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Words are our friends. Numbers are stupid, unless we use numbers to count words, then numbers are pretty okay. The following is a discussion of one of my favorite words: Monger. Not used enough, completely overlooked in the popular vernacular, I’m bringing monger back.
MONGER:
1. a person who is involved with something in a petty or contemptible way (usually used in combination): a gossipmonger.
2. Chiefly British. a dealer in or trader of a commodity (usually used in combination):
fishmonger. verb (used with object)
3. to sell; hawk.
Let’s face it; there is a lot of mongering already going on in the world today. My grandchildren are the biggest mongers I’ve ever met. They’re whine-mongers. Not wine. Whine. They can whine strong men under the table and educated women into hysterics. I’ve seen it.
They’re like union members chanting endlessly around the capitol rotunda. The basic message being: Give us what we want or we will whine until you cry blood.
When I was a young mother I put a stop to the whine-mongering by being . . . well . . . er . . . umm . . . a MOTHER.
We weren’t rich. My husband worked full time and went to college part time (sometimes full time) while I raised and educated our four children. All year we would save up our pennies (literally pennies) to go to Disney World. We went once a year. Period. It was a very big deal.
Traditionally and before we entered the magic kingdom for our yearly excursion, I would deliver my anti-whine speech. “We are going to Disney,” I said, pacing in front of the assembled thumb suckers, while slapping the side of my leg with a riding crop. “We will be there all day. We will eat at lunchtime. There will be one scheduled snack time. We will not be purchasing an endless amount of anything, up to and including: soda, frozen bananas, balloons shaped like a mouse, things that glow, or pointless stuffed stuff. When you get thirsty, drink water out of a water fountain or swallow your spit. There will be no crying, arguing, fussing, complaining, or whining. I hear one person whining, whimpering, or moaning and I will abort the whole, darn mission. Clear?”
They would all nod, knowing I was something of a discipline-monger and an I’m-not-kidding-monger.
And it worked; a little too well it turned out.
One year we trudged, marched, skipped, hopped, and dragged our way all day—up, down, over, and around the most magical of magic kingdoms. As the day progressed Maren (probably four-ish) sucked harder and harder on her favorite sucking knuckle, but on and on she walked, no complaints, not one. Turned out when I took off her teeny-tiny little pink shoe before bedtime that night, she had a hole in her foot, because she’d picked up a tack in the sole of her teeny-tiny little pink shoe.
I still feel bad about it! I mean what kind of place leaves tacks all over the place for little kids to step on and drag around all day. Which brings us to lawsuit-mongers.
Anyway.
Monger. It’s a great word. We should use it more.
Linda (Double Time) Zern
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Saturday, February 28, 2015
MONGER
Tuesday, February 24, 2015
KILLER CASSEROLE
When our daughter-in-law, Sarah, was dating our youngest son, Adam, she worried. Strangely, she felt that his grazing like a wildebeest on Doritos and cheese dip was insufficient to maintain bones that did not bend. I understood her concern.
Adam was a famously picky eater. I remember raising him on pizza and multi-vitamins and his spine only got a little crooked.
Anyway, Sarah worried, so she made Adam start taking vitamins. He did, on an empty stomach, which made him throw up in my pristine, brand new truck, which he was driving because his girlfriend’s mother had run into his car (which was really our car) and crushed in the door, trying not to run over Sarah’s dog Dodger, so it was in the shop—the car not the dog.
So, Dodger the Dog made Adam throw up in my brand new truck.
Adam cleaned the truck out, neglecting to tell me about the vitamin vomit incident. A terrible, lingering smell ratted him out—also the family. That was the Monday the temperature topped out at 98 degrees Fahrenheit.
Tuesday, the high was 103 degrees and the faint smell of upchuck and Lysol swirled around my head like the Gulf Stream as I drove my lovely new truck to Dairy Queen.
Adam the Up-chucker! I insisted that he scrub the carpet again.
On Wednesday, the sickly sick smell got weirdly stronger as the heat threatened to suck the air out of my lungs. I accused Adam of being a poor carpet scrubber and a bad son.
By Thursday, the smell had magnified itself into the size and shape of a small malignant mushroom cloud of stink. I called a car detailer and made an appointment, letting Adam know that he would owe me for stinking up my new truck for all time and all eternity. The state of Florida set a high temp record on Thursday.
On our way to our granddaughter’s swim class Friday afternoon, my husband and I drove the truck to Saint Cloud community pool. The heat was stifling, and the smell inside the truck had started to resemble a poorly maintained landfill—gone really bad. The five-minute ride gave me a headache. I cursed Adam’s crooked spine.
