She Speaks With Calloused Tongue

Crazy things you hear, think, say, and wish you could say while having a tongue growth removed. The official diagnosis was tongue callous.

Minimal nitrous oxide exposure –

“How are you feeling?” the nurse asked.

“Like I’m about to have someone hack a chunk out of my tongue.”

Medium nitrous oxide exposure –

“How are you feeling?” the dentist asked.

“I feel like I’m being held captive by cannibals with a tongue hankering.”

“Oh, you and your imagination.”

Heavy nitrous oxide exposure that should have made me feel relaxed, detached, and unconcerned –

Because my tongue was now in a vice of some sort I was unable to explain that the nitrous oxide (lauded for its kicking good drug fun) was making me feel like there was a fat leprechaun eating a sandwich on my chest and that I wasn’t detached enough not to care that I was 1) having a needle bounced into my jaw 2) smelling my own tongue burning 3) having a chunk chopped out, and 4) getting tongue stitches which I didn’t even know were possible.

Note:  I’ve never wanted to be able to speak sign language so badly in my life; I would have spelled out W.T.F.

When the nurse told me that I was “doing great,” I had several things I might have said if I could have. They include:

“Thanks, I’ve been practicing by putting my tongue in my desk drawer and slamming it shut.”

“I owe it all to clean living and hypnotism.”

“It’s because of the Leprechaun on my chest.”

Post nitrous oxide – My first declarative sentence following surgery!

“Next time I want the good pills and a driver!!” And then I cried. And that’s how I got free nitrous oxide, which has no apparent effect on me except to make me the opposite of all the things it’s supposed to make me.

Linda (Old Callous Tongue) Zern

Walking a Mile in an Old Lady's Shoes

Being old is about shoes.

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 ex-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 (Peep-Toe) Zern

   

Tribal Tell All - The Disclaimer

Every once upon a time, I feel it’s important to clarify my position on a couple of crucial issues lest the reading public jump to, if not leap, to the wrong conclusions.

A lot of what I write is fiction, except when it’s not.  It’s also for the promoting of light heartedness and high jinks, concepts that have sadly gone out of fashion in some naval gazing circles. So here’s how it works . . .  

It was the spring of ’98, and we had just sold our first herd of chinchillas . . . ugh! See? There I go again. It’s like a compulsion.

Okay, here goes. Maren, our youngest daughter, who was reading one of my latest Internet postings, remarked, “But I wasn’t even there.”

I said, “I know. And you never said what I said you said either.”

She wailed, possibly flailed.

“But people will think things.”

“No they won’t. People get it. This stuff is just for fun, mostly. You know, like playing Trivial Pursuit until your brain bleeds,” I said, trying to look confident, literate, and all knowing. You know, like a mom. “And besides, people don’t think things unless they absolutely have to. I know I don’t.”

“But, Mom!”

“Here’s your dollar.”  I find that objections to media exposure can be lessened wildly by the re-distribution of my dollars to the other actors in this little play of mine.

Here’s the playbook:

The Husband (played by Sherwood K. Zern) – A bad boy who became a good guy and is on his way to becoming a great man with a nickname that bears closer examination. The nickname? Spokes Zern.

Oldest Child (played by Aric) – A great guy to have on your side if you’re in a firefight or if you need to speak fluent Portuguese, a man for all seasons and adventures and challenges, who as a child brought out the drill instructor in me, soon to be a first time father. 

Oldest Daughter (played by Heather) – Who makes being the mother of five look stylish and fashionable, whose children will one day rise up and call her blessed, if she doesn’t sell them to the gypsies first.

Youngest Daughter (played by Maren) - A woman who believes in her family, her country, her political party and in her power to make a difference and in the ability of a great stiletto to establish dominance.

Youngest Son (played by Adam) -  A born leader of men, women, and group projects. Who always required the best from himself and others, except for his daughter, Sadie, whom he indulged to the point of embarrassment when she was a baby. He was sorry when she turned two because she climbed onto and rode a very high horse.

The Tribe (played by Zoe Baye, Conner Phillip, Kipling Sherwood, Zachary Jon,  Griffin Henry, Reagan Baye-Love, Hero Everdeen, Leidy Hazel,  Sadie JoLee, Emma Sarah, Ever Jane, Scout Harper, and their co-stars Lauren, Sarah, TJ, and Phillip.)  

Stay tuned for coming attractions of all shapes, sorts, sizes and political persuasions—mostly anarchists.  

Now you know—sort of.

Linda (Queen and Tribal Drill Instructor) Zern

Cannibal Town, USA

I blame Disney and that “Bambi” movie for convincing an entire generation of folks that animals are born knowing how to sing and dance and are okay with wearing Santa hats.

They aren’t and they’re not.

I mean has anybody watched the Discovery channel lately?

Lions eat lions. Lions eat hyenas. Killer whales eat more politically correct whale babies, or bits of them. Hyenas eat lions, and if hyenas could swim they’d eat whales. And then they’d eat the Santa hats.

Daddy lions do not hold baby lions up to the sky while all the savannah animals sing, worshipfully. Savannah wildebeests kick baby lions in the head when the mommy lions are trying to disembowel the wildebeests.

I also blame air conditioning. It’s separated human types from actual air and the real animals that live out in the actual air of the savannah.

