Linda L. Zern's Blog, page 32
March 27, 2014
Concoctions
To become a volunteer member of the Osceola mounted (up on horses) posse/patrol it was necessary to fill out a twenty-seven-page application declaring that I don’t do drugs or lie about doing drugs, that I don’t sell drugs or lie about selling drugs, or hang around people who do drug deals or lie about doing drug deals.
There were other questions on the application but for today’s discussion I’ll focus on drug usage: real, implied, or alleged.
After I handed in my twenty-seven-page application I was required to take a lie detector test. There were thirty plus questions. A solid chunk of the questions were about my possible drug usage.
It was a voice stress test. Apparently when people lie, their voice squeaks.
“Have you been in a location where illegal drugs were being used?”
“Yes.”
“Explain.”
“I had to walk across my college campus and . . . well . . . there was the unmistakable smell of . . . well . . . iguana, that’s what my grandson calls dope; isn’t that adorable?”
The examiner did not smile.
I continued my confession. “Seriously, when did smoking iguana in public become okay? Good grief.”
“Do you smoke iguana?” he began. “I mean marijuana. Have you used marijuana in the last twenty-seven months?”
“Nope. Listen! I’ve never ingested an entire carbonated soda. I think the bubbles are stupid.”
I passed my lie detector test.
Finally, I had to take a drug test to PROVE through chemical analysis of my internal body fluids that I did not, have not, would not SMOKE IGUANA or consume other weirdo drugs.
Sherwood, my husband, supportive as always, was concerned that I might fail my drug test.
“Geez, I don’t know. All those concoctions you take in the morning might mix together to form PCP or something. You might fail your drug test.”
“Concoctions? Vitamin B-12? Glucosamine Chondroitin? The stuff I take so my opposable thumbs will continue to oppose?”
“Is that what that’s for? Hey, give me some,” he said.
I passed my drug test.
And so I was invited to be a member of the volunteer posse, after an interview with three stern-faced, uniformed officers asking probing questions like, “What are some of the qualifications to be a member of the mounted posse?”
Confused for a moment, I said, “Have a horse?”
I think the correct answer might have been, “Not riding a horse while smoking iguana.”
Linda (Saddle Up) Zern
There were other questions on the application but for today’s discussion I’ll focus on drug usage: real, implied, or alleged.
After I handed in my twenty-seven-page application I was required to take a lie detector test. There were thirty plus questions. A solid chunk of the questions were about my possible drug usage.
It was a voice stress test. Apparently when people lie, their voice squeaks.
“Have you been in a location where illegal drugs were being used?”
“Yes.”
“Explain.”
“I had to walk across my college campus and . . . well . . . there was the unmistakable smell of . . . well . . . iguana, that’s what my grandson calls dope; isn’t that adorable?”
The examiner did not smile.
I continued my confession. “Seriously, when did smoking iguana in public become okay? Good grief.”
“Do you smoke iguana?” he began. “I mean marijuana. Have you used marijuana in the last twenty-seven months?”
“Nope. Listen! I’ve never ingested an entire carbonated soda. I think the bubbles are stupid.”
I passed my lie detector test.
Finally, I had to take a drug test to PROVE through chemical analysis of my internal body fluids that I did not, have not, would not SMOKE IGUANA or consume other weirdo drugs.
Sherwood, my husband, supportive as always, was concerned that I might fail my drug test.
“Geez, I don’t know. All those concoctions you take in the morning might mix together to form PCP or something. You might fail your drug test.”
“Concoctions? Vitamin B-12? Glucosamine Chondroitin? The stuff I take so my opposable thumbs will continue to oppose?”
“Is that what that’s for? Hey, give me some,” he said.
I passed my drug test.
And so I was invited to be a member of the volunteer posse, after an interview with three stern-faced, uniformed officers asking probing questions like, “What are some of the qualifications to be a member of the mounted posse?”
Confused for a moment, I said, “Have a horse?”
I think the correct answer might have been, “Not riding a horse while smoking iguana.”
Linda (Saddle Up) Zern
March 22, 2014
A Philosophy of Shoes
Shoes are the best reason for having feet said every shoe lover ever--also feet are good for walking and stuff--in shoes, of course.
A lovely woman came up to me at our local shoe kiosk the other day (they’re having a snappy shoe sale) and informed me, “You know you’re old when the latest styles are too dangerous to wear because you may fall and break a hip.”
She was a delightful woman. Never met her before in my life.
“True,” I agreed, and then added. “I know I’m old because all the latest styles remind me of Viet Nam. Everything my daughters put on their feet look like the Viet Cong cut them out of bicycle tires on the Ho Chi Men trail.
“That’s because everything IS made by the Viet Cong these days, also the Koreans, but mostly the Chinese.”
She laughed sweetly and hobbled off atop pale pink platform sandals.
Lovely woman. Excellent shoes.
Aren’t shoe shoppers the friendliest people and so well informed on the current import-export situation? I believe it has something to do with squashing your feet into the very same pair of shoes that the lady next to you just finished squashing her feet into. It gives you a sense of sisterhood. That’s why bowlers are so warm and friendly, because everyone wears everyone else’s shoes. Nice and cozy.
My shoe wearing philosophy: I’m short. I always wear heels. I’ve told my daughters that the day they see me in flats is the day they should throw dirt on me, because I’m done.
Best shoe related quote: “Those shoes are just too Cha-Cha for words.” (From Steel Magnolias)
Best reason to be a girl: The assortment of shoe choices, of course. I couldn’t be a man because their shoes are so plain, not to mention blah—also boring.
Why shoes are magic: Because you can tap them together three times and cool stuff happens.
The smartest reason to have lots of shoes: So you can justify having lots of clothes to make “outfits” inspired by all the shoes you own.
