Amnesia Anyone?

I have a smallpox scar. I have a smallpox scar from having smallpox stuffed into me with a needle by the government. I was five when the government gave me smallpox. Okay, they gave me a teeny, tiny speck of smallpox, but the scar is still ugly.

Since then I’ve been inoculated, biopsied, C-sectioned, extracted, stapled, stitched, sliced and diced. And now I’m crazy. When I go to the doctor my CO2 levels go way up, because I hyperventilate, and when I go to the dentist my blood pressure sky rockets. Oddly enough, getting sharp objects jammed into body parts does not get easier with time.

Now, I have to be drugged out of my mind when I have to have sharp objects jammed into body parts.

I am a cancer-surviving pansy.

For my latest dental torture session on Thursday, my dentist and his gang gave me a sedative-hypnotic. It made me go to sleep for Thursday—the whole day—and I didn’t read the “medication guide” until AFTER the procedure.

 What a hoot. Those medicine-warning labels are the funniest reading on earth, in my opinion. Who writes those things?

Apparently, a side effect of taking a sedative-hypnotic can be something called “traveler’s amnesia.” This is side effect that can cause someone to be (and I quote) “NOT fully awake and do an activity that they will NOT remember doing. Reported activities include: driving a car (sleep driving), making and eating food, talking on the phone, having sex, and sleep-walking.” Since Thursday has disappeared from my memory, I have developed a vague sense of unease about the “travel amnesia” possibilities.

What if, at some point during my Thursday—all day—nap, I put on a gypsy outfit, drove to the lakefront, and played a tambourine for loose change? What if I went horseback riding—naked? What if I drove my John Deere lawn tractor to the Florida Mall, so I could buy a pretzel, with salt? What if I killed somebody?

Traveler’s amnesia. Yikes.

What if I joined a motorcycle gang, got a tattoo of a giant butterfly on my right butt cheek, and promised to be a drug mule?

What if . . . oh . . .wait a minute . . . there’s something here under the bedcovers. Hey . . . what the . . . it’s a tambourine, and there’s a buck twenty-three in it.

I can’t seem to find the gypsy outfit.

So, was I naked while playing the tambourine? Amnesia is so annoying.

Linda (No More Cavities) Zern

STICKS AND STONES

Boys enjoy sticks. That’s my official unscientific, non-governmental grant approved conclusion. After years and years and years of observing boys in their natural habitat, just like that “Gorillas in the Mist” lady did with those mountain gorillas, I am prepared to report that boys and sticks go together like gorillas and mist.

From my field notes: Tried to mow the yard today. Had to stop every three and a half feet to pick up large, sharp tipped sticks approximately one foot long to twelve and half feet in length. I realized that these sticks did not arrive in the middle of the yard by themselves. The sticks were dragged, hurled, slung, and dropped by human boys as they roamed through the mists.

A boy will pick up a stick before he will bathe, wash, brush, or comb. 

A stick can never be sharp enough for boys.

Opening the microwave oven to discover a pile of random sticks inside is evidence that boys are near and possibly foraging for food.

My husband, who is a boy, cheerfully handed pocketknives to two junior members of our gorilla troop, Zac and Kip, showing them how to sharpen already pointy sticks to a state of hypodermic needle sharpness. Their faces were incandescent with stick whittling joy.

My husband, the Poppy, said, “Whittle, boys. Whittle.”

Conner, their older brother, a sensible boy who talks like a forty-five year old man, looked on—horrified—as his little brothers chopped and chipped away. Bits of stick exploded into sawdust. 

Looking at me, Conner said, “I see what you mean about Poppy. He is a fool and a clown.”

Surprised, I said, “I don’t remember ever calling him a clown.”

Whittling is not exclusive to juvenile members of the troop. Older, mature males of the troop will sit chopping at wood with sharp objects, showing off their tool making abilities. Unfortunately, the stick whittling never seems to result in anything resembling a tool, just naked sticks. Naked sticks that they leave at my house, inside, tucked away in corners and closets. I’m not sure what I’m supposed to do with a pile of naked, whittled on sticks. They don’t fit in the microwave. 

Boys also like stones. Florida is not known for its rocks or stones. There aren’t any. So, the boys in our family enjoy peeling up the concrete stepping stones of my garden walkway. It makes me want to hit them with sticks.

But I don’t, because I’m not a clown and a fool—well, not today.

Linda (Stick, Stick, Goose) Zern 

BEYOND THE STRANDLINE: JUVENILE DYSTOPIAN FICTION!

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