Recently a visitor to our farm, no doubt raised on Disney and weaned on Captain Planet, was taking pictures of the throbbing world of nature that surrounds us out here—trying to eat us. My husband, Sherwood, always helpful with the suggestion making, suggested the photographer come back on a day when the American bald eagles were in town doing their raptor thing.

“You should be here and take pictures when the eagles carry off our neighbor’s ducks.” He pointed. “They swoop out of those pine trees over there and snatch the ducks right off the top of the pond. It’s wild kingdom. Now those would be some action shots.”

The photographer’s face registered horror and shock.

Plowing ahead like a bald eagle looking for duck soup, he continued, “Around here, when somebody yells, ‘Bald eagles! Incoming!’ we all run out to the porch to watch. It’s better than TV, no commercials.”

The photographer turned to my husband like he was holding an axe and wearing a black hood with eye slits and said, “But isn’t that cannibalism?”

Nope! It’s life and death and Animal Planet. It’s only cannibalism if the ducks are wearing Santa hats.

I blame Disney and air conditioning.

The invitation is open. Come on out to the country sometime, and we’ll watch the bald eagles fist fight the vultures in my front yard over raccoon corpses, and then I’ll show you where the bobcats and coyotes rumble over territory and baby goat nuggets. Then we’ll have lunch at The Catfish Place where we can eat alligator and soft-shelled turtle.

Ignore my daughter when she sees turtle on the menu and moans, “But turtles are so slow.”

Linda (Eat or Be Eaten) Zern

  

  

    

Warning: Short Story of Make Believe (Flash Fiction)

Fixture

“Remember one man’s trash is another man’s treasure,” Daddy said when they got to the garage sale and handed her a one dollar bill. It’s what he always said.

Mia hated the way the wrinkled dollar smelled, but she loved the way it made her feel and what it meant—time with Daddy.

“Daddy, doesn’t it make you think of the beach?” Mia pointed at the sheets, stretching over the lawn and covered with candy dishes and yellowed Tupperware. The breeze tickled at the frayed edges of the sheets and tangled her ponytail.

His crooked smile made her think of a question mark.

She tried again.

“You know the beach . . . that raggedy line of seaweed after the water goes out?  That’s all mixed up with broken shells but if you walk slow and look hard you can find a whole sand dollar that’s not all broken to bits—sometimes.  It’s like that to me here.”

He patted her head. "Like finding a great deal."

Daddy held her hand as they wandered through card tables piled with blouses and winter sweaters.  He always wore his work coveralls streaked with grease on the pockets when they went treasure hunting together; his name stitched in blue and black on his chest. 

“Like sea treasures,” she said.

“You’re a funny girl, Mia.” That's what he always said.

She felt itchy when grownups said that stuff to her, not sure if it was a good thing to be a funny girl who saw seaweed in the flutter of sheets on the grass at a yard sale.

He left her in front of a table with books and puzzles and games. Sometimes he looked at her like she was a sand dollar hidden under a pile of torn chip bags and barnacles.  She thought he looked tired and rumpled like the money.

He left to look for sensible treasures like torque wrenches and channel-lock pliers. She picked up a book and was disappointed to see that she’d read it and was rejecting the puzzles as too easy when the glitter of sun on glass caught her eye. Maybe it was glass or crystal or even diamonds?

Piled next to her were jars, dishes, mismatched pots and pans, and somewhere in all that jumble the tantalizing sparkle of magic. She felt it. Mia walked to the edge of a paisley blanket and saw it—a glowing face of crystal arching away into an elegant curve. A crystal ball. It was a crystal ball, a real one, half hidden and tipped on its edge against a chipped bowl.  She froze when the sun hit the crystal ball and splintered into a hundred shards of glittering fire.

The sign read, Everything One Dollar.

Mia could hardly breathe. She looked at her daddy and flipped a hand at him, not wanting to give it away, but tempted to yell at him to hurry. Hurry, hurry before someone else discovered her crystal ball and scooped it up. She waved harder and then went to get him.

“Daddy,” she said, tugging at his shirtsleeve. “Daddy, do you see it?” She didn’t want to take the chance and point, so she dipped her head towards the blanket, whispering, “Daddy, there. Look! Next to that broken bowl. Can you believe it? And it’s only a dollar. It’s magic for only one dollar.”

“Mia, what do you want me to see?” He squinted.

Dragging him to the edge of the blanket, she said, “There daddy.” She bent down, desperate enough now to pick the crystal ball up, to hold it in front of her like a chalice.  He looked at it and then looked at her, puzzled. 

“What do you think this is?” He pulled the magical globe out of her hands.

“Shhh, daddy, they’ll hear you.” How could he not know?  “Daddy," she whispered. "It’s a crystal ball! Look . . . just look!”

“But honey,” he said, turning the ball of glass in his chapped hands.  He shook it.  Tipping it over, he watched as a shower of dried up mosquitoes and flies fell out of its hollow center. “We have one just like it in the bathroom.”

He held up her crystal ball to the sun. It became a dusty glass covering for a bathroom light fixture.

“Oh,” she said, softer than a breath. “But I thought . . .”

She covered her mouth with her hand to hide the way she needed to bite her lip—hard. Her hand smelled like the money—sweaty skin and fingernail dirt.

He tossed the light fixture back into the heap and patted her on the head.

“Next time, funny Mia. Next time you’ll find treasure.”