Thursday, July 16, 2015


Occasionally, and under the advisement of my lawyer, I like to share with my readers a disclaimer of sorts, disavowing responsibility for anything I say, type, write, express, indicate, or declare. That’s right. This is my categorical denial. If you were confused or offended by anything I may have written, I’m sorry . . . that you felt that way.

When I was a girl I would have said, “I’m sorry. I was wrong. I wish I could take it back.”

But fashions change and evolve and get a little squishy around the edges.

Now, it’s acceptable to say, “Gee. I’m sorry that you misunderstood the words coming out of my brain. That’s rough . . . for you.”

I’m fifty plus years old, and I’ve seen a lot of changes and so I disclaim:

When I was a girl, female types were burning their bras, freeing their girl bits from the enslavement of elastic and masculine demands for perkier parts. Women literally set their brassieres on FIRE and celebrated droopy boobs. 

Now that I’m a grownup, women are building perkier boobs out of plastic, ripping hair out of their follicles with hot wax, and men are getting their own boobs. Perky and bald are IN. 

When I was a girl, getting married was considered the old-fashioned, repressive, uptight demand of a morally square society. Being cool and groovy meant NEVER getting married. Shacking up was the hip way. It was the way hip couples gave society the hippy finger. Out of wedlock was IN style.

Now that I’m a grownup EVERYONE wants to get married, order a cake, throw a reception, and get new sheets as gifts from other people. I remain skeptical. 

When I was a girl and the president lied he got fired.

Now that I’m a grownup . . . well . . . not so much.

When I was a girl, my grandparents considered collecting social security a moral, ethical, and societal failure. Being dependent on the government was a hideous reminder of The Great Depression and the bread lines that epitomized hitting bottom and it was OUT. 

Now that I’m a grownup, figuring out how to get to the front of the bread line is a full time job. Especially for that guy in line at Walmart who declared loudly, “The only work I want to do is walk to the end of my driveway and collect my check.”

Now I’m not saying that the changes I’ve seen are good or bad or gray or nothing. That would be offensive and judgmental. I’m just saying that I’ve seen fifty plus years of stuff, and I’ve read a book or two, and most of the social evolution I have witnessed over time is hilarious—except when it’s not. 

Lately, I’m waiting to be impressed by the tens of thousands of Americans who are going to be able to rise up and shout, “Hip. Hip. Hooray. I sure am happy. All my dreams have come true.” We’ll see.

When I was a girl, my mother used to tell me that I’d attract more flies with honey than with vinegar. Gross. Who wants flies? I sure didn’t.

I poured imaginary vinegar over myself in the form of a sharp tongue and a razor edged laugh and sarcasm, let’s not forget sarcasm. 

Want to catch flies? Go pour honey over yourself. Want to laugh at the world as it figures out if it wants its boobs droopy or pointy? Hang around. I’m your girl.

Linda (Quick Witness) Zern 

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