Jumping from the dump on wheels, I yelled, “What did that kid throw up—his internal organs, infected with Ebola?”
My husband shook his head. “The smell is getting stronger and stronger. He cleaned up a smell that is growing? How is that possible?”
People frowned and pinched their noses as they walked by.
“People can smell us coming.”
“And going,” I sniped. “Poor truck. I’m going to kill Adam.”
He stuck his head back into the stench of the cab.
“Babe, don’t do it. Save yourself.”
I walked ten feet away for a fresh breath of air, next to the dumpster in the parking lot. “Let’s abandon the dump-mobile right here.”
“Before we do that,” he said, as he pulled something from under the passenger seat of the truck, “maybe we should get rid of this.” He turned slowly—a noxious, oozing explosion of festering germs in a casserole dish in his hands. “It’s a dish with your left over casserole from dinner at the Chevrier’s, from a week ago, under the seat, all week, in the heat, all seven days long.”
“Wow. That’s a casserole bomb,” I said.
Flies began to circle, a vulture drifted high overhead. I took the mess from Sherwood, walked slowly to the dumpster, and tossed it.
“What do we tell Adam?”
“Nothing, absolutely nothing. We take this to our grave,” I paused, considering. “We never tell Adam we’ve been blaming him for the slowly festering dish of casserole bits under the front seat. Never. Ever.”
And we did take it to our graves—sort of.
Linda (New Car Smell) Zern
Adam was a famously picky eater. I remember raising him on pizza and multi-vitamins and his spine only got a little crooked.
Anyway, Sarah worried, so she made Adam start taking vitamins. He did, on an empty stomach, which made him throw up in my pristine, brand new truck, which he was driving because his girlfriend’s mother had run into his car (which was really our car) and crushed in the door, trying not to run over Sarah’s dog Dodger, so it was in the shop—the car not the dog.
So, Dodger the Dog made Adam throw up in my brand new truck.
Adam cleaned the truck out, neglecting to tell me about the vitamin vomit incident. A terrible, lingering smell ratted him out—also the family. That was the Monday the temperature topped out at 98 degrees Fahrenheit.
Tuesday, the high was 103 degrees and the faint smell of upchuck and Lysol swirled around my head like the Gulf Stream as I drove my lovely new truck to Dairy Queen.
Adam the Up-chucker! I insisted that he scrub the carpet again.
On Wednesday, the sickly sick smell got weirdly stronger as the heat threatened to suck the air out of my lungs. I accused Adam of being a poor carpet scrubber and a bad son.
By Thursday, the smell had magnified itself into the size and shape of a small malignant mushroom cloud of stink. I called a car detailer and made an appointment, letting Adam know that he would owe me for stinking up my new truck for all time and all eternity. The state of Florida set a high temp record on Thursday.
On our way to our granddaughter’s swim class Friday afternoon, my husband and I drove the truck to Saint Cloud community pool. The heat was stifling, and the smell inside the truck had started to resemble a poorly maintained landfill—gone really bad. The five-minute ride gave me a headache. I cursed Adam’s crooked spine.
Jumping from the dump on wheels, I yelled, “What did that kid throw up—his internal organs, infected with Ebola?”
My husband shook his head. “The smell is getting stronger and stronger. He cleaned up a smell that is growing? How is that possible?”
People frowned and pinched their noses as they walked by.
“People can smell us coming.”
“And going,” I sniped. “Poor truck. I’m going to kill Adam.”
He stuck his head back into the stench of the cab.
“Babe, don’t do it. Save yourself.”
I walked ten feet away for a fresh breath of air, next to the dumpster in the parking lot. “Let’s abandon the dump-mobile right here.”
“Before we do that,” he said, as he pulled something from under the passenger seat of the truck, “maybe we should get rid of this.” He turned slowly—a noxious, oozing explosion of festering germs in a casserole dish in his hands. “It’s a dish with your left over casserole from dinner at the Chevrier’s, from a week ago, under the seat, all week, in the heat, all seven days long.”
“Wow. That’s a casserole bomb,” I said.
Flies began to circle, a vulture drifted high overhead. I took the mess from Sherwood, walked slowly to the dumpster, and tossed it.
“What do we tell Adam?”
“Nothing, absolutely nothing. We take this to our grave,” I paused, considering. “We never tell Adam we’ve been blaming him for the slowly festering dish of casserole bits under the front seat. Never. Ever.”
And we did take it to our graves—sort of.
Linda (New Car Smell) Zern
Tuesday, February 17, 2015
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