Shoes that had the most influence on me: Those white Go-Go boots from the sixties that were the coolest, hippest fashion statement ever created by the hand of fashion designers in any time period, and I’m including those saber tooth tiger boots that every one was into in the ice age.
Why I never feel guilty buying shoes: Think of all the jobs I’m providing all those former Viet Cong, Koreans, and Chinese. I’m feeding the peoples of the world and looking too Cha-Cha for words all at the same time. It’s win-win.
Linda (Don't Tread on Me) Zern
A lovely woman came up to me at our local shoe kiosk the other day (they’re having a snappy shoe sale) and informed me, “You know you’re old when the latest styles are too dangerous to wear because you may fall and break a hip.”
She was a delightful woman. Never met her before in my life.
“True,” I agreed, and then added. “I know I’m old because all the latest styles remind me of Viet Nam. Everything my daughters put on their feet look like the Viet Cong cut them out of bicycle tires on the Ho Chi Men trail.
“That’s because everything IS made by the Viet Cong these days, also the Koreans, but mostly the Chinese.”
She laughed sweetly and hobbled off atop pale pink platform sandals.
Lovely woman. Excellent shoes.
Aren’t shoe shoppers the friendliest people and so well informed on the current import-export situation? I believe it has something to do with squashing your feet into the very same pair of shoes that the lady next to you just finished squashing her feet into. It gives you a sense of sisterhood. That’s why bowlers are so warm and friendly, because everyone wears everyone else’s shoes. Nice and cozy.
My shoe wearing philosophy: I’m short. I always wear heels. I’ve told my daughters that the day they see me in flats is the day they should throw dirt on me, because I’m done.
Best shoe related quote: “Those shoes are just too Cha-Cha for words.” (From Steel Magnolias)
Best reason to be a girl: The assortment of shoe choices, of course. I couldn’t be a man because their shoes are so plain, not to mention blah—also boring.
Why shoes are magic: Because you can tap them together three times and cool stuff happens.
The smartest reason to have lots of shoes: So you can justify having lots of clothes to make “outfits” inspired by all the shoes you own.
Shoes that had the most influence on me: Those white Go-Go boots from the sixties that were the coolest, hippest fashion statement ever created by the hand of fashion designers in any time period, and I’m including those saber tooth tiger boots that every one was into in the ice age.
Why I never feel guilty buying shoes: Think of all the jobs I’m providing all those former Viet Cong, Koreans, and Chinese. I’m feeding the peoples of the world and looking too Cha-Cha for words all at the same time. It’s win-win.
Linda (Don't Tread on Me) Zern
March 16, 2014
Love Under the Ellipsis
When I was a girl, love—but mostly S-E-X—remained hidden beneath an ellipsis of ink. The hero in all the books swooped in to take the girl in his arms. She forgot to struggle long enough to stay. And then . . . (dot, dot, dot).
It was the most delicious, tantalizing punctuation in all of literature, marking the dog-eared pages, full of anticipation and imagination.
Now? Not so much.
In today’s world, romance isn’t for the faint of heart or the subtle of gesture. The girls have no clothes on, and the boys don’t wear gloves, which is too bad because once upon a time (according to Jane Austen) when a man touched a woman’s naked hand with his naked hand they were engaged. I know it’s true. I watch a lot of Masterpiece Theater.
I’m happy to report that at our cave . . . er . . . um . . . I mean house, at our house, romance is still something of a mystery, surrounded by subtleties, covered with the gentle breeze of confusion, wrapped up in code words.
Smiling, I walked into my husband’s office recently, only to greeted with the following invitation (quite possibly threat, the jury is still out.)
Without lifting his head from the flickering light of his computer screen, he said, “Careful or I’ll take you over there on that tofu and . . . (dot, dot, dot.)
Confused and a little alarmed I scanned our office and saw bookshelves stuffed with books, filing cabinets stuffed with papers, computer junk stuffed everywhere, and pillows lined up like soldiers on . . . the futon.
“Are you trying to say futon? You’re going to take me over there on the futon? Because I can’t begin to describe to you how disturbed I am by the idea of you doing unspeakable things to my person on TOFU. Maybe you’re having word seizures or . . .”
“I’m not having Caesars or . . .”
“Not Caesars, you goof ball,” I said.
At this point in the discussion, he removed one glove and stretched out a naked hand towards my person and in the general direction of the futon.
I ran and then . . . (dot, dot, dot.)
Sometimes in dreams I imagine long fingers of mist rolling across the moors behind the swamp in our back pasture, out past the horse trailer with the busted tail light, while the moon drifts across a jaundiced sky, and my heart thumps loudly in the silent chambers of my heart, as I hide under the long folding couch resembling a bent bed, and into the cloying depths of my dreaming night, I hear Lord Sherwood hissing, “Let’s get it on.”
Sigh.
One minute you’re a lady wearing gloves and the next minute he’s got you on TOFU and . . . (dot, dot, dot.)
Linda (Lady Dainty) Zern
It was the most delicious, tantalizing punctuation in all of literature, marking the dog-eared pages, full of anticipation and imagination.
Now? Not so much.
In today’s world, romance isn’t for the faint of heart or the subtle of gesture. The girls have no clothes on, and the boys don’t wear gloves, which is too bad because once upon a time (according to Jane Austen) when a man touched a woman’s naked hand with his naked hand they were engaged. I know it’s true. I watch a lot of Masterpiece Theater.
I’m happy to report that at our cave . . . er . . . um . . . I mean house, at our house, romance is still something of a mystery, surrounded by subtleties, covered with the gentle breeze of confusion, wrapped up in code words.
Smiling, I walked into my husband’s office recently, only to greeted with the following invitation (quite possibly threat, the jury is still out.)
Without lifting his head from the flickering light of his computer screen, he said, “Careful or I’ll take you over there on that tofu and . . . (dot, dot, dot.)
