Griffin Henry (age 2) related his personal opinion of me. “YaYa mean!”
I sighed.
“Don’t fall in the fire pit, little boy, with the fluffly, white hair and polyester shirt.” That was it; that’s what I had said to earn my grandson’s disdain. For that I was called names.
I’m the YaYa. I’m the mean one. My husband (the Poppy) is the family celebrity. Of course, he’s the guy with endless supplies of Twix and Pepsi, the guy who lets the grandchildren run wild through our lives.
I walked into the office to find a phalanx of children taping away at an endless line of computers. They were playing something called “Animal Jam” or “AJ” in the vernacular. Poppy sat in the middle of the tapping frenzy, tossing chocolate kisses to grandchildren like a walrus trainer at Sea World. Shoulders had started hunch, spines to curve.
I shouted, “Okay, that’s it. Everybody outside. Get some vitamin D. Attempt to straighten your backbones. Go. Go.”
“Poo-poo, YaYa!” Griffin Henry said. Poo-poo. It’s the worst word he knows—so far.
Later, I discover the lot of them at the sand hill. They’d dug a giant hole, run a garden hose to it, and filled it to the brim with water. It was like a massive open strip mine. Kids blasted each other with water and mud. I estimated the cleanup would require two hours and a Shop Vac.
“Who said you could turn that water on?”
“Poppy!” they chorused.
“Poo-poo, Poppy,” I muttered to myself.
My husband is the celebrity. He never says no, agrees with every wild scheme, finances every whim, and bribes with goodies. He’s the president cutting the fool on Buzz Feed. Me? I’m the libertarian saying, “Sure. Sure. You refused to wear your shoes, stepped on stinging thistles that you were warned about, and now what are YOU going to do about that?”
“YaYa mean!”
Recently, our fourteen grandchildren came pouring into our house saying, “Hi. Where’s Poppy?”
Sighing, I pointed and said, “In the office. Throw away your candy wrappers.” They stampeded.
I went to find the Shop Vac.
Linda (Mean as a Snake) Zern
Monday, February 16, 2015
Wednesday, February 11, 2015
Golf Course Christian
Last year, I was the Sunbeam teacher at my church. The Sunbeams are one of the classes in a kind of Sunday school deal that Mormons call Primary. Sunbeams are three-year olds. Sunbeams are barely civilized, highly entertaining, wildly affectionate, sweetly eager children who start out not being able to tell you their own names. By the end of that first year in Primary, they can stand and say a prayer by themselves. They pray for adorable things.
“Please bless my brother not to bite me anymore.”
“Please help me get a dog.”
“We’re thankful for Sissa [Sister] Zern and snacks.”
That’s me, Sissa Zern. I brought the snacks.
One of my students was an adorable young man who struggled a bit. He said not a single word that I could understand. Sitting in a chair seemed a waste of his time. Being under the table was more interesting than coloring the picture on top of the table and so on . . .
Stickers! He enjoyed stickers.
Like so many in his age range, however, by the end of our time together, he could stand and say a simple prayer and sing a little song and tell me what he was thankful for. We had a really good year, even a miracle or two.
Like most Primary teachers, I tried to prepare my little Sunbeams for a new year, a new class, and a new teacher. “Now, I won’t be your teacher next time you come to church,” I said.
They ate their goldfish, nodded their heads, and had no clue.
It’s always a bit traumatic. And on the first day of the new Primary year, I saw my little guy, sitting with his new class and his new teacher. He seemed shocked that I wouldn’t be sitting next to him. He reached out his hand to me and said three words.
“I. Need. You.”
And there it was, the reason I can’t be a golf course Christian. There just aren’t any sweet, little four-year-olds on the back nine, holding their hands out to me, inviting me to put my religion where my beliefs are.
Besides, I don’t golf.
Sister Linda (I’m Right Here) Zern
“Please bless my brother not to bite me anymore.”
“Please help me get a dog.”
“We’re thankful for Sissa [Sister] Zern and snacks.”
That’s me, Sissa Zern. I brought the snacks.
