Linda L. Zern's Blog, page 28
November 28, 2014
Knees Like Knuckles
By the year 2099 (if we survive 2012, 2013, and the year that asteroid comes back with Bruce Willis riding on it) the world will be covered with old people. Some will be older than others.
I am anticipating that oldness will be very hip in the coming years and some oldness hipper than others, depending on the condition of people’s knees—also hips, real or faux. My husband and I will be on the tail end of the baby booming retirement craze, having been born on the tail end of the baby boom. Actually, we were born on the fizzle at the end of the baby boom, which means that our hips still work (last check) but our knees talk more than they used to. Okay, our knees don’t really talk; they cuss, and in my husband’s case, they swear up a blue streak.
The following is actual pillow talk between two fifty-somethings contemplating the end of their functioning kneecaps, okay, it’s a conversation between me and my boyfriend of thirty-three years (Sherwood the Knuckle-Knee Zern):
“Sherwood, I’m giving you the two minute warning. Brace yourself; I’m going to roll over and give you a hug and a goodnight kiss.”
I heard him rearranging himself next to me, amid the sounds of his shoulder popping, his knee mourning the loss of its ACL, and his spine snapping shut.
I rolled toward him and puckered up; his shoulder popped like a breakfast circle made by elves.
He moaned and clutched his shoulder, which brought his knee in contact with a particularly rough fold of bed linen. He thrashed around on our pillow top mattress. I watched.
“Babe, have you been doing those exercises with that big rubber band thingy the doctor gave you.”
“Which one?” he gasped out.
“Hunh, which what? Which exercise, rubber band thingy, or body part? Is that what you mean?” He continued to thrash, concentrating on not answering me. “Okay, have you been doing your shoulder exercises with the blue rubber band thingy the doctor gave you?”
He paused in his thrashing.
“I always pack the rubber band thingy the doctor gives me when I travel.”
“You know, you have to actually do the exercises with the rubber band thingy to keep your body parts from falling off with old age and mildew.” I started in on my (the-couple-who-exercises-together-stays-out-of-the-orthopedic-surgeon’s-office-together) speech, finishing with, “How many of those exercise rubber bands from the doctor do you have anyway?”
He considered.
“I have enough of those exercise rubber bands that if I sewed them all together I’d have a hell of a slingshot.”
“A slingshot might be a good thing to have when the zombie apocalypse gets here, ‘cuz you sure aren’t going to be outrunning those zombies anymore,” I said and gave him a goodnight kiss. “And what’s with the cussing? You never cuss.”
“That wasn’t me; that was my knee back talking.”
I got up to take some Advil PM for the burning in my lumpy finger bones—also known as arthritis, which in my case is caused by meanness—also mildew. Bring on the zombie baby booming apocalypse.
Linda (Got Fit Hips?) Zern
I am anticipating that oldness will be very hip in the coming years and some oldness hipper than others, depending on the condition of people’s knees—also hips, real or faux. My husband and I will be on the tail end of the baby booming retirement craze, having been born on the tail end of the baby boom. Actually, we were born on the fizzle at the end of the baby boom, which means that our hips still work (last check) but our knees talk more than they used to. Okay, our knees don’t really talk; they cuss, and in my husband’s case, they swear up a blue streak.
The following is actual pillow talk between two fifty-somethings contemplating the end of their functioning kneecaps, okay, it’s a conversation between me and my boyfriend of thirty-three years (Sherwood the Knuckle-Knee Zern):
“Sherwood, I’m giving you the two minute warning. Brace yourself; I’m going to roll over and give you a hug and a goodnight kiss.”
I heard him rearranging himself next to me, amid the sounds of his shoulder popping, his knee mourning the loss of its ACL, and his spine snapping shut.
I rolled toward him and puckered up; his shoulder popped like a breakfast circle made by elves.
He moaned and clutched his shoulder, which brought his knee in contact with a particularly rough fold of bed linen. He thrashed around on our pillow top mattress. I watched.
“Babe, have you been doing those exercises with that big rubber band thingy the doctor gave you.”
“Which one?” he gasped out.
“Hunh, which what? Which exercise, rubber band thingy, or body part? Is that what you mean?” He continued to thrash, concentrating on not answering me. “Okay, have you been doing your shoulder exercises with the blue rubber band thingy the doctor gave you?”
He paused in his thrashing.
“I always pack the rubber band thingy the doctor gives me when I travel.”
“You know, you have to actually do the exercises with the rubber band thingy to keep your body parts from falling off with old age and mildew.” I started in on my (the-couple-who-exercises-together-stays-out-of-the-orthopedic-surgeon’s-office-together) speech, finishing with, “How many of those exercise rubber bands from the doctor do you have anyway?”
He considered.
“I have enough of those exercise rubber bands that if I sewed them all together I’d have a hell of a slingshot.”
“A slingshot might be a good thing to have when the zombie apocalypse gets here, ‘cuz you sure aren’t going to be outrunning those zombies anymore,” I said and gave him a goodnight kiss. “And what’s with the cussing? You never cuss.”
“That wasn’t me; that was my knee back talking.”
I got up to take some Advil PM for the burning in my lumpy finger bones—also known as arthritis, which in my case is caused by meanness—also mildew. Bring on the zombie baby booming apocalypse.
Linda (Got Fit Hips?) Zern
November 17, 2014
Smell That Country
We are country folk. Walking to the mailbox takes longer than a football halftime. Mowing the “lawn” is a commitment. Assorted animals have raucous sex in plain view and without shame. And NOTHING smells like it was whipped up in a Johnson and Johnson laboratory to smell like pumpkin spice and applesauce.
As country folk, we recognize that the “real” world stinks. Literally.
FACT: There is no deodorant big enough for Mother Nature.
“What is that stench?” I said to absolutely no one, while sucking air through my teeth because the hairs in my nose were sizzling.
Sunlight jittered. A light, calm breeze heavy with hell’s foul breath wafted.
I checked the horses in the barn. They were happily crunching, munching, and tooting their way through life. Pretty standard stink there. Not the source of the truly foul odor that floated across my yard in a toxic cloud.
