-aged swingers just throw themselves in the dirt and scream their guts out while waiting their turn because of two fatal flaws.
The rubber horse swing only fits one chubby toddler at a time. You can jam two of them on if you squish them in tight, and they’re feeling magnanimous, but it swings higher and faster if THEY TAKE TURNS.
The other fatal flaw? A collection of exhausted parents who tend to collapse into lawn chairs, slipping into partial comas—in my backyard, under the live oak, assembled in a circle, on the weekends. They’re a real sedentary bunch.
Not long ago . . .
Parents vegetated. Children demanded. The horse swing sat idle. Parents ignored. Children grew shriller. The horse swing beckoned. Someone cursed. Children lined up. The horse swing twirled. Parents pushed. Kid shrieked with joy—one, single kid shrieked with joy. Many others screamed with impatient rage, thrashing in the dirt and worms.
Lazy adult shouted, “I’m cutting that swing down. Somebody give me a knife. Anybody.”
“The swing stays,” I shouted back.
The swing swayed back and forth.
“But that devil swing is the epicenter of all things temper tantrum. I hate that horrible thing. Let’s burn it down.”
“The swing stays,” I insisted.
Toddlers rolled and kicked and moaned, while the lucky swinger giggled.
Other parental types picked up pitchforks and torches and howled, “Let’s get it.”
I threw myself into the path of the rampaging villagers.
“Chop the tree down,” they foamed. “Dig up the stump. Kill all its roots. Sow the acres with salt. Arrrrrggg.”
“It’s not the horse swing’s fault, you dolts, or the tree or the stump or the acorn that made the tree. TEACH YOUR CHILDREN HOW TO WAIT THEIR TURN AND SHARE. THE SWING STAYS.”
It was a good speech. No one argued.
The swing stayed.
Sooner or later they’ll learn, I thought. The parents, I mean; they’ll learn.
Swing now. Naps later. And before you can blink that swing will hang lonely and forgotten, and we’ll want the babies back.
Linda (Charge It) Zern
I bought one.
I made the Poppy hang it in the big tree out back. He did. We waited for grandchildren to arrive and be dazzled.
They’re dazzled all right, but mostly, the toddler-aged swingers just throw themselves in the dirt and scream their guts out while waiting their turn because of two fatal flaws.
The rubber horse swing only fits one chubby toddler at a time. You can jam two of them on if you squish them in tight, and they’re feeling magnanimous, but it swings higher and faster if THEY TAKE TURNS.
The other fatal flaw? A collection of exhausted parents who tend to collapse into lawn chairs, slipping into partial comas—in my backyard, under the live oak, assembled in a circle, on the weekends. They’re a real sedentary bunch.
Not long ago . . .
Parents vegetated. Children demanded. The horse swing sat idle. Parents ignored. Children grew shriller. The horse swing beckoned. Someone cursed. Children lined up. The horse swing twirled. Parents pushed. Kid shrieked with joy—one, single kid shrieked with joy. Many others screamed with impatient rage, thrashing in the dirt and worms.
Lazy adult shouted, “I’m cutting that swing down. Somebody give me a knife. Anybody.”
“The swing stays,” I shouted back.
The swing swayed back and forth.
“But that devil swing is the epicenter of all things temper tantrum. I hate that horrible thing. Let’s burn it down.”
“The swing stays,” I insisted.
Toddlers rolled and kicked and moaned, while the lucky swinger giggled.
Other parental types picked up pitchforks and torches and howled, “Let’s get it.”
I threw myself into the path of the rampaging villagers.
“Chop the tree down,” they foamed. “Dig up the stump. Kill all its roots. Sow the acres with salt. Arrrrrggg.”
“It’s not the horse swing’s fault, you dolts, or the tree or the stump or the acorn that made the tree. TEACH YOUR CHILDREN HOW TO WAIT THEIR TURN AND SHARE. THE SWING STAYS.”
It was a good speech. No one argued.
The swing stayed.
Sooner or later they’ll learn, I thought. The parents, I mean; they’ll learn.
Swing now. Naps later. And before you can blink that swing will hang lonely and forgotten, and we’ll want the babies back.
