BUG ZAPPER BLUES

When we were young and newly hatched—also young and in love—my husband and I lived with our four young children on the Space Coast of Florida. The massive propulsion of rocket and shuttle launches from Cape Kennedy often rocked the windows and doors of our little love cottage. We were always properly respectful and impressed by the reach of mankind’s achievements.

It was a point of pride to stop whatever we were doing (dishes, dinner, dancing, sleeping, fist fighting, etc.) to watch the eastern horizon—hands on hearts, tears in eyes—as the United States of America raced into the frontier of space.

One deep, dark morning (about 2:00 am) I shook my husband awake to watch yet another triumph of human advancement.

“Get up,” I mumbled to Sherwood, “the shuttle’s going up. We gotta’ watch.”

Sherwood moaned, “The garbage is out all ready. Let me die.” He did not open his eyes.

“Come on. We should watch. Night launches are amazing.”

He dragged himself upright and clung to the window ledge behind our bed. We knelt, with our chins braced on the ledge, our bleary eyes fixed on a blazing light in the eastern sky. We watched. The light did not appear to move. We stared some more. The light remain fixed. We struggled to focus. The light blazed away.

We waited for the light to fade into the blackness of space. It did not. We watched and watched and watched. The light stubbornly refused to move.

At last, collapsing back into my pillow I said, “Honey, go back to sleep.”

Sounding confused, miffed, and a little whiney Sherwood asked, “Why?”

“Because for the last eight to ten minutes we’ve been staring at our next door neighbor’s bug zapper.”

He went back to sleep. And I lived to worship at the altar of space exploration another day.

This story pretty much sums up who we are, and how we got this way—excessive staring at bug zappers. And this is my blog, a space-age way of recording one’s thoughts, ideas, embarrassments, and foibles for the entire known world. Once upon a time, I would have made this record on papyrus, rolled it up, stuffed it into a ceramic jar, and asked to have the whole thing buried with me in my sarcophagus. I still might.

Disclaimer: Some of the stuff you will read here is true. Some of it is not. Some of it is the result of wishful thinking. Some of it is the result of too much thinking, and some of it is the result of too little thinking. But all of it will be written with joy and laughter, because the alternative is despair and weeping, and isn’t there more than enough of that stuff out there?

Thank you for your support,

Linda (Zippity the Zapped) Zern 

THE GIST

According to Mark Twain American humor is unique. The French and English tell stories that are funny. Americans tell stories in a funny way.

That’s the gist of it—paraphrased, roughly, also badly.  

What it means is that Americans can find the humor in just about anything. It’s true or it’s roughly true.

I’ve also read that humor is tragedy plus time. That’s quoted—badly.

Whatever you believe about what is or is not funny, laughing beats the alternatives. I’d rather laugh than set myself on fire or lock myself in a basement, growing paranoia under a black light.

So I write about the irony, the absurdity, the inconsistency, and the sheer unpredictability of being alive in a world where it’s possible to photo shop the head of a Victoria Secret model onto your own body. See what I did there? The idea of putting the head of a sexy model on the aging body of a five foot one inch freckled author is silly, and that’s why that’s funny. Humor 101.

And so this is my annual disclaimer.

MISSION STATEMENT:  I make fun of me and mine and sometimes people who tick me off, but I disguise those folks so they can’t sue me.

WARNING:  Don’t read anything I write if you 1) can’t laugh at yourself 2) can’t laugh at me 3) can’t laugh at anything other than crotch kicking or 4) haven’t laughed since you became “enlightened.”

MARRIAGE TIP:  Never buy luggage! That way whoever threatens to leave has to haul their junk off in black garbage bags. It’s a real deterrent.

FAVORITE SUBJECTS TO LAMPOON: Animal lovers who eat meat. Meat eaters who love animals. Animal owners that are eaten by their animal, and anyone who thinks that an eagle eating a duck constitutes cannibalism. Lampoon lovers.

FAVORITE TV SHOWS:  Anything but reality. Reality sucks.

BEST COMFORT FOOD:  Granny Bagget’s chicken-n-dumplings, but Granny Bagget’s been gone for thirty years or more, so I’m in the market for a new choice.

BFF:  My husband.

PMLTDMC (Person Most Likely To Drive Me Crazy):  My husband.

PET PEEVE:  Dead light bulbs. Because they scream “lazy,” and because I’m short and I have to get a stepladder to change the big tall light bulbs and getting someone tall to do it is a pain in the lampoon.

BIGGEST WORRIES:  Tongue tumors and the zombie apocalypse.

POLITICAL AFFILIATION:  Libertarian until you can prove to me that being “liberal” or “conservative” won’t turn us all into zombies with tongue tumors.

WRITING PHILOSPHY:  Anytime, anywhere, anything!

And that’s the gist of it, for now. I can’t promise anything should I become an “overnight” sensation, sell butt loads of books, and become obscenely wealthy and riddled with guilt over my good fortune. Then I might become a real drag, like all those famous types who hide out in their compounds in South Florida.

Linda (The Gist Monger) Zern  

  

GORILLA POP QUIZ

I believe in tests. I believe in the ability of tests to test things: knowledge; expertise; the amount of time spent cramming for tests.

Heck, isn’t life the biggest test of all? All these amazing choices and you picked what?  That?

Quick! Here’s a test. Look at your walls. What’s hanging on them? That’s probably what you love. Oops, I just looked and realized that there are three ragged nail holes and some clipboards adorning my bedroom walls. I don’t love nail holes or clipboards. This particular test may need some fine-tuning.

Still, tests are good, and husband tests are the best tests of all. I have been administering gorilla pop quizzes and tests on my husband for thirty plus years. Results have been mixed.

While walking a Cocoa Beach boardwalk, my husband and I passed several svelte, nubile bikini clad girls. When I say ‘svelte’ I mean their outlines resembled all the curvy letters in the alphabet melted into an hourglass.

Time for husband pop quiz # 34,789 . . .

“Holy curvy girl, Batman, did you see those teenagers?” I asked, watching his face carefully for test anxiety. He was clueless.

“Ummmm?” he said, in his best pre-test uncertainty.

“Those girls.” I waved vaguely at their disappearing va-va-voomage. “I didn’t look like that when I was like that.”

“That’s true,” he said. “You didn’t look like that.”

“Really?” I stopped dead in my tracks.

“That was a test and you failed and wouldn’t you rather wait for the multi-choice answers? For example,  A) No, you did NOT look like those girls; you looked like a woman. My woman. Come here, woman!  B) What girls?  C) Those weren’t girls. They were bewitched Barbie dolls, or D) May my eyes explode if I ever look at another female in a bikini . . . and/or . . . clothes again.”

“Ummm, all of the above?”

“Good answer.”

He sighed.

“Don’t feel bad, Babe. There’s always extra credit.”

He smiled. We walked on.

Truthfully, I never did look like those girls. I looked like a boney boy or, maybe, a box with the words THIS END UP stenciled on my forehead. That’s how I know that my husband married me for reasons other than my girlish figure. I believe he married me for my ability to craft fascinating test questions, my penchant for wearing ‘Sweet Honesty’ perfume and pink t-shirts, and for having excellent calf muscles and skinny ankles.

That’s true love that stands the test of time.

Linda (Advanced Placement) Zern