The smell wasn’t coming from Mr. Abe’s, our Moroccan neighbor. The festival of blood . . . er . . . um . . . the festival of Eid was over and everyone had cut their chunks of bloody goat meat out of the trees and dragged them home.
FACT: Yes! You read that correctly. My neighbor slaughters dozens of animals twice a year and then hangs them in the trees while everyone from their mosque enjoys a picnic. It’s a cultural treat for the eyes, but there’s less smell than you might think.
Another gust of wind gagged me.
Not Mr. Abe’s then. The stink was coming from the other neighbor’s house, Mr. Medina: retired former pizza restaurant owner and bare-chested weekend hobby farmer.
A Nubian ram, the size of a small pony, lifted his nose to the sky, curled his lip, dropped his head to his side, curled in to himself, and peed on his own face. The smell exploded across two acres of pasture like the stench of an open landfill.
It was the filthy musk of a full-grown boy goat in raging, snorting . . . rut . . . er . . . lust . . . um . . . love . . . WITH A DONKEY.
I pinched my nose as I watched the impossible sight of the enormous boy goat leaping after Mr. Medina’s donkey. The donkey, eyes whirling around in his head like pinwheels, ran for his sexual purity. The donkey brayed. The goat pranced. Goat smell continued to choke me.
Then, if that wasn’t countrified enough, I gaped as Mr. Medina popped out of his barn door like a cork out of a bottle—broom in hand. He started to chase the goat, chasing the donkey. The trio circled the pasture. I rubbed my eyes and coughed.
FACT: Mother Nature is nuts.
I thought about helping my neighbor as a good Christian woman should. I didn’t. I was too afraid the goat might start chasing me. I couldn’t risk it. I don’t run that fast.
FACT: Mother Nature plays for keeps.
I’m not sure what the moral of the story is except to say, “Run hard. Run fast.”
Linda (Sniffles) Zern
As country folk, we recognize that the “real” world stinks. Literally.
FACT: There is no deodorant big enough for Mother Nature.
“What is that stench?” I said to absolutely no one, while sucking air through my teeth because the hairs in my nose were sizzling.
Sunlight jittered. A light, calm breeze heavy with hell’s foul breath wafted.
I checked the horses in the barn. They were happily crunching, munching, and tooting their way through life. Pretty standard stink there. Not the source of the truly foul odor that floated across my yard in a toxic cloud.
The smell wasn’t coming from Mr. Abe’s, our Moroccan neighbor. The festival of blood . . . er . . . um . . . the festival of Eid was over and everyone had cut their chunks of bloody goat meat out of the trees and dragged them home.
FACT: Yes! You read that correctly. My neighbor slaughters dozens of animals twice a year and then hangs them in the trees while everyone from their mosque enjoys a picnic. It’s a cultural treat for the eyes, but there’s less smell than you might think.
Another gust of wind gagged me.
Not Mr. Abe’s then. The stink was coming from the other neighbor’s house, Mr. Medina: retired former pizza restaurant owner and bare-chested weekend hobby farmer.
A Nubian ram, the size of a small pony, lifted his nose to the sky, curled his lip, dropped his head to his side, curled in to himself, and peed on his own face. The smell exploded across two acres of pasture like the stench of an open landfill.
It was the filthy musk of a full-grown boy goat in raging, snorting . . . rut . . . er . . . lust . . . um . . . love . . . WITH A DONKEY.
I pinched my nose as I watched the impossible sight of the enormous boy goat leaping after Mr. Medina’s donkey. The donkey, eyes whirling around in his head like pinwheels, ran for his sexual purity. The donkey brayed. The goat pranced. Goat smell continued to choke me.
Then, if that wasn’t countrified enough, I gaped as Mr. Medina popped out of his barn door like a cork out of a bottle—broom in hand. He started to chase the goat, chasing the donkey. The trio circled the pasture. I rubbed my eyes and coughed.
FACT: Mother Nature is nuts.
I thought about helping my neighbor as a good Christian woman should. I didn’t. I was too afraid the goat might start chasing me. I couldn’t risk it. I don’t run that fast.
FACT: Mother Nature plays for keeps.
I’m not sure what the moral of the story is except to say, “Run hard. Run fast.”
Linda (Sniffles) Zern
October 27, 2014
Cool With a K
My husband is a world traveler. He’s navigated: foreign visas, foreign airports, every continent but one, diverse climates, cuisine, airports, languages, and sewer systems. He’s cool—except when he isn’t.
Occasionally, I travel with the world traveler to keep him company and keep him out of airport jail. True story.
Coming home from South Korea, I was able to talk him down off a ledge when we landed in the Detroit International Airport only to have to stand in a line that was one hundred and fifty-seven deep, to wait for TWO surly guys to stare at our passports and grunt. Being in Detroit was like being in a foreign country with bad plumbing.
My husband, the world traveler, stood in the middle of the endless line of weary, slightly smelly, fellow world travelers and said, “This is %&^*ed up.” Really loud. I remember because my eyebrows hit my hairline with a thud. My husband does not curse—ever—even for a good joke.
On a recent trip to Washington, DC for our thirty-plus year anniversary, my husband, the world traveler, navigated security, dashed through check points, yanked out ID like a guy with a cable show on the travel channel and dragged me along like a slightly larger version of a cat in a cat carrier. We were savvy travelers.
We were savvy travelers, right up to the point when he whipped out our airline tickets from his front shirt pocket and a binky tumbled out.
I looked down at the lonely pacifier on the nasty airport terminal floor and said, “Babe, is that your binky?”
We looked down and stared.
The binky looked lonely and familiar all at the same time.
The ultra cool world traveler said, “Yeah.” He looked around. “Doesn’t look like it belongs to anyone else.”
We were surrounded by ultra cool, world traveler types; they were checking their email and Facebook updates. A hamster could have fallen out of his pocket and no one would have noticed.
“It’s Gummy’s,” he said.
“Do you think that kid’s ever going to be called by his given name?” I vaguely remembered liking our youngest grandson’s real name. I just couldn’t remember what it was.
“Nope. He’s the baby.” He picked up the binky and tucked it back in his pocket. We traveled on.
One of the important lessons I’ve learned over the past three decades is that just about the time that you think you’ve reached a state of super cool, world traveler status you lose your binky right there in front of everybody. It’s like writing a story about achieving the state of “cool” and realizing you’ve spelled cool with a ‘K.’
