The Case of the Missing Conversation

“Okay, let’s go.” My husband of thirty-plus years jangled car keys at me.

Surely the shock on my face could be seen from space.

“What are you talking about? Go where?”

My husband made that face he makes when he thinks that I’m being obtuse or uppity or stubborn. He makes that face a lot.

“Sherwood, I’m in my bathrobe. I have absolutely no idea what you are talking about or where you think that we are going,” I yipped.

I was, in fact, standing in my bathrobe—a fluffy yellow affair that I tied with a worn out purple poke-a-dot bathrobe belt because I had lost the belt to my present fluffy yellow bathrobe affair.  I happen to know that I looked like an out of work circus clown.

“We talked about it.” He was insistent.

The furrows between my eyes became trenches.

“We talked about it? In this life? Where my eyes open?” The trenches between my eyes collapsed into earthquake fault lines.

“Sure, you know, that time when we talked about it.”

“Honey, look at my face.”

He looked at my face.

“See this?” I said, pointing at my face. “This is shock. I could not be more shocked. Do you think that if we had talked about this I would look this shocked?”

I pointed to my feet.

“See these?” I wiggled my toes in my No-Nonsense socks from Walmart. “These are socks. I’m in my bathrobe, and I have no idea what you think we talked about. I am not dressed for going anywhere, nor will I be anytime soon.”

For the first time, he seemed unsure of the alleged conversation.

“Well, . . . maybe . . . you forgot.”

I re-tied my purple poke-a-dot belt and tipped my furrowed forehead at him.

“Maybe, and maybe you have conversations in your head that you think I can hear because you’re thinking extra loudly.”

His brow furrowed.The conversation deteriorated from that point, but at least I remember that it occurred in this dimension.
I appreciate that my husband and I have been blissfully wedded for thirty-plus years. I appreciate that he thinks we have reached a state of sync that means we can read each other’s minds. I appreciate ESP. I just wish it were true. Well, maybe next year.

Here’s to conversations that happen in real time and with audible words.

Linda (Read My Lips—Out Loud) Zern
 

The Case for Continued Hunkering

The saddest part of the end of hurricane season is the cessation of the use of the word hunker.

What a fabulous word and society only cracks it out and dusts it off when a soul-crushing, city-destroying hurricane is on its way. That's unfortunate. Very few words stand up to the word hunker in both multiple uses and varied meanings.

I've told the story before of the 'possum we found after it had crawled, crept, snuck into our garage only to stuff itself into the underside of a grandkid's riding toy. The 'possum was waiting for night to fall so it could stumble over to the cat's food and stuff itself stupid.

Our daughter, a thousand months pregnant, claimed that she'd seen the 'possum wobble into the garage and disappear into the bottom of the Happy Tots Pedal Truck. We didn't believe her. We thought she was drunk on pregnancy hormones. She wasn't.

When my husband tipped over the riding toy, a mammal with approximately ten-thousand teeth, snarled its howdy-do.

That toothy beast had hunkered down inside that riding toy. We poked the toy. We shook it. We rolled it over and over. That 'possum didn't budge. Finally, we had to turn the hose on it to pry it out of there. Soaked, miffed, and wildly uncomfortable the 'possum shuffled off to hunker down under the garden bridge, and that, Dear Readers, is a fine, fine example of what it means to hunker.

When hurricanes threaten, the word hunker flies around like a kid on a pedal truck. Get food, water, batteries, and some food for the cat because life, as you know it, will be like someone with a giant garden hose trying to pry you out of your safe place. The power will fail. Inside will be hotter than outside. Your air will cease to be conditioned. Day will turn to night. You will feel threatened, frightened, and annoyed but hang on tight unless you have a bridge you can scurry off to hunker under for a bit.

Love the word. We should use it for more stuff than killer storms:

Life is hard, but I think I'll hunker down and give it my best.

Hunker down and keep the faith.

Hunkering down, I refused to be offended.

They tried to shake me out of my faith and hope and charity, but I hunkered down.

You can't make me quit because I'm hunkered down like a 'possum stuffed under a garden bridge.

Move along; I'm hunkering down.

Or I'm getting ready for the next swirling monster of wind and rain so that I can hunker down when the storm howls.

Let's keep the hunkering going. That's all I'm saying.

Linda (Playing 'Possum) Zern            

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THE FIRE ANT TANGO

Attention: Fire Ant Advisory - Threat Level, Magenta

Fire ants are an imported insect species here. 

The word fire is not used arbitrarily. Fire ants are mean. They bite. They sting. Their mean stinging bites leave volcanic bumps that turn into pussy sores on your ankles that look a tad gross when you're wearing high heels and toenail polish. It’s a condition commonly referred to as fire ant ankle.

Fire ants were imported from Hades, just south of the river Styx, on that boat piloted by the dog with the three heads, or maybe it was a river in the Amazon via a boat piloted by an anaconda. It’s possible fire ants arrived in a potted plant from Costa No Where-O. Actually, there is a rumor out there that fire ants were brought to the United States by the Department of Defense to be used as a top-secret weapon of mean-spirited destruction against the former Soviet Union, but they escaped. Now they live in my yard—the ants not the Soviets.

The way our family sees it, we only have two options; we take the fight to the fire ants or attempt appeasement. That's it. Those are the choices.

We've tried appeasement. We sent a diplomatic representative out with a white flag to the ant’s main stronghold, an ant mound the size of a wading pool out by the oak tree. The cat volunteered. He carried that white flag of appeasement and civilized diplomatic moderation like a trooper. 

We were prepared to make concessions. We were prepared to leave small offerings of rice, soggy cereal, and grease on a flat rock, daily. We were prepared to sacrifice a virgin. We were prepared to live and let live, well . . . after the virgin sacrifice, of course. 

In exchange, the fire ants had to promise not to build outposts or forward operating bases under the walkways in the butterfly garden, or the crack in the front porch stoop. They also had to promise not to bite the granddaughter when she stomps in the middle of one of their mounds and then forgets to run away. 

(Her dad showed her how to stomp on anthills and then run away, but she's not two yet. Her timing is a little off, and she forgets the running away part.) 

It was a good offer made in civilized good faith.

The fire ants took the cat hostage and ate the flag. An un-named, unknown, anonymous source confirmed (maybe) that the cat had been water boarded. Did I mention the cat came back without fur on his tail? The ants sent their counter offer back to us tied to the cat's bare-naked tail. 


The counter offer read:

MOVE or DIE!
Signed the Ants

So now it's war.

My mission in this conflict is to ride around the yard on a John Deere lawn tractor pouring down ant poison, out of a plastic Taco Bell cup, like napalm. We call it Operation "Kill the Ants with Twenty Dollar Bags of Poison," or "Boom-Boom." We are using the latest advances in fire ant eradication technology—fire ant killer granules—danger, danger, poison, poison. 

Take that, you little terrorists. It's a poison that promises to kill the queen and the colony, to prevent further colonies, and to bring peace to the earth, but as far as I can tell the fire ants love the stuff. They collect it, tote it home, store it, and save it up for Cinco De Mayo when they throw a party and get "real loco" while dancing the fire ant tango. 

News from the front could be better.

So if you come to see us—stay alert! Report suspicious activities: abandoned boxes, packages, and moving bits of nothing. Try not to linger too long in open, unsecured locations outside the green zone. Keep your weapons locked and loaded. And, soldier, if you have to stomp on an enemy fort, do not forget to RUN AWAY!

General Linda (Bombs Away) Zern