Linda (Charge It) Zern
May 4, 2015
C is for Chump
I married my high school sweetheart. My husband married his high school sweetheart. Which means that we married each other. It also means that we went to high school together. He followed me around for all of my sophomore year. I had no idea. Back then it was called ‘kind of cute.’ Today it’s called stalking.
After the stalking phase, we actually took a class together—some kind of writing class, I can’t remember what it was called—Word Mongering, Essays Anyone Can Understand, How to BS Your Way Through the Rest of your Life, something.
The first thing our public school teacher told us was that no one in that class, not one of us, was college material.
I believed her.
I’m not sure if Sherwood cared enough to believe her. I think he was still mildly stalking me at this point.
The second thing our public school teacher said left most of us shocked and shaken.
“I can smell plagiarism. And I mean smell it, not to mention recognize it when I see it,” she said, fixing her plagiarism-detecting eyes on us as she looked down her plagiarism-sniffing nose at us. She repeated her plagiarism spotting abilities, many times. We trembled.
Okay, I trembled. Sherwood was checking out my Sweet Honesty t-shirt.
I went home and sweated over our first writing assignment, two pages of ‘something that interests you,’ every word mine, every thought from me, every sentence coming out of my head. What was my paper about? I have no idea. But I know one thing, IT WAS MY ORIGINAL WORK.
Sherwood went home cracked open the Funk and Wagnall’s Encyclopedia and copied one of the articles—WORD FOR WORD—straight out of the book. I remember what his TOTALLY FAKE essay was about—The Boston Freaking Marathon.
We handed in our papers to the fake paper-sniffing teacher.
Okay, let’s recap. I wrote a totally original essay. Sherwood cheated like a guy selling fake Gucci’s in New York City.
Sherwood the Cheater made . . . wait for it . . . an A, with “Very Interesting!” written across the top of that fake paper like a going out of business banner.
My paper? I made . . . wait for it . . . a C . . . for chump.
Later, he had the effrontery—how’s that word for a C for chump writer—to claim that he didn’t copy the article word for word. He left out words like written by and see reference.
I admit; it was a little discouraging, but I got over it and had the effrontery to finally go to college and keep right on writing. I also married the boy, but I encouraged him to pursue a career in computers rather than wordsmithing.
Linda (Tattle Tale) Zern
After the stalking phase, we actually took a class together—some kind of writing class, I can’t remember what it was called—Word Mongering, Essays Anyone Can Understand, How to BS Your Way Through the Rest of your Life, something.
The first thing our public school teacher told us was that no one in that class, not one of us, was college material.
I believed her.
I’m not sure if Sherwood cared enough to believe her. I think he was still mildly stalking me at this point.
The second thing our public school teacher said left most of us shocked and shaken.
“I can smell plagiarism. And I mean smell it, not to mention recognize it when I see it,” she said, fixing her plagiarism-detecting eyes on us as she looked down her plagiarism-sniffing nose at us. She repeated her plagiarism spotting abilities, many times. We trembled.
Okay, I trembled. Sherwood was checking out my Sweet Honesty t-shirt.
I went home and sweated over our first writing assignment, two pages of ‘something that interests you,’ every word mine, every thought from me, every sentence coming out of my head. What was my paper about? I have no idea. But I know one thing, IT WAS MY ORIGINAL WORK.
Sherwood went home cracked open the Funk and Wagnall’s Encyclopedia and copied one of the articles—WORD FOR WORD—straight out of the book. I remember what his TOTALLY FAKE essay was about—The Boston Freaking Marathon.
We handed in our papers to the fake paper-sniffing teacher.
Okay, let’s recap. I wrote a totally original essay. Sherwood cheated like a guy selling fake Gucci’s in New York City.
Sherwood the Cheater made . . . wait for it . . . an A, with “Very Interesting!” written across the top of that fake paper like a going out of business banner.
My paper? I made . . . wait for it . . . a C . . . for chump.
Later, he had the effrontery—how’s that word for a C for chump writer—to claim that he didn’t copy the article word for word. He left out words like written by and see reference.
I admit; it was a little discouraging, but I got over it and had the effrontery to finally go to college and keep right on writing. I also married the boy, but I encouraged him to pursue a career in computers rather than wordsmithing.