Linda (Suck on This) Zern
Occasionally, I travel with the world traveler to keep him company and keep him out of airport jail. True story.
Coming home from South Korea, I was able to talk him down off a ledge when we landed in the Detroit International Airport only to have to stand in a line that was one hundred and fifty-seven deep, to wait for TWO surly guys to stare at our passports and grunt. Being in Detroit was like being in a foreign country with bad plumbing.
My husband, the world traveler, stood in the middle of the endless line of weary, slightly smelly, fellow world travelers and said, “This is %&^*ed up.” Really loud. I remember because my eyebrows hit my hairline with a thud. My husband does not curse—ever—even for a good joke.
On a recent trip to Washington, DC for our thirty-plus year anniversary, my husband, the world traveler, navigated security, dashed through check points, yanked out ID like a guy with a cable show on the travel channel and dragged me along like a slightly larger version of a cat in a cat carrier. We were savvy travelers.
We were savvy travelers, right up to the point when he whipped out our airline tickets from his front shirt pocket and a binky tumbled out.
I looked down at the lonely pacifier on the nasty airport terminal floor and said, “Babe, is that your binky?”
We looked down and stared.
The binky looked lonely and familiar all at the same time.
The ultra cool world traveler said, “Yeah.” He looked around. “Doesn’t look like it belongs to anyone else.”
We were surrounded by ultra cool, world traveler types; they were checking their email and Facebook updates. A hamster could have fallen out of his pocket and no one would have noticed.
“It’s Gummy’s,” he said.
“Do you think that kid’s ever going to be called by his given name?” I vaguely remembered liking our youngest grandson’s real name. I just couldn’t remember what it was.
“Nope. He’s the baby.” He picked up the binky and tucked it back in his pocket. We traveled on.
One of the important lessons I’ve learned over the past three decades is that just about the time that you think you’ve reached a state of super cool, world traveler status you lose your binky right there in front of everybody. It’s like writing a story about achieving the state of “cool” and realizing you’ve spelled cool with a ‘K.’
Linda (Suck on This) Zern
October 20, 2014
WELL HEELED
From my walk-in closet I pulled a pair of my highest, sharpest stilettos and strapped them on.
“Why are you putting on high heels?” asked Sherwood, my husband of thirty- plus years.
“Because we’re going into battle. I pulled a suit jacket over my yellow knit top.
“It’s pretty hot for a jacket. Don’t you think?”
“Sherwood, dear man, nothing says, ‘I want my money back ‘ like sharp, pointy shoes and a Liz Claiborne suit jacket.”
I checked my makeup and threw a mock pink crocodile hobo bag over my bony shoulder.
“Let’s go.”
This was war. And I was not going to lose.
We crammed the defective four hundred and sixty dollar (two year extended warranty included) Hewlet Packard Officejet Pro scanner, printer, fax, and copier machine into the truck. Less than twenty-four hours earlier, I had purchased the new copy machine with cold, hard, American credit to replace the old copy machine that had been blown to toast by lightning—while I happened to be standing next to it.
The replacement Hewlet Packard Officejet Pro scanner, printer, fax, and copier fresh out of the box—did not work. It didn’t pretend to work. So, back it had to go because I make a lot of copies of stuff—my writing, my sketches, coloring pages for grandchildren, my last will and testament.
“Give me the keys. I’ll drive.” I snapped my fingers.
“Slow down, General Patton. I’m driving,” Sherwood said, holding the keys over my head. He didn’t have to hold them very high. Sherwood drove. I fumed and prepared my opening salvo.
The girl snapping her gum, standing underneath the Customer Service sign, did not have a chance.
“Hi, my name is Linda Zern,” I said, “and I’m not a happy customer.”
The gum snapper snapped to attention, eyes widening. I did not slow down.
“Yesterday, I bought a four hundred and sixty dollar copy machine for my business, and it does not work, not even a little bit. Now I know that this unfortunate turn of events is not your fault, or my fault, or the fault of some poor slave chained to a factory wall in China, cranking out copier machines by the billions. The machine does not work. I find this situation beyond frustrating, and I want no silliness from this fine establishment. Do you understand? Now, what do you plan to do for me?”
Her hand trembled as she pointed toward the back of the store.
“Just leave the bad one and go get a new one,” she said.
I spun on my pointy heels.
When I found a young man lurking in the copier aisle, I said, “Young man, this it the situation: I purchased a moderately expensive copy machine, and it is defective. Now I know that this is not your fault, or my fault, or the fault of some poor slave chained to a factory wall in China, however I still want one that works. I am not happy. Furthermore, I can’t seem to find another copier machine to replace the piece of junk I purchased in good faith from this store only yesterday. What can you do for me?”
His hand trembled as he pushed a very large ladder to a top shelf where a stack of very heavy HP Officejet Pros waited.
I noticed Sherwood’s frown.
“You think I’m being too hard on the troops.” It was not a question.
“I think you’re being testy.”
With raised eyebrows I asked the young man, now bent double under my replacement copier, “My husband thinks that I’m being testy. What do you think?”
His hand trembling increased as he steadied the huge box. “I think that you are a person who wants what she paid for.”
“Excellent answer, young man, proceed.” He lumbered towards customer service.
“Do you think that he’s afraid of me?” I asked my husband.
“I’m afraid of you.”
“Good.”
I marched to customer service, my stilettos tapping a determined rhythm. Without a word, the gum snapper made the switch and handed me a receipt.
“Young lady, I want to thank you for not making me have to mud wrestle you over this exchange.”
She cracked a lip glossed smile.
“And if I were you I would say your prayers that this machine is not also defective.”
She crossed herself.
We left. The copier is perfect.
I give all the credit to my shoes. Nothing says, ‘Don’t mess with me or my feet’ like a pair of sharp, pointy shoes. I know the truth. Any woman who is prepared to endure the pain, discomfort, and unnatural spinal position that high heels require will not hesitate to fling herself over a customer service desk and throttle the teenager running the cash register. It’s like having two rottweilers on your feet. I love my high heels—also they make me taller.
So, tip of the week, if you want action don’t wear flip-flops.