Confused and a little alarmed I scanned our office and saw bookshelves stuffed with books, filing cabinets stuffed with papers, computer junk stuffed everywhere, and pillows lined up like soldiers on . . . the futon.
“Are you trying to say futon? You’re going to take me over there on the futon? Because I can’t begin to describe to you how disturbed I am by the idea of you doing unspeakable things to my person on TOFU. Maybe you’re having word seizures or . . .”
“I’m not having Caesars or . . .”
“Not Caesars, you goof ball,” I said.
At this point in the discussion, he removed one glove and stretched out a naked hand towards my person and in the general direction of the futon.
I ran and then . . . (dot, dot, dot.)
Sometimes in dreams I imagine long fingers of mist rolling across the moors behind the swamp in our back pasture, out past the horse trailer with the busted tail light, while the moon drifts across a jaundiced sky, and my heart thumps loudly in the silent chambers of my heart, as I hide under the long folding couch resembling a bent bed, and into the cloying depths of my dreaming night, I hear Lord Sherwood hissing, “Let’s get it on.”
Sigh.
One minute you’re a lady wearing gloves and the next minute he’s got you on TOFU and . . . (dot, dot, dot.)
Linda (Lady Dainty) Zern
March 14, 2014
GROUPING
Special Interest Groups
or Groups With Interests that are Special
or Special Groups With Interests
or Interests that Specialize in Groups
or
GROUPS
(Grownups Raging Over Underwear Poop Stuff))
Today, according to “Wikipedia” (which is a special interest group dedicated to fake information that is unusable in college term papers) Special Interest Groups (SIG’s) are organizations focused on mutual interests. For example: JALT, the Japan Association of Language Teachers, is a SIG where folks try to come up with ways to get their students to speak better and more Japanese.
Actually, I have no idea what this group dreams about. It’s possible this group just sits around and drinks fermented rice juice.
A jaunty assembly of clever letters is often involved in organizing a special interest group—also T-shirts with informational messages like Join JALT—but only if you teach better and more Japanese.
I love SIG’s. They’re so tribal. Historically a tribe was a Special Interest Group dedicated to the “mutual interest” of kicking some other tribe’s butt and burning down all their stuff. Like the Special Interest Group the VISIGOTHS whose “mutual interest” was raping and burning its way across the Special Interest Group EUROPE.
Today, Special Interest Groups tend to be much more narrow in their “mutual interests.”
For example, the special interest group AWGA, Australian Worm Growers Association, is a group that wants to teach more and better Japanese to worm farmers.
Not true. Actually, it’s a fan club for earthworms and the folks that grow ‘em in Australia.
Scary stuff, if you belong to the special interest group FFCNCST (Folks Frightened by Creepy Night Crawling Squishy Things.)
Special Interests Groups include: Labor and Trade Unions, Associations, Groups, Clubs, Chorus Lines, Steel Drum Bands, and Clown Cars.
The “Von” Zern Family singers and clog dancers are a special interest group that has been drawn together by the mutual interests of extreme opinion making, the free exchange of potty training tips and tricks, and ritual mooching.
The most fascinating special interest group that I have learned of recently is associated with my college and describes itself thusly, “The Safe Zone Ally Program [hopes] to increase awareness and solidarity with our diverse gay, lesbian, bisexual, transgender, questioning, queer, pansexual and intersex (LGBTQQIP) community.
I was excited when I read pansexual because I thought it meant sex with pandas, and while I wouldn’t want to marry a panda, I’d love to snuggle a panda. FYI – that’s not what pansexual means. See? It’s working already; my awareness has increased.
And that’s why special interest groups are good; they’re fun; they’re educational; they’re insulating; they’re all for us and us for us.
Linda (Raw Milk Drinkers for Freedom) Zern
or Groups With Interests that are Special
or Special Groups With Interests
or Interests that Specialize in Groups
or
GROUPS
(Grownups Raging Over Underwear Poop Stuff))
Today, according to “Wikipedia” (which is a special interest group dedicated to fake information that is unusable in college term papers) Special Interest Groups (SIG’s) are organizations focused on mutual interests. For example: JALT, the Japan Association of Language Teachers, is a SIG where folks try to come up with ways to get their students to speak better and more Japanese.
Actually, I have no idea what this group dreams about. It’s possible this group just sits around and drinks fermented rice juice.
A jaunty assembly of clever letters is often involved in organizing a special interest group—also T-shirts with informational messages like Join JALT—but only if you teach better and more Japanese.
I love SIG’s. They’re so tribal. Historically a tribe was a Special Interest Group dedicated to the “mutual interest” of kicking some other tribe’s butt and burning down all their stuff. Like the Special Interest Group the VISIGOTHS whose “mutual interest” was raping and burning its way across the Special Interest Group EUROPE.
Today, Special Interest Groups tend to be much more narrow in their “mutual interests.”
For example, the special interest group AWGA, Australian Worm Growers Association, is a group that wants to teach more and better Japanese to worm farmers.
Not true. Actually, it’s a fan club for earthworms and the folks that grow ‘em in Australia.
Scary stuff, if you belong to the special interest group FFCNCST (Folks Frightened by Creepy Night Crawling Squishy Things.)
Special Interests Groups include: Labor and Trade Unions, Associations, Groups, Clubs, Chorus Lines, Steel Drum Bands, and Clown Cars.
The “Von” Zern Family singers and clog dancers are a special interest group that has been drawn together by the mutual interests of extreme opinion making, the free exchange of potty training tips and tricks, and ritual mooching.
The most fascinating special interest group that I have learned of recently is associated with my college and describes itself thusly, “The Safe Zone Ally Program [hopes] to increase awareness and solidarity with our diverse gay, lesbian, bisexual, transgender, questioning, queer, pansexual and intersex (LGBTQQIP) community.
I was excited when I read pansexual because I thought it meant sex with pandas, and while I wouldn’t want to marry a panda, I’d love to snuggle a panda. FYI – that’s not what pansexual means. See? It’s working already; my awareness has increased.