Linda (Tattle Tale) Zern
April 28, 2015
TICKS AHOY
In Byron Kerns Survival School, Granddaughter Zoe (age 11) and I (age creaky) learned a thing or two about surviving: collecting water, making fire, constructing shelter and, of course, learning the meaning of STOP.
STOP: Sit, Think, Observe, and Plan. It’s what you do when you’ve lost your mind in the wilderness or . . . Walmart.
We collected. We made. We constructed. We learned. That was the first day. Then we collapsed in our tent to sleep, surrounded by a cloud of fireflies, the rustling of Mother Nature, and the soft cloak of night. Zoe needed both pillows. I flip-flopped on my brand new self-inflating air mattress. We said a little pray that should rain fall, it fall straight and gentle.
Click. We turned off our headlamps.
Instantly, I felt the scurry of tiny legs up my arm. Panic threatened to suck the oxygen out of my lungs, and I felt an overwhelming urge to run screaming into the underbrush—in my scanties. But I’m a trained junior survivalist. I knew what to do. I needed to STOP.
I needed to SIT, but I was already lying down, so I had to adapt. I bolted to an upright position.
“Zoe, Zoe, get a flashlight. I THINK there’s a tick on my arm.”
I was way ahead of my training; I was already THINKing.
Zoe flipped on the flashlight. It was time to OBSERVE.
“Shoot! I can’t see a thing. Help me find my glasses.” The black blot on my arm appeared to jiggle in the wavering light of the flashlight. My heart trip hammered.
Zoe, as steady a trail buddy as anyone can ask for, handed me the glasses, steadied the flashlight, and joined me in OBSERVING.
“Yep. That’s a tick,” she said.
“Okay, here’s the PLAN,” I sputtered. “I’m going to kill this sucker with a knife.”
She handed me her pocketknife.
It wasn’t the best plan, but it was sincere.
I continued to feel creepy-crawly for the rest of our survival course, on the ride home, and later at my in-law’s sixtieth anniversary party. I had lobster ravioli. At the end of dinner I whispered to my husband that I really needed to get home; I was pretty tired and still a little creepy-crawly.
Sherwood, ever the engineer, cut straight to the heart of the matter and announced, “Well, we need to get going. I need to check Linda for ticks.”
Smiling, I added, “He’ll probably need to use a headlamp.”
And that’s why we’ll be married for sixty years. Who else would have us?
Linda (Ticked Off) Zern
STOP: Sit, Think, Observe, and Plan. It’s what you do when you’ve lost your mind in the wilderness or . . . Walmart.
We collected. We made. We constructed. We learned. That was the first day. Then we collapsed in our tent to sleep, surrounded by a cloud of fireflies, the rustling of Mother Nature, and the soft cloak of night. Zoe needed both pillows. I flip-flopped on my brand new self-inflating air mattress. We said a little pray that should rain fall, it fall straight and gentle.
Click. We turned off our headlamps.
Instantly, I felt the scurry of tiny legs up my arm. Panic threatened to suck the oxygen out of my lungs, and I felt an overwhelming urge to run screaming into the underbrush—in my scanties. But I’m a trained junior survivalist. I knew what to do. I needed to STOP.
I needed to SIT, but I was already lying down, so I had to adapt. I bolted to an upright position.
“Zoe, Zoe, get a flashlight. I THINK there’s a tick on my arm.”
I was way ahead of my training; I was already THINKing.
Zoe flipped on the flashlight. It was time to OBSERVE.
“Shoot! I can’t see a thing. Help me find my glasses.” The black blot on my arm appeared to jiggle in the wavering light of the flashlight. My heart trip hammered.
Zoe, as steady a trail buddy as anyone can ask for, handed me the glasses, steadied the flashlight, and joined me in OBSERVING.
“Yep. That’s a tick,” she said.
“Okay, here’s the PLAN,” I sputtered. “I’m going to kill this sucker with a knife.”
She handed me her pocketknife.
It wasn’t the best plan, but it was sincere.
I continued to feel creepy-crawly for the rest of our survival course, on the ride home, and later at my in-law’s sixtieth anniversary party. I had lobster ravioli. At the end of dinner I whispered to my husband that I really needed to get home; I was pretty tired and still a little creepy-crawly.