Linda (I have hammer toes older than you!) Zern
“Why are you putting on high heels?” asked Sherwood, my husband of thirty- plus years.
“Because we’re going into battle. I pulled a suit jacket over my yellow knit top.
“It’s pretty hot for a jacket. Don’t you think?”
“Sherwood, dear man, nothing says, ‘I want my money back ‘ like sharp, pointy shoes and a Liz Claiborne suit jacket.”
I checked my makeup and threw a mock pink crocodile hobo bag over my bony shoulder.
“Let’s go.”
This was war. And I was not going to lose.
We crammed the defective four hundred and sixty dollar (two year extended warranty included) Hewlet Packard Officejet Pro scanner, printer, fax, and copier machine into the truck. Less than twenty-four hours earlier, I had purchased the new copy machine with cold, hard, American credit to replace the old copy machine that had been blown to toast by lightning—while I happened to be standing next to it.
The replacement Hewlet Packard Officejet Pro scanner, printer, fax, and copier fresh out of the box—did not work. It didn’t pretend to work. So, back it had to go because I make a lot of copies of stuff—my writing, my sketches, coloring pages for grandchildren, my last will and testament.
“Give me the keys. I’ll drive.” I snapped my fingers.
“Slow down, General Patton. I’m driving,” Sherwood said, holding the keys over my head. He didn’t have to hold them very high. Sherwood drove. I fumed and prepared my opening salvo.
The girl snapping her gum, standing underneath the Customer Service sign, did not have a chance.
“Hi, my name is Linda Zern,” I said, “and I’m not a happy customer.”
The gum snapper snapped to attention, eyes widening. I did not slow down.
“Yesterday, I bought a four hundred and sixty dollar copy machine for my business, and it does not work, not even a little bit. Now I know that this unfortunate turn of events is not your fault, or my fault, or the fault of some poor slave chained to a factory wall in China, cranking out copier machines by the billions. The machine does not work. I find this situation beyond frustrating, and I want no silliness from this fine establishment. Do you understand? Now, what do you plan to do for me?”
Her hand trembled as she pointed toward the back of the store.
“Just leave the bad one and go get a new one,” she said.
I spun on my pointy heels.
When I found a young man lurking in the copier aisle, I said, “Young man, this it the situation: I purchased a moderately expensive copy machine, and it is defective. Now I know that this is not your fault, or my fault, or the fault of some poor slave chained to a factory wall in China, however I still want one that works. I am not happy. Furthermore, I can’t seem to find another copier machine to replace the piece of junk I purchased in good faith from this store only yesterday. What can you do for me?”
His hand trembled as he pushed a very large ladder to a top shelf where a stack of very heavy HP Officejet Pros waited.
I noticed Sherwood’s frown.
“You think I’m being too hard on the troops.” It was not a question.
“I think you’re being testy.”
With raised eyebrows I asked the young man, now bent double under my replacement copier, “My husband thinks that I’m being testy. What do you think?”
His hand trembling increased as he steadied the huge box. “I think that you are a person who wants what she paid for.”
“Excellent answer, young man, proceed.” He lumbered towards customer service.
“Do you think that he’s afraid of me?” I asked my husband.
“I’m afraid of you.”
“Good.”
I marched to customer service, my stilettos tapping a determined rhythm. Without a word, the gum snapper made the switch and handed me a receipt.
“Young lady, I want to thank you for not making me have to mud wrestle you over this exchange.”
She cracked a lip glossed smile.
“And if I were you I would say your prayers that this machine is not also defective.”
She crossed herself.
We left. The copier is perfect.
I give all the credit to my shoes. Nothing says, ‘Don’t mess with me or my feet’ like a pair of sharp, pointy shoes. I know the truth. Any woman who is prepared to endure the pain, discomfort, and unnatural spinal position that high heels require will not hesitate to fling herself over a customer service desk and throttle the teenager running the cash register. It’s like having two rottweilers on your feet. I love my high heels—also they make me taller.
So, tip of the week, if you want action don’t wear flip-flops.
Linda (I have hammer toes older than you!) Zern
October 13, 2014
Made By Nature
“There’s something in the office with us,” my husband said. His still, small whisper carried across his desk to my side of the office.
“Define something.” I didn’t bother to look up from my computer.
“As in some living thing—in this room, with us.” His tone made me pause.
“How do you know?”
“Because the rug under my desk is breathing.”
And it was. Breathing. There at his feet under the area rug was a small hump—breathing. It was a small, breathing hump. I was stumped.
Then I remembered. “Oh sorry, darn, I meant to tell you earlier that the cat had some thing in here earlier, messing with it. Sorry again. My bad. Should have mentioned it.”
The hump shivered.
Later, after recovering and tossing a rotund, slightly traumatized mole out of his office, my husband observed, “I’m not sure that I can stand all this nature. It’s starting to keep me up at nights. Did you hear that racket in the garage the other night? About one in the morning?”
I shrugged. I guess he’d forgotten how fast I forget stuff.
“You didn’t hear the banging!” he said, shocked. I shrugged again.
“It was a possum, inside the garage, too blind to see to see that the garage door was shut. So, it just kept bonking into the garage door—over and over and over again. I had to let the possum out of the garage like it was a pet or something.”
“We don’t have a pet possum.”
He rolled his eyes. “I know that.”
I didn’t think that this would be a good time to tell him about the fox squirrel (a giant mutant squirrel capable of hauling bricks around) that I had spotted stealing landscaping cloth from our garden. It took us hours to roll out that stupid landscaping cloth.
That mutant fox squirrel was ripping up huge hunks of the stuff, balling it up, and carting it off to his mutant squirrel condo in the sky. I guess to re-carpet or something.
And I didn’t bother to mention that a psycho cardinal (a red bird on crack) that had been attacking his own reflection in the rearview mirror of my truck, had now graduated to attacking his own reflection in our bedroom window right around naptime—mine! Tap. Tap. Tap. Tappity tap.
“Hey, you idiot bird, you’re trying to peck out your own eyes!” I may have screamed once or twice.
The good news—the bird wasn’t pooping all over the truck any more.
The bad news—the bird was now pooping all over the house.