And that’s why special interest groups are good; they’re fun; they’re educational; they’re insulating; they’re all for us and us for us.
Linda (Raw Milk Drinkers for Freedom) Zern
March 10, 2014
Life, Death, and Worm Medicine
My husband and I have a hobby farm. That’s a nice way of saying we own more grass than anyone can mow in a single day.
The grass is necessary because of the horses. Horses are twelve hundred pound mammals that eat salad all day to maintain their body weight. Let this be a lesson to us all. If humans want to maintain their body weight by eating salad then they have to eat salad ALL DANG DAY LONG.
Having a hobby farm means a couple of things, one, we have animals that eat grass and two, those animals eventually die. It’s called the circle of life.
The closest most people come to the circle of life in our modern society is when that daddy lion holds up that baby lion in that Disney movie and all the savannah animals bust out singing. It’s possible that this scene is misleading. The circle of life is a lot less musical and involves a lot of hole digging . . .
. . . because everything that’s born on that savannah is going to die. Sing about that, Disney!!!
One of our first experiences with the circle of life involved a flock of chickens and worm medicine. Oh, by the way, worms tend to be a hefty part of that whole life circle deal.
What no worm song, Disney Studios?
News flash: horses get worms—also dogs, cats, cows, goats, and occasionally toddlers and in rare cases the mothers who care for them. Don’t ask.
Once we tried de-worming our horses with a medicine designed to be added to the horses’ feed, fancy pants blue worm poison pellets.
NOTE: When horses aren’t eating salad, they’re busy eating snazzy seeds covered in molasses.
We mixed the worm medicine into their feed. The horses hated the worm stuff and ate everything except the blue pellets.
Apparently chickens not only love snazzy seeds but they also love blue worm pellets. They helped themselves. NOTE: Blue pellet horse wormer kills chickens, but it doesn’t kill them fast.
So our barn was filled with flopping, staggering poisoned chickens.
I turned to my husband and said, “Well, Babe, we’ve got to put these chickens out of their misery. They’ve been poisoned.”
My husband, a mostly city boy, said, “What? Out of their misery? What? That’s just another way of saying, ‘Kill them’ isn’t it? What?”
He stared at the bunch of twitching birds. Then he looked at me.
“But how?”
We stared some more at the sick chickens.
“Should we smother them with a pillow?” he asked.
He wasn’t kidding.
“Not my pillow.”
I was kidding—sort of.
“Shoot them?” I suggested.
“You mean like dig a trench and then throw them in it and . . .”
“What? Trench? No. We’re not Nazi’s, for goodness sakes.”
We handled it. Because that’s what you do in the country, you handle stuff—all the stuff—life, death, worms, and burial detail.
Horses: Too big to flush down the toilet. Call the septic tank guy with his backhoe. Our guy’s got some great hole digging stories.
Chickens, Rabbits, Squirrels: Posthole diggers are quick and efficient. Dig hard, dig deep.
Or if you’re our neighbors you toss the dead critters over the back fence, sit back, and vulture watch. Life, death, worms, and burial detail, that’s the real circle of life. P.S. There’s very little singing.
I blame Disney for encouraging this nutty belief that the circle of life is a musical number in a Broadway show. Nope. It’s way better because it’s real. It’s sad and funny and final and real. Life and death and worms. I’m for it.
Linda (Grave Digger) Zern
The grass is necessary because of the horses. Horses are twelve hundred pound mammals that eat salad all day to maintain their body weight. Let this be a lesson to us all. If humans want to maintain their body weight by eating salad then they have to eat salad ALL DANG DAY LONG.
Having a hobby farm means a couple of things, one, we have animals that eat grass and two, those animals eventually die. It’s called the circle of life.
The closest most people come to the circle of life in our modern society is when that daddy lion holds up that baby lion in that Disney movie and all the savannah animals bust out singing. It’s possible that this scene is misleading. The circle of life is a lot less musical and involves a lot of hole digging . . .
. . . because everything that’s born on that savannah is going to die. Sing about that, Disney!!!
One of our first experiences with the circle of life involved a flock of chickens and worm medicine. Oh, by the way, worms tend to be a hefty part of that whole life circle deal.
What no worm song, Disney Studios?
News flash: horses get worms—also dogs, cats, cows, goats, and occasionally toddlers and in rare cases the mothers who care for them. Don’t ask.
Once we tried de-worming our horses with a medicine designed to be added to the horses’ feed, fancy pants blue worm poison pellets.
NOTE: When horses aren’t eating salad, they’re busy eating snazzy seeds covered in molasses.
We mixed the worm medicine into their feed. The horses hated the worm stuff and ate everything except the blue pellets.
Apparently chickens not only love snazzy seeds but they also love blue worm pellets. They helped themselves. NOTE: Blue pellet horse wormer kills chickens, but it doesn’t kill them fast.
So our barn was filled with flopping, staggering poisoned chickens.
I turned to my husband and said, “Well, Babe, we’ve got to put these chickens out of their misery. They’ve been poisoned.”
My husband, a mostly city boy, said, “What? Out of their misery? What? That’s just another way of saying, ‘Kill them’ isn’t it? What?”
He stared at the bunch of twitching birds. Then he looked at me.
“But how?”
We stared some more at the sick chickens.
“Should we smother them with a pillow?” he asked.
He wasn’t kidding.
“Not my pillow.”
I was kidding—sort of.
“Shoot them?” I suggested.
“You mean like dig a trench and then throw them in it and . . .”
“What? Trench? No. We’re not Nazi’s, for goodness sakes.”
We handled it. Because that’s what you do in the country, you handle stuff—all the stuff—life, death, worms, and burial detail.
Horses: Too big to flush down the toilet. Call the septic tank guy with his backhoe. Our guy’s got some great hole digging stories.
