Monday, September 28, 2015

GOOGLE ME



Over the years, Moms learn a lot. I know about “blood” moons, yeast bread, and potty training. I can sew my own curtains, pillows, and clothes. I’ve experienced elementary, middle, and high school five times—a side benefit of being a homeschooler. I can paint a wall and grow a rose. I can’t help knowing a lot of stuff. 

It’s like barnacles. When you’re in the water long enough, you grow barnacles. I’ve been in the water a while. Besides, I like to watch the Discovery channel. 

Doesn’t matter. This is the age of Google. My knowledge base is challenged at regular intervals, mostly when I talk.

Doesn’t help that I often make statements—out loud, randomly, and without warning. 

“Hippos kill more people in Africa than any other animal,” I spout off.

Scoffs, scorns, and narrowed eyes greet my statement.

Kid #2 yelled, “Google it.”

Kid #3 immediately starts scratching at her phone. 

“Nope,” Kid #3 exulted. “It’s the mosquito. Most dangerous animal in the world.”

“Okay, my bad. I should have said land mammal.”

“Too bad,” Kid #2 said. “We Googled you.”

When the grandkids were studying Egyptian history I suggested, “Hey, you should try building a shaduf.”

“What’s a shaduf?”

“It’s an ancient Egyptian device for dipping water out of a river.”

One skeptic whispered, loudly, “Google it.”

Phone scratching commenced.

“Yep. She’s right. This . . . time.”

Sometimes the Google wins. Sometimes I win. I guess it’s okay. It’s a lot like running for public office. The fact checkers are everywhere, scratching at their phones.

“Did you know that koala bears are absolutely disgusting animals?” I offer, after hearing about how adorable someone thought they were. “The babies eat their mother’s poop, eighty percent of them have a sexually transmitted disease that makes them incontinent, and they’re mean. Go ahead Google it and weep.”

They did. They wept.

Google at your own risk. That’s what I say.

Did you know that the end of the world, well . . . at . . . least the end of the part that runs your television and Googler machine, is most likely to come from the giant star in the sky? Solar flares are real. They come from the sun. They have already blasted the earth many times. Because we are SO dependent on the electrical power grid in this century, a real deal solar storm could smash the grid to fried wires and blown transformers. What? 

Google it.

Linda (Candle Both Ends) Zern


BEYOND the STRANDLINE:  amazon.com/author/lindazern 




MONDAY MORNING PREPPING WITH MINDY AND LINDA



Survived the blood moon, did you? Sure. Sure. This time. But what about next time?  Start with the basics and let's have fun talking all things BeyondtheStrandline readiness . . . www.beyondthestrandline.blogspot.com

Thursday, September 24, 2015

HERDING GOATS

Our boy goat hit puberty, which sent him spiraling into mindless wooing. Mindless wooing consists of getting his head stuck in field fence and grunting at the neighbor’s girl goats. 

So I had to move him to a pasture, one field removed from the neighbor’s trampy girl goats.

Herding goats is like herding goats. They’re all over the place. So I got a bucket of feed to trick them into a new pasture. 

But then the horses hear the tink, tink, tink of oats in a bucket so they come running.

Except that Tracker, a big bully boy, hates the goats, so the goats can’t be with the horses, but before I know what’s happened, the horses—hearing that tink sound—have snuck through the open work shop door and into the barn with the goats.

But they can’t be with the goats because Tracker will stomp goats into goat paste.

So I wrangle Tracker out of the barn and into the goat pasture that the goats can’t be in because our boy goat is in love. 

While I’m wrangling Tracker, Mavis the Goat—who is related to a magician and a prison escapee—slips out of the barn through a crack, wanders over to her old pasture, jumps up on her goat house, burps up a wad of goat oats, and settles in with Tracker, the goat hater.

The other goats, envying Mavis her agency, began to probe the fences for weaknesses. I reinforce every microscopic goat exit with epoxy and rope.

In the meantime, Charlie, goat neutral horse, has been snacking it up with random goats. I chase him into another paddock, slam the gate shut, and then count the number of beads of sweat rolling down my nose.

Six hours have passed and no one is where they’re supposed to be all because one boy goat fell in love.

Linda (We All Fall Down) Zern
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