So that’s country living. It takes a strong constitution, a hefty work ethic, and an appreciation for nature in all its cracked craziness.
Linda (Nature Girl) Zern
“Define something.” I didn’t bother to look up from my computer.
“As in some living thing—in this room, with us.” His tone made me pause.
“How do you know?”
“Because the rug under my desk is breathing.”
And it was. Breathing. There at his feet under the area rug was a small hump—breathing. It was a small, breathing hump. I was stumped.
Then I remembered. “Oh sorry, darn, I meant to tell you earlier that the cat had some thing in here earlier, messing with it. Sorry again. My bad. Should have mentioned it.”
The hump shivered.
Later, after recovering and tossing a rotund, slightly traumatized mole out of his office, my husband observed, “I’m not sure that I can stand all this nature. It’s starting to keep me up at nights. Did you hear that racket in the garage the other night? About one in the morning?”
I shrugged. I guess he’d forgotten how fast I forget stuff.
“You didn’t hear the banging!” he said, shocked. I shrugged again.
“It was a possum, inside the garage, too blind to see to see that the garage door was shut. So, it just kept bonking into the garage door—over and over and over again. I had to let the possum out of the garage like it was a pet or something.”
“We don’t have a pet possum.”
He rolled his eyes. “I know that.”
I didn’t think that this would be a good time to tell him about the fox squirrel (a giant mutant squirrel capable of hauling bricks around) that I had spotted stealing landscaping cloth from our garden. It took us hours to roll out that stupid landscaping cloth.
That mutant fox squirrel was ripping up huge hunks of the stuff, balling it up, and carting it off to his mutant squirrel condo in the sky. I guess to re-carpet or something.
And I didn’t bother to mention that a psycho cardinal (a red bird on crack) that had been attacking his own reflection in the rearview mirror of my truck, had now graduated to attacking his own reflection in our bedroom window right around naptime—mine! Tap. Tap. Tap. Tappity tap.
“Hey, you idiot bird, you’re trying to peck out your own eyes!” I may have screamed once or twice.
The good news—the bird wasn’t pooping all over the truck any more.
The bad news—the bird was now pooping all over the house.
So that’s country living. It takes a strong constitution, a hefty work ethic, and an appreciation for nature in all its cracked craziness.
Linda (Nature Girl) Zern
October 6, 2014
Linda L. Zern's Five Writing Tidbits
When I proudly handed a copy of my first children’s chapter book to my sister-in-law, she took it, looked at it, and said, “That’s a lot of writing.”
She was not overly enthusiastic.
When I started sending funny, little, quirky emails to friends and family sixteen years ago (before blogging, before vlogging, before posting) another close relative said, “And stop sending me those damn silly emails.”
He was less than encouraging.
Rejection comes in all flavors. Yet . . . I write on and on and on.
Sixteen hundred words a day or as much as my line editor can safely edit without losing her mind. Over the years, I have learned a couple of tricks and tips and techniques. Here are five.
1) Women Only or Overly Meaty Men: Write braless: There is nothing worse than writing for sixteen hundred words worth and then realizing that your boobs have turned blue from lack of oxygenated blood. It’ll throw you off. Trust me.
2) Thesaurus – Yes or No: That’s a big yes. My professor said to throw the thesaurus out. Whatever. I’m pretty sure that no one knows all the synonyms for the word “heave.” Editors get testy when you use the same word for stuff over and over again. So, if you need another word for heaved in the following sentence, “Her bosom heaved,” with a thesaurus you could write: Her bosom surged. Her bosom billowed. Her bosom huffed. See? How handy is that?
3) Snack With Caution: Writers live at their keyboards. Potato grease in sour cream & onion chip dust can make the computer keys slick. Bad things can happen when your fingers slide around. Words like shoot and shot can come out in the wrong spots. That’s my theory. Poorly executed grammar, creepy spelling errors, upside down word choices, and dazzling typos are ALL due to slippery chip grease fingertip trouble. True story. True chronicle. True fiction.
4) Handling Massive Rejection: Eat more chips. Type more words. Tell more stories.
5) Why Write? Because one day your ten-year-old granddaughter will hand you a story she’s written just for you about pumpkin seed fairies, and she’ll say, “When I grow up, I want to be a writer just like you, YaYa.”
What I like best about being a writer and dreaming of having a wildly successful book, novel, tome, or opus (thesaurus alert) is that there can never be too many good ones.
Good books are like potato chips; you can never stop with just one.
Linda (Keyboard) Zern
She was not overly enthusiastic.
When I started sending funny, little, quirky emails to friends and family sixteen years ago (before blogging, before vlogging, before posting) another close relative said, “And stop sending me those damn silly emails.”
He was less than encouraging.
Rejection comes in all flavors. Yet . . . I write on and on and on.
Sixteen hundred words a day or as much as my line editor can safely edit without losing her mind. Over the years, I have learned a couple of tricks and tips and techniques. Here are five.
1) Women Only or Overly Meaty Men: Write braless: There is nothing worse than writing for sixteen hundred words worth and then realizing that your boobs have turned blue from lack of oxygenated blood. It’ll throw you off. Trust me.
2) Thesaurus – Yes or No: That’s a big yes. My professor said to throw the thesaurus out. Whatever. I’m pretty sure that no one knows all the synonyms for the word “heave.” Editors get testy when you use the same word for stuff over and over again. So, if you need another word for heaved in the following sentence, “Her bosom heaved,” with a thesaurus you could write: Her bosom surged. Her bosom billowed. Her bosom huffed. See? How handy is that?
3) Snack With Caution: Writers live at their keyboards. Potato grease in sour cream & onion chip dust can make the computer keys slick. Bad things can happen when your fingers slide around. Words like shoot and shot can come out in the wrong spots. That’s my theory. Poorly executed grammar, creepy spelling errors, upside down word choices, and dazzling typos are ALL due to slippery chip grease fingertip trouble. True story. True chronicle. True fiction.
4) Handling Massive Rejection: Eat more chips. Type more words. Tell more stories.
5) Why Write? Because one day your ten-year-old granddaughter will hand you a story she’s written just for you about pumpkin seed fairies, and she’ll say, “When I grow up, I want to be a writer just like you, YaYa.”
