Monday, December 14, 2015
Wednesday, December 9, 2015
CURRENT EVENTS: ALLEGEDLY
Some time ago, I was watching an Elvis impersonator get arrested, interrogated, searched, accused, and observed 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
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
Thursday, December 3, 2015
INVESTED
In our church we believe we have a duty to look after each other. Once a month, we try to visit or call each other, by assignment, to make sure everyone is okay, find out if anyone is in need, or try to get free baby-sitting . . . oops . . . umm . . . I’m just kidding. I don’t have little kids. I don’t need free babysitting; I need someone to feed my horses and rub lotion in Charlie’s ears. But I digress.
Anyway, it’s called visiting teaching. I have two sisters (yes, we call each other brother and sister for deeply meaningful reasons having to do with being spiritually related in that big family in the sky sense—but I digress) that I “visit teach.”
One of my dear sisters has hit a rough patch that has put her in a rehabilitation center following some health issues.
Off I went to check on her.
She’s in room 600 plus. I stood at the first rehab center I cleverly thought of visiting, checking the room numbers. They went up to 200 plus. I stood puzzling and puzzling until my puzzler was sore. The lovely, gentle woman, who runs the joint, recognized a stumped puzzler when she saw one.
“Are you lost?” she said.
“You don’t have six hundred rooms here do you?”
With a knowing twinkle she gave me the number to the other rehabilitation center in town. I called. Ahhhh . . . they had a room with 600 plus on it and my friend.
Laughing, waving, and blowing kisses, I sped off to the next rehabilitation center.
And found . . . my friend.
We chatted. We read scriptures. We laughed over this and that. We caught up. We discussed her possible release date.
I met my friend’s lovely roommate.
We had visited for an hour when my friend’s roommate, a lovely woman recovering from a little of this and a little of that, pointed at my tie-dyed motorcycle vest.
“Sweetheart,” she began, gently. “You have your vest on inside out. Your buttons are on the inside and the tag is out.”
I looked down and realized that I had—for about two hours—been wearing my vest inside out to two different establishments where people are tutored in the fine art of dressing themselves properly and re-learning to walk.
“Right you are,” I said. “You know something.” I pulled my vest off so I could re-dress myself in the manner of a two-year old. “Every time I get to thinking I’m hot stuff my shoe falls in the toilet.” True story.
Everyone in the room nodded their head at my obvious grasp of my own dopiness and understanding of humiliation.
Laughing, waving, and blowing kisses, I made my exit.
On the way out, I’m pretty sure I heard an occupational therapist say, “She’ll be back.”
Linda (Buttoned Down) Zern
Anyway, it’s called visiting teaching. I have two sisters (yes, we call each other brother and sister for deeply meaningful reasons having to do with being spiritually related in that big family in the sky sense—but I digress) that I “visit teach.”
One of my dear sisters has hit a rough patch that has put her in a rehabilitation center following some health issues.
Off I went to check on her.
She’s in room 600 plus. I stood at the first rehab center I cleverly thought of visiting, checking the room numbers. They went up to 200 plus. I stood puzzling and puzzling until my puzzler was sore. The lovely, gentle woman, who runs the joint, recognized a stumped puzzler when she saw one.
“Are you lost?” she said.
“You don’t have six hundred rooms here do you?”
With a knowing twinkle she gave me the number to the other rehabilitation center in town. I called. Ahhhh . . . they had a room with 600 plus on it and my friend.
Laughing, waving, and blowing kisses, I sped off to the next rehabilitation center.
And found . . . my friend.
We chatted. We read scriptures. We laughed over this and that. We caught up. We discussed her possible release date.
I met my friend’s lovely roommate.
We had visited for an hour when my friend’s roommate, a lovely woman recovering from a little of this and a little of that, pointed at my tie-dyed motorcycle vest.
“Sweetheart,” she began, gently. “You have your vest on inside out. Your buttons are on the inside and the tag is out.”
I looked down and realized that I had—for about two hours—been wearing my vest inside out to two different establishments where people are tutored in the fine art of dressing themselves properly and re-learning to walk.
“Right you are,” I said. “You know something.” I pulled my vest off so I could re-dress myself in the manner of a two-year old. “Every time I get to thinking I’m hot stuff my shoe falls in the toilet.” True story.
Everyone in the room nodded their head at my obvious grasp of my own dopiness and understanding of humiliation.
Laughing, waving, and blowing kisses, I made my exit.
On the way out, I’m pretty sure I heard an occupational therapist say, “She’ll be back.”
Linda (Buttoned Down) Zern
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