Sherwood, ever the engineer, cut straight to the heart of the matter and announced, “Well, we need to get going. I need to check Linda for ticks.”
Smiling, I added, “He’ll probably need to use a headlamp.”
And that’s why we’ll be married for sixty years. Who else would have us?
Linda (Ticked Off) Zern
April 22, 2015
FUN WITH FLU SHOTS
The sound of crayons being digested slowly crackled in the background, and the smell of rubber nipples was tangible through the phone.
“You have to come with me,” the voice said.
“Yeah, okay sure.” I made a wild guess and assumed I was speaking to my oldest daughter, Heather, who needed me to go somewhere with her to do something. “Where, when, and why?”
“The Doctor’s. Monday. Because I took the kids with me to vote and people kept glaring at me and mumbling the word ‘babysitter’ like a voodoo curse.”
“How’d the kids do?”
“Great, I threatened them with death and told them if they were loud they’d get thrown out. They wanted to know if we were going to the library.”
“Okay then, a trip to the doctor’s office on Monday, you and the gang.”
“And Mom, we’re all getting flu shots . . .”
Click.
By the time we barreled the double stroller past the elevators and into the doctor’s office, the only kid not suspicious was Zachary (aged three months.) Zachary was busy doing his baby lemur impression.
Conner (aged four) was the first to formulate a theory.
“I hate shots. I will try [cry].”
Zoe (aged six) smelled a rat with a hypodermic. Zoe had dressed herself in an orange ball cap, rainbow knee socks, purple striped skirt and matching shirt, fuzzy boots, and green messenger bag. It’s hard to get one over on Zoe.
“Are we getting a shot today, Mom?”
Heather wrestled Kip (aged two) out of his clothes for his physical and said, “Yep!”
And the plotting began.
Conner talked me into taking him to the potty, which he claimed was not the “right” potty and that he needed another potty, presumably by the elevators or Atlanta.
I stood in the hallway arguing with a four-year old. “Conner I’m pretty sure that is a potty; I recognize a toilet when I see one.”
Conner’s doctor walked by and said, “That’s the restroom, lady. Careful, you may have a runner; I predict he’s going for a high speed escape.”
“What’s escape mean?” Conner asked.
“It means to run away.”
“Let’s try that, YaYa.”
Zoe suggested we turn the lights out and stay really quiet. Conner crawled into the diaper bag compartment of the stroller and started to eat pretzels and babble. Zoe climbed under a chair and attached herself to it like a limpet. Kip spun himself in circles until he fell over. The baby drifted off to sleep in the middle of flu shot hysteria.
“See why you needed to come with us?”
Yep.
We talked Conner into being brave by telling him that Uncle Aric, who is a soldier, gets shots all the time. In fact, he’s had so many shots he’s going to be the only one in our family who survives the influenza zombie apocalypse. True fact. We did not tell Conner that bit.
Heather tried to pry Zoe out from under the chair, but she’d already started to secrete a hard coral shell. I went in for the capture, but Zoe kicked me with her fuzzy boots and sent me rolling across the floor like a brittle marble. It took two large bodied nurses, one YaYa, and her mom to get her flu free. She screamed her head off and acted like an idiot.
Conner got to play computer games with Poppy for being brave.
When Zoe wanted to know why she didn’t get to go play video games too, her mother said, “Because you screamed your head off, acted like an idiot, and you kicked people with your fuzzy boots.”
Zoe countered with, “I was screaming for my life.”
Man oh man, there’s a lot of that going around. I hope it’s not catching.
Linda (Flu Shot Approved) Zern
“You have to come with me,” the voice said.
“Yeah, okay sure.” I made a wild guess and assumed I was speaking to my oldest daughter, Heather, who needed me to go somewhere with her to do something. “Where, when, and why?”
“The Doctor’s. Monday. Because I took the kids with me to vote and people kept glaring at me and mumbling the word ‘babysitter’ like a voodoo curse.”
“How’d the kids do?”
“Great, I threatened them with death and told them if they were loud they’d get thrown out. They wanted to know if we were going to the library.”
“Okay then, a trip to the doctor’s office on Monday, you and the gang.”
“And Mom, we’re all getting flu shots . . .”
Click.