What I like best about being a writer and dreaming of having a wildly successful book, novel, tome, or opus (thesaurus alert) is that there can never be too many good ones.
Good books are like potato chips; you can never stop with just one.
Linda (Keyboard) Zern
October 1, 2014
Funny, Funnier, Funniest
Mark Twain said that American humor differed from humor in other countries. In England they told stories about something funny that had happened.
“Oh look! The Lord of the Manor lost his pantaloons.” Or something else equally hilarious.
But Americans, he contended, could tell any story and make it funny.
“Oh look! The Lord of the Manor lost his pantaloons. Hey aren’t those Lady Bluebell’s pantaloons, and aren’t they pink? I have a pair just like them.”
My personal favorite form of humor is called self-deprecating. “Humor in which performers target themselves and their foibles or misfortunes for comic effect.” Essentially, these are people who can laugh at themselves. It’s adorable. It’s charming. It’s smart. It’s mature. It’s confident. It’s down right sexy. And it’s the kind of humor where you can use the word foible. What’s not to love?
People who can laugh at themselves are highly intelligent. It’s a scientific fact. Probably. Sure. Sure. I bet there’s a governmental study costing ten trillion taxpayer dollars proving it—or not. Probably.
Okay, let me illustrate:
I was born when tinfoil on the rabbit ears was high tech and Jiffy-Pop was kitchen magic. The 21st century has been a bit of a challenge for me. Oh, who am I kidding? I still think that if I open the computer I’ll see typewriter keys.
This backwater attitude amuses my children, causing them to push and nag and drag me into the world of multi-media or, as I like to put it, multi thorns in my side to make me wish I was eating Jiffy-Pop popcorn while watching Laugh-In. But I digress.
So, in I jump: Facebook, Goodreads, Pinterest, Twitter, Linked-In, Writing.com, Writing.net, Writing. Dumbbunny, and my very own website. Even though, the learning curve on each has caused me stress, hot flashes, nose bleeds, and happiness leakage. But, in I jumped.
Recently, I contracted a common cold viruses better known as the Vlad the Impaler Snot Fest. I was bed ridden for two weeks and weakly for two more weeks after that. It allowed me to be quite active on my Facebook page. Okay, I updated my status every time I sneezed and wet my pants—it was a lot.
And my children (grown) MADE FUN OF ME for over posting, or as Adam put it, “I like the post that said her pneumonia had contracted influenza.”
I never said that.
I said that I couldn’t smell, hear, taste, or breathe and that all hope was lost and that they should save themselves. Leave the casserole on the doorstep. Oh wait. There weren’t any casseroles from my children.
This story is an example of self-deprecating humor. Foibles alluded to include: My age, my dopiness, my bad children, my lack of tech savvy, and the wetting of my pants or pantaloons, depending.
Linda (A Little to the Right) Zern
“Oh look! The Lord of the Manor lost his pantaloons.” Or something else equally hilarious.
But Americans, he contended, could tell any story and make it funny.
“Oh look! The Lord of the Manor lost his pantaloons. Hey aren’t those Lady Bluebell’s pantaloons, and aren’t they pink? I have a pair just like them.”
My personal favorite form of humor is called self-deprecating. “Humor in which performers target themselves and their foibles or misfortunes for comic effect.” Essentially, these are people who can laugh at themselves. It’s adorable. It’s charming. It’s smart. It’s mature. It’s confident. It’s down right sexy. And it’s the kind of humor where you can use the word foible. What’s not to love?
People who can laugh at themselves are highly intelligent. It’s a scientific fact. Probably. Sure. Sure. I bet there’s a governmental study costing ten trillion taxpayer dollars proving it—or not. Probably.
Okay, let me illustrate:
I was born when tinfoil on the rabbit ears was high tech and Jiffy-Pop was kitchen magic. The 21st century has been a bit of a challenge for me. Oh, who am I kidding? I still think that if I open the computer I’ll see typewriter keys.
This backwater attitude amuses my children, causing them to push and nag and drag me into the world of multi-media or, as I like to put it, multi thorns in my side to make me wish I was eating Jiffy-Pop popcorn while watching Laugh-In. But I digress.
So, in I jump: Facebook, Goodreads, Pinterest, Twitter, Linked-In, Writing.com, Writing.net, Writing. Dumbbunny, and my very own website. Even though, the learning curve on each has caused me stress, hot flashes, nose bleeds, and happiness leakage. But, in I jumped.
Recently, I contracted a common cold viruses better known as the Vlad the Impaler Snot Fest. I was bed ridden for two weeks and weakly for two more weeks after that. It allowed me to be quite active on my Facebook page. Okay, I updated my status every time I sneezed and wet my pants—it was a lot.
And my children (grown) MADE FUN OF ME for over posting, or as Adam put it, “I like the post that said her pneumonia had contracted influenza.”
I never said that.
I said that I couldn’t smell, hear, taste, or breathe and that all hope was lost and that they should save themselves. Leave the casserole on the doorstep. Oh wait. There weren’t any casseroles from my children.
This story is an example of self-deprecating humor. Foibles alluded to include: My age, my dopiness, my bad children, my lack of tech savvy, and the wetting of my pants or pantaloons, depending.
Linda (A Little to the Right) Zern
September 25, 2014
Funny, Is That You?
Shirley Jackson, one of my favorite authors, wrote stories so scary they inspired Stephen King. She also wrote funny stuff about her family. How can that be? Because Shirley Jackson was one smart dame, that’s why.
Or as one of my professors told me, “Literature deals with the heart; humor deals with the intellect.”
Thus we see: Smart people know what’s funny. Kind of. Most of the time. Sure. Sure.
I write funny stuff. That’s what people tell me. I’m often stunned when people tell me this, because when I’m writing the funny stuff I’m never laughing. Mostly, I’m steamed or annoyed or moody or itchy.
I’ve actually been at parties where I was introduced as “that funny lady who writes funny stuff.” After which people stared at me—waiting—for me to break into my standup routine, I guess. Sorry. Don’t have a standup routine. All I have is my life. Funny. You bet.
Unfortunately, a lot of modern humor falls into the category of “bathos” or “low comedy.” This type of humor often deals with excrement, sex, farting, or being drunk enough to include all of the above.