One of my students was an adorable young man who struggled a bit. He said not a single word that I could understand. Sitting in a chair seemed a waste of his time. Being under the table was more interesting than coloring the picture on top of the table and so on . . .
Stickers! He enjoyed stickers.
Like so many in his age range, however, by the end of our time together, he could stand and say a simple prayer and sing a little song and tell me what he was thankful for. We had a really good year, even a miracle or two.
Like most Primary teachers, I tried to prepare my little Sunbeams for a new year, a new class, and a new teacher. “Now, I won’t be your teacher next time you come to church,” I said.
They ate their goldfish, nodded their heads, and had no clue.
It’s always a bit traumatic. And on the first day of the new Primary year, I saw my little guy, sitting with his new class and his new teacher. He seemed shocked that I wouldn’t be sitting next to him. He reached out his hand to me and said three words.
“I. Need. You.”
And there it was, the reason I can’t be a golf course Christian. There just aren’t any sweet, little four-year-olds on the back nine, holding their hands out to me, inviting me to put my religion where my beliefs are.
Besides, I don’t golf.
Sister Linda (I’m Right Here) Zern
Sunday, February 8, 2015
SUNSHINE STATE GRIFTER
My husband is a would-be grifter. A grifter is a con artist who enjoys “shady dealings,” sometimes offering to pave your driveway with his “leftover” load of asphalt at a deep, deep discount. It’s not asphalt, Folks. It’s salt dough made of flour, salt, and water.
My husband isn’t the fake asphalt selling kind of con artist. He’s the ‘let’s get free stuff from the timeshare people’ type of con man. Unfortunately, he sometimes likes to drag me into his pit of shady dealings.
There was this once . . . well, it all began with a phone call from a Timeshare salesperson.
“How about a romantic weekend?” Sherwood called out over his shoulder, while pausing in his over-the-phone dickering.
“A romantic weekend? With whom?”
“Me,” he said.
“How far do I have to go?”
More phone dickering ensued.
“Right down the road at the Hilton Resort and Day Spa, right here in Orlando.”
“No planes? Some romance but not too much? Reading by the pool? What’s the catch?”
“No catch. It’s free.”
“Hmmmmmmm! Sounds like a hookup, and you know how I feel about hookups. I believe that you should pay all the cash money, so that you can use all your vocal cords when you complain.”
“Sign us up,” he said. The dickering ended and the hookup began.
In the truck on the way to “the romantic weekend” he let me know that 1) the grandchildren would be joining us, and 2) the grandchildren would be staying the night along with their parents bringing the total number of people in our room to about three hundred, and 3) I had to attend an hour and a half timeshare presentation—at 8:00am the next morning—the hookup.
“I am not attending a timeshare sales pitch. I hate those things. I won’t do it.”
“You have to, or they’ll kick us out, and besides, I kind of fudged to get us a free weekend. Usually, they won’t let you stay in their resort if you live locally, but the nice man on the phone . . .”
“You mean the other disgusting con artist?”
“The nice man said that I could use my Marietta, Georgia business address, and that there will be a free breakfast and gift cards.
“What are we homeless? Is this our new strategy to feed the family?”
I went to the pitch. I was wearing a bathing suit, reading a book, and sporting a bad attitude. I continued to read my book through the entire video presentation that promised Nirvana and gift cards should we purchase a Hilton timeshare.
The high-pressure sales lady looked at my husband, the crook, and said, “Your wife doesn’t seem to be too interested.”
“Hee, ha, hee, well, she’s here under protest. Hee, hee, hee,” he said as sweat dripped from his criminal brow.
“We’re not buying a timeshare,” I explained. “We live down the road. We’re here to eat your breakfast, sleep in your beds, use your toilets, swim in your pool, and collect our reward; besides my husband gets endless, free Marriot points from five star resorts. Can you beat free?”
“Mind if I call in my manager?” she said.
“Please. Call two,” I said, stuffing a bookmark into my book. “We’ll wait.”
The manager was very nice but determined to get to the bottom of our “situation.”