By the time we barreled the double stroller past the elevators and into the doctor’s office, the only kid not suspicious was Zachary (aged three months.) Zachary was busy doing his baby lemur impression.
Conner (aged four) was the first to formulate a theory.
“I hate shots. I will try [cry].”
Zoe (aged six) smelled a rat with a hypodermic. Zoe had dressed herself in an orange ball cap, rainbow knee socks, purple striped skirt and matching shirt, fuzzy boots, and green messenger bag. It’s hard to get one over on Zoe.
“Are we getting a shot today, Mom?”
Heather wrestled Kip (aged two) out of his clothes for his physical and said, “Yep!”
And the plotting began.
Conner talked me into taking him to the potty, which he claimed was not the “right” potty and that he needed another potty, presumably by the elevators or Atlanta.
I stood in the hallway arguing with a four-year old. “Conner I’m pretty sure that is a potty; I recognize a toilet when I see one.”
Conner’s doctor walked by and said, “That’s the restroom, lady. Careful, you may have a runner; I predict he’s going for a high speed escape.”
“What’s escape mean?” Conner asked.
“It means to run away.”
“Let’s try that, YaYa.”
Zoe suggested we turn the lights out and stay really quiet. Conner crawled into the diaper bag compartment of the stroller and started to eat pretzels and babble. Zoe climbed under a chair and attached herself to it like a limpet. Kip spun himself in circles until he fell over. The baby drifted off to sleep in the middle of flu shot hysteria.
“See why you needed to come with us?”
Yep.
We talked Conner into being brave by telling him that Uncle Aric, who is a soldier, gets shots all the time. In fact, he’s had so many shots he’s going to be the only one in our family who survives the influenza zombie apocalypse. True fact. We did not tell Conner that bit.
Heather tried to pry Zoe out from under the chair, but she’d already started to secrete a hard coral shell. I went in for the capture, but Zoe kicked me with her fuzzy boots and sent me rolling across the floor like a brittle marble. It took two large bodied nurses, one YaYa, and her mom to get her flu free. She screamed her head off and acted like an idiot.
Conner got to play computer games with Poppy for being brave.
When Zoe wanted to know why she didn’t get to go play video games too, her mother said, “Because you screamed your head off, acted like an idiot, and you kicked people with your fuzzy boots.”
Zoe countered with, “I was screaming for my life.”
Man oh man, there’s a lot of that going around. I hope it’s not catching.
Linda (Flu Shot Approved) Zern
April 20, 2015
BREAKING SPRING
Nudity. Wild demonstrations of testosterone fueled rooster crowing. Uncontrolled eating, drinking, and merry making. Occasional incontinence. Unadvised physical feats of leaping about, followed by crying, screaming and a high probability of projectile vomiting. Episodes of naked gyrating.
Spring break?
You’d think so but no. It’s a weekend with the grandkids.
Many in society look on the nude, naked, uncontrolled, incontinent merry making of spring break as a right of passage for college types and a few convicted felons—incognito. They look back on their own nude/naked incontinent merry making with fondness, when they can remember it; sometimes it’s just flashbacks.
Which is confusing to me.
When you’re a twenty-year-old frat boy, it’s cool to poop your pants.
When you’re a two-year-old baby boy, it’s disgusting.
It makes no sense.
I watch the wild, raucous spring breakers on television, and think that if I saw my nearly adult kid swilling alcohol through a tube, I would stop payment on the checks immediately. Let them pay for their own emergency room bill and penicillin.
Then I watch the endless, tireless efforts of my grandchildren learning to walk, and think to myself, “Now that deserves our investment.” They cling to furniture, fingers, and their own hands. It gives them courage. They teeter on uncertain legs. They totter trying to manage wobbly first steps. Then they fall. And fall. And fall. They are under no influence but their own, dogged persistence.
Over and over and over and again . . . they fall . . . and get back up.
And then they GET BACK UP and try it all over again until they can walk. It’s quite inspiring to watch. They never quit. Never. Over and over and over again . . . until they can walk.
Of course, our society calls having children “a punishment” or a “twenty year life sentence” or says of them that “they ruin a women’s body” or “they keep you from doing stuff” like traveling to Panama City for spring break where you wind up unconscious on someone else’s beach covered in starfish.
I guess.