My husband, a guy I laugh with and at quite a bit, found me one day pounding away at my laptop.
He said, “What’cha writing.”
“I’m determined to win this national humor writing contest I’m always entering. I’ve been second in the nation. I’ve been honorably mentioned. I’ve been a semi-finalist. But I’ve never won.”
“Why?”
“Because I don’t drink.”
“What are you talking about?”
“A lot of the winning stories have to do with getting drunk, staying drunk, anticipating being drunk, or mocking the drunken.”
“But you don’t drink.”
“Yeah, but I’ve been around a lot of little boys who can fart the alphabet. I bet I can fake it.”
He left me to it.
I watched a romantic comedy the other day that relied quite heavily on bathos for its comedic comedy. One of the gags included the clogging of various toilets by an unwanted houseguest. Bathos = excrement.
All I could think was, “Who’s going to clean that up?” I did not laugh.
One of my kids (who shall remain nameless so I won’t have to pay her a dollar every time I use her name) decided pooping was too gross and she was not going to do it anymore. She was above pooping. She was three. And a real pip.
For two weeks she was good for it. The problem with the no-poop challenge is the human body. Not only did this kid poop, she pooped constantly—just not a lot. Think buffalo head nickel size spots, times 1,000. It was disgusting.
Finally, concerned that the kid was about to explode, I stripped her naked, stuck her on the baby potty, stuck a box of prunes in one hand, and a cup of prune juice in the other and said, “Don’t get up until you take a dump.”
What came out of that kid was . . . beyond description and not the least bit funny.
The best part of this story is that she now has a kid of her own that’s pulling the same crap about pooping.
Bathos = excrement.
Humor is tricky, and I’m always surprised by what people find funny. It’s never what I think it’s going to be.
I have another grown kid who laughs every single time you say the word, “Poop.” She has the soul of a little boy who can fart the alphabet.
Linda (Humor Writer and Thrill Seeker) Zern
Or as one of my professors told me, “Literature deals with the heart; humor deals with the intellect.”
Thus we see: Smart people know what’s funny. Kind of. Most of the time. Sure. Sure.
I write funny stuff. That’s what people tell me. I’m often stunned when people tell me this, because when I’m writing the funny stuff I’m never laughing. Mostly, I’m steamed or annoyed or moody or itchy.
I’ve actually been at parties where I was introduced as “that funny lady who writes funny stuff.” After which people stared at me—waiting—for me to break into my standup routine, I guess. Sorry. Don’t have a standup routine. All I have is my life. Funny. You bet.
Unfortunately, a lot of modern humor falls into the category of “bathos” or “low comedy.” This type of humor often deals with excrement, sex, farting, or being drunk enough to include all of the above.
My husband, a guy I laugh with and at quite a bit, found me one day pounding away at my laptop.
He said, “What’cha writing.”
“I’m determined to win this national humor writing contest I’m always entering. I’ve been second in the nation. I’ve been honorably mentioned. I’ve been a semi-finalist. But I’ve never won.”
“Why?”
“Because I don’t drink.”
“What are you talking about?”
“A lot of the winning stories have to do with getting drunk, staying drunk, anticipating being drunk, or mocking the drunken.”
“But you don’t drink.”
“Yeah, but I’ve been around a lot of little boys who can fart the alphabet. I bet I can fake it.”
He left me to it.
I watched a romantic comedy the other day that relied quite heavily on bathos for its comedic comedy. One of the gags included the clogging of various toilets by an unwanted houseguest. Bathos = excrement.
All I could think was, “Who’s going to clean that up?” I did not laugh.
One of my kids (who shall remain nameless so I won’t have to pay her a dollar every time I use her name) decided pooping was too gross and she was not going to do it anymore. She was above pooping. She was three. And a real pip.
For two weeks she was good for it. The problem with the no-poop challenge is the human body. Not only did this kid poop, she pooped constantly—just not a lot. Think buffalo head nickel size spots, times 1,000. It was disgusting.
Finally, concerned that the kid was about to explode, I stripped her naked, stuck her on the baby potty, stuck a box of prunes in one hand, and a cup of prune juice in the other and said, “Don’t get up until you take a dump.”
What came out of that kid was . . . beyond description and not the least bit funny.
The best part of this story is that she now has a kid of her own that’s pulling the same crap about pooping.
Bathos = excrement.
Humor is tricky, and I’m always surprised by what people find funny. It’s never what I think it’s going to be.
I have another grown kid who laughs every single time you say the word, “Poop.” She has the soul of a little boy who can fart the alphabet.
Linda (Humor Writer and Thrill Seeker) Zern
September 19, 2014
Quiz This
My children (grown) spend a tremendous amount of time discussing the results of online quizzes they take on Facebook. They also spend a tremendous amount of time taking these quizzes.
In addition they spend a great deal of time trying to juke the quiz system so as to get the results that flatter them the most.
Sample Discussion Question:
“What did you say for question #6? Lovely Lemon Yellow or Dapper Dan Green?”
And then: “Oh look, I’m The Golden Queen of Funky Fairyland. Cool. Is that what you got?”
I refuse to participate in the quiz taking, because I find the quizzes less than scientific and more than stupid. And yet my children (grown) continue to send them to me. Or tag me with them. Or junk up my inbox with their annoying presence. I’m a little fuzzy on the correct terminology.
But I fixed their quiz-taking wagons. I started faking my results.
For example if the quiz was “Which Disney character are you?” I wrote, “Unicorn.”
Or for the quiz titled, “What Romantic Temperature Are You?” I wrote, “Unicorn.”
Eventually they figured it out which gives me hope for the next generation.
However, in the spirit of modern media savvy and to reach out to a younger and a much more quizzical generation of quiz takers, I’ve created my own scientific survey of curios results.
Called: Which Kind of Zern Kid (Grown) Are You? Please note, because I’ve never actually taken an online quiz I don’t know how they work, so I’m making the format up.
Question #1: A. How often do you read your mother’s weekly sometimes twice-weekly blog posts? 1) I’m reading it right now. 2) Is she still doing that? or 3) What blog posts?
B. If you had a choice between taking an on-line quiz or reading one of your mother’s blogs, which would you choose? 1) I want a dollar every time she mentions my name or 2) Is she still doing that?