“Your phone salesman. The guy who contacted us suggested the work address scam. The guy who works for you. You know, the guy you hired to call us.”
“Shady, very shady,” the manager said.
“Excellent choice of words,” I said, glaring at my shady husband. As we left the presentation—early—my husband, the charlatan, turned, paused, and said to the nice manager, “I hate to be tacky but I understood there were gift cards involved.”
In disgust, I left the further dickering to change my identity and forge a passport. Later, at the pool, as I watched the grandchildren frolic, I turned to my husband, Mack the Knife, and said, “Seems like a lot of trouble to swim in someone else’s swimming pool.”
“But fun.”
That’s how it starts—a life of crime and shady dealings.
Linda (Law and Order) Zern
My husband isn’t the fake asphalt selling kind of con artist. He’s the ‘let’s get free stuff from the timeshare people’ type of con man. Unfortunately, he sometimes likes to drag me into his pit of shady dealings.
There was this once . . . well, it all began with a phone call from a Timeshare salesperson.
“How about a romantic weekend?” Sherwood called out over his shoulder, while pausing in his over-the-phone dickering.
“A romantic weekend? With whom?”
“Me,” he said.
“How far do I have to go?”
More phone dickering ensued.
“Right down the road at the Hilton Resort and Day Spa, right here in Orlando.”
“No planes? Some romance but not too much? Reading by the pool? What’s the catch?”
“No catch. It’s free.”
“Hmmmmmmm! Sounds like a hookup, and you know how I feel about hookups. I believe that you should pay all the cash money, so that you can use all your vocal cords when you complain.”
“Sign us up,” he said. The dickering ended and the hookup began.
In the truck on the way to “the romantic weekend” he let me know that 1) the grandchildren would be joining us, and 2) the grandchildren would be staying the night along with their parents bringing the total number of people in our room to about three hundred, and 3) I had to attend an hour and a half timeshare presentation—at 8:00am the next morning—the hookup.
“I am not attending a timeshare sales pitch. I hate those things. I won’t do it.”
“You have to, or they’ll kick us out, and besides, I kind of fudged to get us a free weekend. Usually, they won’t let you stay in their resort if you live locally, but the nice man on the phone . . .”
“You mean the other disgusting con artist?”
“The nice man said that I could use my Marietta, Georgia business address, and that there will be a free breakfast and gift cards.
“What are we homeless? Is this our new strategy to feed the family?”
I went to the pitch. I was wearing a bathing suit, reading a book, and sporting a bad attitude. I continued to read my book through the entire video presentation that promised Nirvana and gift cards should we purchase a Hilton timeshare.
The high-pressure sales lady looked at my husband, the crook, and said, “Your wife doesn’t seem to be too interested.”
“Hee, ha, hee, well, she’s here under protest. Hee, hee, hee,” he said as sweat dripped from his criminal brow.
“We’re not buying a timeshare,” I explained. “We live down the road. We’re here to eat your breakfast, sleep in your beds, use your toilets, swim in your pool, and collect our reward; besides my husband gets endless, free Marriot points from five star resorts. Can you beat free?”
“Mind if I call in my manager?” she said.
“Please. Call two,” I said, stuffing a bookmark into my book. “We’ll wait.”
The manager was very nice but determined to get to the bottom of our “situation.”
“Your phone salesman. The guy who contacted us suggested the work address scam. The guy who works for you. You know, the guy you hired to call us.”
“Shady, very shady,” the manager said.
“Excellent choice of words,” I said, glaring at my shady husband. As we left the presentation—early—my husband, the charlatan, turned, paused, and said to the nice manager, “I hate to be tacky but I understood there were gift cards involved.”
In disgust, I left the further dickering to change my identity and forge a passport. Later, at the pool, as I watched the grandchildren frolic, I turned to my husband, Mack the Knife, and said, “Seems like a lot of trouble to swim in someone else’s swimming pool.”
“But fun.”
That’s how it starts—a life of crime and shady dealings.
Linda (Law and Order) Zern
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