Chickens, Rabbits, Squirrels: Posthole diggers are quick and efficient. Dig hard, dig deep.
Or if you’re our neighbors you toss the dead critters over the back fence, sit back, and vulture watch. Life, death, worms, and burial detail, that’s the real circle of life. P.S. There’s very little singing.
I blame Disney for encouraging this nutty belief that the circle of life is a musical number in a Broadway show. Nope. It’s way better because it’s real. It’s sad and funny and final and real. Life and death and worms. I’m for it.
Linda (Grave Digger) Zern
March 1, 2014
Exceptional Nonsense
I am exceptional.
Are you mad yet?
Because a lot of people seem to find my exceptionalism wildly annoying, and they say stuff to me like, “Linda, you make me sick,” or “Linda, I could kill you for making all those good grades,” or “Linda, you’re such a smarty pants you make me sick. I could kill you.”
I don’t even own smarty pants. I own Diane Gilman, sexy jeans for grandma pants. They make me look exceptional. I can’t help it.
And, truthfully, I’m not sure I would help it, if I could help it because exceptional suits me fine.
It makes me a little bit sad on Tuesdays and Thursdays when I count up all the folks I’ve made sick because I’ve always made good grades in school, but then I decide to paint the barn and the sadness goes away.
Truthfully, I don’t mean to make people sick or want to kill me, I just like doing a good job. I don’t enjoy feeling panic stricken because I haven’t done my homework. Being prepared allows me to sleep. Studying steadies my nerves. Putting my heart into a project keeps life interesting. Working hard gives me a sense of satisfaction and esteem of self, which society is always harping about, by the way: build your self esteem, feel good about yourself, self esteem rocks, here’s a trophy for breathing.
But then you paint the barn all by yourself, and people who haven’t painted their barns are mad at you and want to kill you.
It’s very confusing.
My son-in-law once observed, “Well, after she gets done mowing the farm, she comes in and writes a book or something. She stays pretty busy.”
And there it is. Busy beats coma, every time. I like busy.
I have a granddaughter who likes busy too. It was hard for her to learn to read because it meant she had to sit still and not build a fort from palm fronds. But then she figured out that you could read books about making forts from palm fronds and duct tape. And now there’s no stopping her.
She draws, paints, weaves, knits, and duct tapes, or she’s reading about it. I feel bad for her. People are going to want to kill her—a lot.
Here’s my advice to her. Do you best, Babe. If you’re going to make a pillow out of duct tape, make the biggest, most yellow, most duck beak embellished duct tape pillow you can make, and then put it in the Osceola County Fair and then win a blue ribbon. And then do a dance in the sunshine of your exceptional accomplishment. Amen and amen.
My other granddaughter is a scientific memory machine. She won several blue ribbons. She is exceptional.
My grandson can hob knob with fifty year olds without pausing to take a breath. He came home with six medals from the fair. He is exceptional.
And the list goes on . . .
Let me be clear. Exceptional means out of the ordinary; it can even mean better than someone else. It doesn’t mean, “I’m better and you suck.” It means I am smart, capable, quick, and excited about life, and you can be too. Just get off that couch and patch up the holes in the Lazy-Boy with duct tape.
Linda (Look what I can do!) Zern
Are you mad yet?
Because a lot of people seem to find my exceptionalism wildly annoying, and they say stuff to me like, “Linda, you make me sick,” or “Linda, I could kill you for making all those good grades,” or “Linda, you’re such a smarty pants you make me sick. I could kill you.”
I don’t even own smarty pants. I own Diane Gilman, sexy jeans for grandma pants. They make me look exceptional. I can’t help it.
And, truthfully, I’m not sure I would help it, if I could help it because exceptional suits me fine.
It makes me a little bit sad on Tuesdays and Thursdays when I count up all the folks I’ve made sick because I’ve always made good grades in school, but then I decide to paint the barn and the sadness goes away.
Truthfully, I don’t mean to make people sick or want to kill me, I just like doing a good job. I don’t enjoy feeling panic stricken because I haven’t done my homework. Being prepared allows me to sleep. Studying steadies my nerves. Putting my heart into a project keeps life interesting. Working hard gives me a sense of satisfaction and esteem of self, which society is always harping about, by the way: build your self esteem, feel good about yourself, self esteem rocks, here’s a trophy for breathing.
But then you paint the barn all by yourself, and people who haven’t painted their barns are mad at you and want to kill you.
It’s very confusing.
My son-in-law once observed, “Well, after she gets done mowing the farm, she comes in and writes a book or something. She stays pretty busy.”
And there it is. Busy beats coma, every time. I like busy.
I have a granddaughter who likes busy too. It was hard for her to learn to read because it meant she had to sit still and not build a fort from palm fronds. But then she figured out that you could read books about making forts from palm fronds and duct tape. And now there’s no stopping her.
She draws, paints, weaves, knits, and duct tapes, or she’s reading about it. I feel bad for her. People are going to want to kill her—a lot.
Here’s my advice to her. Do you best, Babe. If you’re going to make a pillow out of duct tape, make the biggest, most yellow, most duck beak embellished duct tape pillow you can make, and then put it in the Osceola County Fair and then win a blue ribbon. And then do a dance in the sunshine of your exceptional accomplishment. Amen and amen.
My other granddaughter is a scientific memory machine. She won several blue ribbons. She is exceptional.
My grandson can hob knob with fifty year olds without pausing to take a breath. He came home with six medals from the fair. He is exceptional.
And the list goes on . . .
Let me be clear. Exceptional means out of the ordinary; it can even mean better than someone else. It doesn’t mean, “I’m better and you suck.” It means I am smart, capable, quick, and excited about life, and you can be too. Just get off that couch and patch up the holes in the Lazy-Boy with duct tape.