C. Can you name a favorite blog post written by your mother? 1) Yes 2) No 3) Have you seen the will? I hear there’s a new one. 4) Hey, everyone, here’s another online quiz called, “What Caliber of Bullet Are You? I got 50 caliber. What’d you get?”
By the by, there is a new will but you have to pass an online quiz based on fifteen years worth of my blog entries to qualify for cash and prizes. Passing level is Unicorn.
Linda (All of the Above) Zern
In addition they spend a great deal of time trying to juke the quiz system so as to get the results that flatter them the most.
Sample Discussion Question:
“What did you say for question #6? Lovely Lemon Yellow or Dapper Dan Green?”
And then: “Oh look, I’m The Golden Queen of Funky Fairyland. Cool. Is that what you got?”
I refuse to participate in the quiz taking, because I find the quizzes less than scientific and more than stupid. And yet my children (grown) continue to send them to me. Or tag me with them. Or junk up my inbox with their annoying presence. I’m a little fuzzy on the correct terminology.
But I fixed their quiz-taking wagons. I started faking my results.
For example if the quiz was “Which Disney character are you?” I wrote, “Unicorn.”
Or for the quiz titled, “What Romantic Temperature Are You?” I wrote, “Unicorn.”
Eventually they figured it out which gives me hope for the next generation.
However, in the spirit of modern media savvy and to reach out to a younger and a much more quizzical generation of quiz takers, I’ve created my own scientific survey of curios results.
Called: Which Kind of Zern Kid (Grown) Are You? Please note, because I’ve never actually taken an online quiz I don’t know how they work, so I’m making the format up.
Question #1: A. How often do you read your mother’s weekly sometimes twice-weekly blog posts? 1) I’m reading it right now. 2) Is she still doing that? or 3) What blog posts?
B. If you had a choice between taking an on-line quiz or reading one of your mother’s blogs, which would you choose? 1) I want a dollar every time she mentions my name or 2) Is she still doing that?
C. Can you name a favorite blog post written by your mother? 1) Yes 2) No 3) Have you seen the will? I hear there’s a new one. 4) Hey, everyone, here’s another online quiz called, “What Caliber of Bullet Are You? I got 50 caliber. What’d you get?”
By the by, there is a new will but you have to pass an online quiz based on fifteen years worth of my blog entries to qualify for cash and prizes. Passing level is Unicorn.
Linda (All of the Above) Zern
September 15, 2014
Fatal Attraction
While I tap, tap, tap away on my keyboard, making up stories, I keep the television blaring. That’s how I did my homework and made straight A’s throughout my academic career. It’s a career that has spanned decades and is still spanning. I don’t want to talk about it.
I often watch educational or discovery related channels while I tap, tap, tap.
Today was no different. I finished another novel and watched a discovery style show called “Fatal Attraction.” The attraction that proved fatal was between humans and the animals they adore.
One lady fed WILD bears off the back of her porch. She tossed apple chunks at them. She gave them cutesy names. She built a fence to keep them from clawing her house down. They ate her face off.
Another woman kept pet tigers. She gave them names. She fed them road kill she scooped off the highway. She spoke of them fondly. She thought of them as children. They ate her face off.
And still another woman kept hybrid wolves. She treated them like family. She gave them a kiddy pool full of fun water. She gave them wolfish names. They ate her face off.
It freaked me out, because—as I type this—my garage is full, full of feral cats, and I feed them, because if I don’t feed them they will eat my chickens, rabbits, song birds, and dog. I’m afraid not to feed them. But after watching “Fatal Attraction” I’m pretty sure they’re going to gang up, drag me off, and stuff me under Mr. Abe’s garden shed. Where they will eat my face off.
What I have going for me:
I refuse to name them.
I never talk of them fondly.
I do not believe they have any human affection for me.
When they look at me it is not with love. They are measuring the distance between my hairline and my scalp and calculating the number of cat fangs required to hamstring me on my way to the barn.
You know what I think? I think it’s time for another cat roundup. Or as the grandchildren ask, “Hey! Are we too late, for the cat roundup?”
Here’s what I think. Animals are not people or babies or surrogate boyfriends. They are animals. They are not people in fur coats. So stop dropping off your “babies” in front of my house instead of taking them to the animal control up the road, because it’s going to end badly for someone or some thing or everyone.
PS: All the humans died in the above fatal attraction examples, so did all the animals.
Linda (Butterfly Net) Zern
I often watch educational or discovery related channels while I tap, tap, tap.
Today was no different. I finished another novel and watched a discovery style show called “Fatal Attraction.” The attraction that proved fatal was between humans and the animals they adore.
One lady fed WILD bears off the back of her porch. She tossed apple chunks at them. She gave them cutesy names. She built a fence to keep them from clawing her house down. They ate her face off.
Another woman kept pet tigers. She gave them names. She fed them road kill she scooped off the highway. She spoke of them fondly. She thought of them as children. They ate her face off.
And still another woman kept hybrid wolves. She treated them like family. She gave them a kiddy pool full of fun water. She gave them wolfish names. They ate her face off.
It freaked me out, because—as I type this—my garage is full, full of feral cats, and I feed them, because if I don’t feed them they will eat my chickens, rabbits, song birds, and dog. I’m afraid not to feed them. But after watching “Fatal Attraction” I’m pretty sure they’re going to gang up, drag me off, and stuff me under Mr. Abe’s garden shed. Where they will eat my face off.
What I have going for me:
I refuse to name them.
I never talk of them fondly.
I do not believe they have any human affection for me.
When they look at me it is not with love. They are measuring the distance between my hairline and my scalp and calculating the number of cat fangs required to hamstring me on my way to the barn.
You know what I think? I think it’s time for another cat roundup. Or as the grandchildren ask, “Hey! Are we too late, for the cat roundup?”
Here’s what I think. Animals are not people or babies or surrogate boyfriends. They are animals. They are not people in fur coats. So stop dropping off your “babies” in front of my house instead of taking them to the animal control up the road, because it’s going to end badly for someone or some thing or everyone.
PS: All the humans died in the above fatal attraction examples, so did all the animals.
Linda (Butterfly Net) Zern