Of course, when those children, who’ve ruined your body and punished you with their presence, are twenty you can send them to poop on someone else’s beach.
Irony. It’s everywhere.
Linda (Spring Fling) Zern
Spring break?
You’d think so but no. It’s a weekend with the grandkids.
Many in society look on the nude, naked, uncontrolled, incontinent merry making of spring break as a right of passage for college types and a few convicted felons—incognito. They look back on their own nude/naked incontinent merry making with fondness, when they can remember it; sometimes it’s just flashbacks.
Which is confusing to me.
When you’re a twenty-year-old frat boy, it’s cool to poop your pants.
When you’re a two-year-old baby boy, it’s disgusting.
It makes no sense.
I watch the wild, raucous spring breakers on television, and think that if I saw my nearly adult kid swilling alcohol through a tube, I would stop payment on the checks immediately. Let them pay for their own emergency room bill and penicillin.
Then I watch the endless, tireless efforts of my grandchildren learning to walk, and think to myself, “Now that deserves our investment.” They cling to furniture, fingers, and their own hands. It gives them courage. They teeter on uncertain legs. They totter trying to manage wobbly first steps. Then they fall. And fall. And fall. They are under no influence but their own, dogged persistence.
Over and over and over and again . . . they fall . . . and get back up.
And then they GET BACK UP and try it all over again until they can walk. It’s quite inspiring to watch. They never quit. Never. Over and over and over again . . . until they can walk.
Of course, our society calls having children “a punishment” or a “twenty year life sentence” or says of them that “they ruin a women’s body” or “they keep you from doing stuff” like traveling to Panama City for spring break where you wind up unconscious on someone else’s beach covered in starfish.
I guess.
Of course, when those children, who’ve ruined your body and punished you with their presence, are twenty you can send them to poop on someone else’s beach.
Irony. It’s everywhere.
Linda (Spring Fling) Zern
April 15, 2015
In Defense of Sad Endings
I wrote a book with a hard ending.
Mooncalf is a work of historical fiction for middle grades. It is set in the mid-60’s, halfway between the assassination of President Kennedy and the murder of Dr. Martin Luther King. America was racing the Russians to the moon. Skirts were short; hair was long. Schools in Seminole county, Florida, were still segregated.
After reading Mooncalf, one reader told me, “I liked Olympia and Leah so much. I just wanted them to go off in the orange grove and start a babysitter’s club.”
Spoiler alert: That’s not how it ends.
Comments from readers have included:
“I cried.”
“I was so angry.”
“I was crushed. You warned me, and I was still crushed.”
“Shocking.”
“It didn’t have to end that way.”
One young woman refused to read the book, having heard that it had a sad ending. She doesn’t do sad endings.
As an author, I sometimes wonder if I should have softened the blow, written a happier ending, given the readers a way to dream away the reality, but then I listened again to my readers. Tears. Anger. Shock.
I knew then that it was exactly as it should be.
In the world of my childhood, little girls of different colors did not go off and organize inter-racial glee clubs. We learned the hateful lessons our adults taught us and we cried.
Mooncalf is a work of historical fiction for middle grades. It is set in the mid-60’s, halfway between the assassination of President Kennedy and the murder of Dr. Martin Luther King. America was racing the Russians to the moon. Skirts were short; hair was long. Schools in Seminole county, Florida, were still segregated.
After reading Mooncalf, one reader told me, “I liked Olympia and Leah so much. I just wanted them to go off in the orange grove and start a babysitter’s club.”
Spoiler alert: That’s not how it ends.
Comments from readers have included:
“I cried.”
“I was so angry.”
“I was crushed. You warned me, and I was still crushed.”
“Shocking.”
“It didn’t have to end that way.”
One young woman refused to read the book, having heard that it had a sad ending. She doesn’t do sad endings.
As an author, I sometimes wonder if I should have softened the blow, written a happier ending, given the readers a way to dream away the reality, but then I listened again to my readers. Tears. Anger. Shock.
I knew then that it was exactly as it should be.
In the world of my childhood, little girls of different colors did not go off and organize inter-racial glee clubs. We learned the hateful lessons our adults taught us and we cried.