Linda (Look what I can do!) Zern
February 27, 2014
Allegedly
Some time ago, I watched an Elvis impersonator dude get arrested, interrogated, searched, accused, and observed with a jaundiced eye for possibly whipping up a batch of Ricin in his kitchen. It made me wonder. What would our neighbors say about us on cable TV if we were hauled off for cooking up crazy crap in a crock-pot?
Allegedly.
See something. Say something.
I’ve been trying to imagine what the neighbors are “seeing” at our place when they peek over our wire field fence, realizing if I said something every time I saw something at my neighbor’s house, I’d have the See-Something-Say-Something folks on speed dial.
I mean how weird does it have to be to qualify as something?
It’s not hard to imagine one of those breathless, throaty cable reporters stuffing a microphone in my next-door neighbor’s face and asking, “So, is it true that the Zern family had some unusual weekend rituals? Allegedly?”
“Rituals, no, but they seemed to be overly found of circling.”
Reporter nods and asks, “Satanic symbols? Hex signs? Crop circles?”
“No. Nothing like that, but when they sit outside in their crappy lawn chairs they always wind up in a circle. But it migrates.”
“What does?” The reporter will look perplexed but intrigued.
“The yard circle. In the summer they circle under that big maple tree, but in the winter they land on the septic tank.” At this point our neighbor gets tired of pointing and drops his hand.
“And did you see that as an indication that they were cooking up crazy crap in a crock-pot.”
Hesitating, my neighbor will scratch his head. “No. But those grandkids are constantly peeing on stuff.”
There it is. Public urination and yard circles. Our family would be good for at least one charge of felony mischief.
But that’s not as bad as what goes on at our next-door neighbor’s house. Allegedly.
Our neighbor’s eight-year old son informed my daughter that on Sundays his family likes to practice “knifing.”
She asked, “What’s knifing?”
“You know,” he said, “when you make a target and practice throwing knives at it.”
I’m a little embarrassed to admit that our family is way behind on its knifing practice. Don’t tell.
Linda (Don’t Look. Don’t Tell.) Zern
Allegedly.
See something. Say something.
I’ve been trying to imagine what the neighbors are “seeing” at our place when they peek over our wire field fence, realizing if I said something every time I saw something at my neighbor’s house, I’d have the See-Something-Say-Something folks on speed dial.
I mean how weird does it have to be to qualify as something?
It’s not hard to imagine one of those breathless, throaty cable reporters stuffing a microphone in my next-door neighbor’s face and asking, “So, is it true that the Zern family had some unusual weekend rituals? Allegedly?”
“Rituals, no, but they seemed to be overly found of circling.”
Reporter nods and asks, “Satanic symbols? Hex signs? Crop circles?”
“No. Nothing like that, but when they sit outside in their crappy lawn chairs they always wind up in a circle. But it migrates.”
“What does?” The reporter will look perplexed but intrigued.
“The yard circle. In the summer they circle under that big maple tree, but in the winter they land on the septic tank.” At this point our neighbor gets tired of pointing and drops his hand.
“And did you see that as an indication that they were cooking up crazy crap in a crock-pot.”
Hesitating, my neighbor will scratch his head. “No. But those grandkids are constantly peeing on stuff.”
There it is. Public urination and yard circles. Our family would be good for at least one charge of felony mischief.
But that’s not as bad as what goes on at our next-door neighbor’s house. Allegedly.
Our neighbor’s eight-year old son informed my daughter that on Sundays his family likes to practice “knifing.”
She asked, “What’s knifing?”
“You know,” he said, “when you make a target and practice throwing knives at it.”
I’m a little embarrassed to admit that our family is way behind on its knifing practice. Don’t tell.
Linda (Don’t Look. Don’t Tell.) Zern
February 22, 2014
Glitter Up Nuts
My husband Sherwood travels everywhere, all the time. It’s not as cool as it sounds. Mostly it means getting ‘felt up’ by airport officials on every continent.
Our overseas communication policy is to talk twice a day, every day by cell phone. This allows us to make sure that neither one of us has been kidnapped by near sighted sex slavers. It also allows us to handle family business long distance. Examples of family business include: I’m sad because raccoons got in the garbage again; where’s the barn broom; or why didn’t you buy rabbit food? That kind of stuff.
However, since Homeland Security has been under the gun . . . oops . . . no, no not gun . . . I mean G for glitter, U for up, and N for nuts . . . since they’ve been under the Glitter Up Nuts for collecting overseas and domestic calls and making notes, we’ve decided to come up with a code word system for our private telephone business.
Think Enigma Code for Dummies.
Please don’t spread it around. This is just between us: you and me and some pimply computer wonk at Homeland Security.
Here’s the breakdown.
When I say, “Come home and drill something!”
It’s code. It means, come home and trap the raccoons trying to turn our garbage cans into apartments for their furry little jerk selves.
If I claim, “The roosters are howling.”
It means that the Muslim neighbors have been firing off enough ammunition at tin can targets to make our dogs refuse to go outside to relieve themselves, and I’m worried they’ll explode from urine retention.
When I declare, “Ugh! The dolts are in the house.”
That’s political commentary meaning that there are actual dolts in the actual big house on the actual hill acting like loonies, or how the heck did Alan Grayson become our representative? Doesn’t he live in Orlando?
It’s a sign of the times. The words only mean what I mean them to mean; get what I mean? Or I’m thinking of buying a Glitter Up Nut.
We also have a code word should either one of us be kidnapped by near sighted sex slavers, but Sherwood is always forgetting what the code word is, which makes me testy when I quiz him. He can remember a thousand weird computer acronyms for when Uganda calls, but he can’t remember our sex slaver kidnapper code word. What’s up with that?
See why I need a Glitter Up Nut?