April 13, 2015
Fibber, Fibber
The Democratic strategist exclaimed with confidence, “Politicians lie. Everyone lies.” He was defending the lying lies of a lying politician he was preparing to lie about.
If you follow this guy’s statement to its logical conclusion then this guy is lying about the lying. Right? I mean if everyone lies, and he has to be included in the set of humans we refer to as everyone . . . well . . .
I felt my grey matter start to cramp just thinking about a world without the certainty of truth telling. (That could be a lie. How would you know?)
In our family we tell the story of The Big Fat Liar, a tale of a young man my husband encountered on a Boy Scout camping trip. The boy in the story was told to stop jabbing sticks in the campfire and catching them on fire.
“Stop catching sticks on fire. Go to bed,” my husband said.
The kid nodded.
Later that evening, on a quick trip to the potty, my husband saw fire stick boy; he was holding a flaming, smoking stick torch over his head like an invading Visigoth about to burn down the village.
“Hey, I thought I told you to quit catching sticks on fire.”
“I’m not catching sticks on fire,” the kid said, while holding a burning stick in his grubby Visigoth hand.
“Then what’s that in your hand?”
“Nothing.”
“Okay, let’s go slower,” my husband said. “Do you have a hand?”
“Maybe.”
“Is there something in it?”
“In what?” The kid tried looking confused, a favorite stalling tactic of big, fat liar types.
“Is there something in that thing hanging at the end of your arm?”
The kid looked up at his own hand. “Yes,” the kid said.
“Is it a stick?”
“Maybe.”
“Okay, let’s try this. Are you holding a recently detached hunk of wood from a tree trunk?”
“Yes.”
“Is it on fire?”
“I don’t know.”
The kid is probably a politician by now.
It’s exhausting, trying to sort out the wicked web of half-truths and big, fat whoppers that everyone is telling. At Rollins College, where I occasionally go to make straight A’s—true story, we have an Honor Code. It’s thirteen pages long and includes a section defining fibbing. There are nine bullet points just to define terms. True story.
Nine bullet points and THIRTEEN PAGES!
The Ten Commandments has ten bullet points and was carved on stone, thus saving paper, trees, ozone, and Mother Earth. Beat that, Honor Code! Beat that!
Linda (True That) Zern
If you follow this guy’s statement to its logical conclusion then this guy is lying about the lying. Right? I mean if everyone lies, and he has to be included in the set of humans we refer to as everyone . . . well . . .
I felt my grey matter start to cramp just thinking about a world without the certainty of truth telling. (That could be a lie. How would you know?)
In our family we tell the story of The Big Fat Liar, a tale of a young man my husband encountered on a Boy Scout camping trip. The boy in the story was told to stop jabbing sticks in the campfire and catching them on fire.
“Stop catching sticks on fire. Go to bed,” my husband said.
The kid nodded.
Later that evening, on a quick trip to the potty, my husband saw fire stick boy; he was holding a flaming, smoking stick torch over his head like an invading Visigoth about to burn down the village.
“Hey, I thought I told you to quit catching sticks on fire.”
“I’m not catching sticks on fire,” the kid said, while holding a burning stick in his grubby Visigoth hand.
“Then what’s that in your hand?”
“Nothing.”
“Okay, let’s go slower,” my husband said. “Do you have a hand?”
“Maybe.”
“Is there something in it?”
“In what?” The kid tried looking confused, a favorite stalling tactic of big, fat liar types.
“Is there something in that thing hanging at the end of your arm?”
The kid looked up at his own hand. “Yes,” the kid said.
“Is it a stick?”
“Maybe.”
“Okay, let’s try this. Are you holding a recently detached hunk of wood from a tree trunk?”
“Yes.”
“Is it on fire?”
“I don’t know.”
The kid is probably a politician by now.
It’s exhausting, trying to sort out the wicked web of half-truths and big, fat whoppers that everyone is telling. At Rollins College, where I occasionally go to make straight A’s—true story, we have an Honor Code. It’s thirteen pages long and includes a section defining fibbing. There are nine bullet points just to define terms. True story.
Nine bullet points and THIRTEEN PAGES!
The Ten Commandments has ten bullet points and was carved on stone, thus saving paper, trees, ozone, and Mother Earth. Beat that, Honor Code! Beat that!
Linda (True That) Zern