Linda (Enigma Elf) Zern
Our overseas communication policy is to talk twice a day, every day by cell phone. This allows us to make sure that neither one of us has been kidnapped by near sighted sex slavers. It also allows us to handle family business long distance. Examples of family business include: I’m sad because raccoons got in the garbage again; where’s the barn broom; or why didn’t you buy rabbit food? That kind of stuff.
However, since Homeland Security has been under the gun . . . oops . . . no, no not gun . . . I mean G for glitter, U for up, and N for nuts . . . since they’ve been under the Glitter Up Nuts for collecting overseas and domestic calls and making notes, we’ve decided to come up with a code word system for our private telephone business.
Think Enigma Code for Dummies.
Please don’t spread it around. This is just between us: you and me and some pimply computer wonk at Homeland Security.
Here’s the breakdown.
When I say, “Come home and drill something!”
It’s code. It means, come home and trap the raccoons trying to turn our garbage cans into apartments for their furry little jerk selves.
If I claim, “The roosters are howling.”
It means that the Muslim neighbors have been firing off enough ammunition at tin can targets to make our dogs refuse to go outside to relieve themselves, and I’m worried they’ll explode from urine retention.
When I declare, “Ugh! The dolts are in the house.”
That’s political commentary meaning that there are actual dolts in the actual big house on the actual hill acting like loonies, or how the heck did Alan Grayson become our representative? Doesn’t he live in Orlando?
It’s a sign of the times. The words only mean what I mean them to mean; get what I mean? Or I’m thinking of buying a Glitter Up Nut.
We also have a code word should either one of us be kidnapped by near sighted sex slavers, but Sherwood is always forgetting what the code word is, which makes me testy when I quiz him. He can remember a thousand weird computer acronyms for when Uganda calls, but he can’t remember our sex slaver kidnapper code word. What’s up with that?
See why I need a Glitter Up Nut?
Linda (Enigma Elf) Zern
February 20, 2014
Coach-of-All-Sports
“He needs to get his blade on the ice.”
Looking over at my husband, I tried to decide if he had one or two chocolate donuts in his mouth.
“Get your blade on the ice,” he yelled through chocolate glaze and donut dust.
I squinted over my glasses at the Olympic speed skaters gliding around and around in a frenzy of bad posture and arm swinging.
“Babe, you’ve never speed skated in your entire life.”
He ignored this fundamental reality.
“Dig, dig, dig!” he yelled. “He’s going to loose if he doesn’t dig.” He punctuated his coaching acumen by pushing a half empty bag of chocolate covered donuts back under the bedspread. It’s possible he thought they would cook better under there.
Later, as skiers flew down an icy mountainside he offered up this tip.
“She’s going to be way off the mark if she keeps coming out of her tuck that way.” He was snacking on Swiss Cake Rolls and Pepsi by this time.
I drew a line when he started to coach the curlers on the most advantageous amount of bend to have in their knees to properly push the big-frozen-boulder-thingy down the shuffleboard court made of ice.
“Stop. You do not know the first thing about speed skating, alpine skiing, or curling, which, I happen to know, you do not even consider a real sport.”
“What?” He look offended and a little hurt.
“You! You become the coach-of-all-sports when the Olympics come on.”
He pulled a bag of Doritos from underneath his pillow, shrugged, and said, “You and I ice skated that time in Ottawa, and the kid and I went skiing that time in West Virginia.”
“In West Virginia, where you pointed, hooted, and laughed your butt off on the ski lift when you saw some poor kid crash, burn, and roll down the mountain like a bag of spilled marbles,” I reminded him.
“So?”
“That kid was your kid, our kid. That’s it. That’s the sum total of your winter sports expertise.”
Music swelled as they played one of those montages where lithe, athletic young men and women raced, spun, and sailed across the screen into glory and history. I reached for my husband’s grease smeared hand as our National Anthem played.
“It is inspiring.” I blinked hard to hold back sentimental tears.
“You’re right,” Sherwood said, thoughtfully. “So, you know what, I’m thinking that from now on, when I eat Swiss cake rolls I’m only going to drink water.”
I patted his hand.
“Way to go, Coach.”
Looking over at my husband, I tried to decide if he had one or two chocolate donuts in his mouth.
“Get your blade on the ice,” he yelled through chocolate glaze and donut dust.
I squinted over my glasses at the Olympic speed skaters gliding around and around in a frenzy of bad posture and arm swinging.
“Babe, you’ve never speed skated in your entire life.”
He ignored this fundamental reality.
“Dig, dig, dig!” he yelled. “He’s going to loose if he doesn’t dig.” He punctuated his coaching acumen by pushing a half empty bag of chocolate covered donuts back under the bedspread. It’s possible he thought they would cook better under there.
Later, as skiers flew down an icy mountainside he offered up this tip.
“She’s going to be way off the mark if she keeps coming out of her tuck that way.” He was snacking on Swiss Cake Rolls and Pepsi by this time.
I drew a line when he started to coach the curlers on the most advantageous amount of bend to have in their knees to properly push the big-frozen-boulder-thingy down the shuffleboard court made of ice.
“Stop. You do not know the first thing about speed skating, alpine skiing, or curling, which, I happen to know, you do not even consider a real sport.”
“What?” He look offended and a little hurt.
“You! You become the coach-of-all-sports when the Olympics come on.”
He pulled a bag of Doritos from underneath his pillow, shrugged, and said, “You and I ice skated that time in Ottawa, and the kid and I went skiing that time in West Virginia.”
“In West Virginia, where you pointed, hooted, and laughed your butt off on the ski lift when you saw some poor kid crash, burn, and roll down the mountain like a bag of spilled marbles,” I reminded him.
“So?”
“That kid was your kid, our kid. That’s it. That’s the sum total of your winter sports expertise.”
Music swelled as they played one of those montages where lithe, athletic young men and women raced, spun, and sailed across the screen into glory and history. I reached for my husband’s grease smeared hand as our National Anthem played.
“It is inspiring.” I blinked hard to hold back sentimental tears.
“You’re right,” Sherwood said, thoughtfully. “So, you know what, I’m thinking that from now on, when I eat Swiss cake rolls I’m only going to drink water.”
I patted his hand.
“Way to go, Coach.”
February 16, 2014
Friction and Gravity
I have been in search of a writers’ group, full of people of like mind, similar writing goals, happy to talk plot, reluctant to talk mental illnesses (their own or mine), and willing to provide printed copies of their latest efforts so that I can follow along with my finger as they read their great American novels. My search has taken me to a college with ivy on the walls, master classes with the rich and famous, the Space Coast Writers’ Guild, and the Saint Cloud public library.
Everywhere I wind up, I learn a little something . . .
At my college, I learned that smoking the Mary Jane is more legal in some spots than in others. Early on, as I walked across campus with a school administrator, I caught an unmistakable whiff of the recreational . . . stuff. The school administrator seemed oblivious. I acted oblivious. I wondered if I should invest in an oxygen mask for strolls across campus, knowing that I would be tested for illegal drugs in order to become a volunteer member of the Osceola County mounted posse.
Apparently, riding a horse while stoned in the county of Osceola is frowned upon—not so much in Winter Park.
Master classes are just that, classes taught by masters in their art. The art, in this case, would be writing. What I’ve learned from the masters: good writers are not necessarily good talkers; a lot of writers talk trash about capitalism; a lot of writers never sell their books for less than list price; some masters are meek, self deprecating, and kind, but then they can afford to be. They’re stupid rich. Or as one of my teachers declared, “If you aren’t writing for money. You’re an idiot.”
I dig it.
Being a member of the Space Coast Writers’ Guild has given me the heads up. The space coast is a happening place for writers and their concerns: contests, book fairs, book signings, conferences, seminars, library spotlights . . . I’ve also realized that for every three new techniques I master to promote my books, there are seventy-two other high tech tricks waiting to be learned. The whole thing makes me want to be Emily Dickinson, wearing lovely gowns of lace and organza, alone in my isolated attic room, writing strange and convoluted poems about . . . whatever I want, whenever I want—for cash and prizes.
I’m an idiot.
And then there’s the writers’ group at the Saint Cloud library, headed up by a lovely man who declared his deep and fervent desire to break into the genre of mystery writing. Presently, he ghostwrites erotica, and it’s become something of a drag. Or as he declared, “Let’s face it, there are only so many ways you can ‘do it.’” Can’t argue with that.
I got to thinking about this lovely writer’s dilemma. Maybe, he could write space erotica. You know, people in space on their way to Mars, who have to figure out how to ‘do it’ in zero gravity. But then I remembered my lessons from high school biology.
“If it wasn’t for friction, there’d be no babies.”
And there it is—friction and gravity. The physical laws of the physical world—it’s just tough to argue with the law.
Riding a horse while stoned is stupid. Writing for money can pay the rent. Emily Dickenson is dead; it’s time to learn to tweet. Erotica may pay the rent, but mystery writing won’t run you up against the laws of friction and gravity. The sky’s the limit.
The search continues as I seek others of my kind. I learn a little here. I learn a little there. And it’s all good. And fun. And educational. And grist for the writing-mill that is my literary journey.
Linda (Grinding it Out) Zern
Everywhere I wind up, I learn a little something . . .
At my college, I learned that smoking the Mary Jane is more legal in some spots than in others. Early on, as I walked across campus with a school administrator, I caught an unmistakable whiff of the recreational . . . stuff. The school administrator seemed oblivious. I acted oblivious. I wondered if I should invest in an oxygen mask for strolls across campus, knowing that I would be tested for illegal drugs in order to become a volunteer member of the Osceola County mounted posse.
Apparently, riding a horse while stoned in the county of Osceola is frowned upon—not so much in Winter Park.
Master classes are just that, classes taught by masters in their art. The art, in this case, would be writing. What I’ve learned from the masters: good writers are not necessarily good talkers; a lot of writers talk trash about capitalism; a lot of writers never sell their books for less than list price; some masters are meek, self deprecating, and kind, but then they can afford to be. They’re stupid rich. Or as one of my teachers declared, “If you aren’t writing for money. You’re an idiot.”
I dig it.
Being a member of the Space Coast Writers’ Guild has given me the heads up. The space coast is a happening place for writers and their concerns: contests, book fairs, book signings, conferences, seminars, library spotlights . . . I’ve also realized that for every three new techniques I master to promote my books, there are seventy-two other high tech tricks waiting to be learned. The whole thing makes me want to be Emily Dickinson, wearing lovely gowns of lace and organza, alone in my isolated attic room, writing strange and convoluted poems about . . . whatever I want, whenever I want—for cash and prizes.
I’m an idiot.
And then there’s the writers’ group at the Saint Cloud library, headed up by a lovely man who declared his deep and fervent desire to break into the genre of mystery writing. Presently, he ghostwrites erotica, and it’s become something of a drag. Or as he declared, “Let’s face it, there are only so many ways you can ‘do it.’” Can’t argue with that.
I got to thinking about this lovely writer’s dilemma. Maybe, he could write space erotica. You know, people in space on their way to Mars, who have to figure out how to ‘do it’ in zero gravity. But then I remembered my lessons from high school biology.
“If it wasn’t for friction, there’d be no babies.”
And there it is—friction and gravity. The physical laws of the physical world—it’s just tough to argue with the law.
Riding a horse while stoned is stupid. Writing for money can pay the rent. Emily Dickenson is dead; it’s time to learn to tweet. Erotica may pay the rent, but mystery writing won’t run you up against the laws of friction and gravity. The sky’s the limit.
The search continues as I seek others of my kind. I learn a little here. I learn a little there. And it’s all good. And fun. And educational. And grist for the writing-mill that is my literary journey.
Linda (Grinding it Out) Zern
