Thursday, January 26, 2017
Monday, January 23, 2017
LOOKING OUT FOR 2017
 |
| Sherwood on Tracker, Not Charlie the Wonder Horse |
Possibly he was colicky (the horse, not Sherwood). He wasn’t.
Possibly he was going lame. He wasn’t.
Probably Charlie the Horse was tired and didn’t want to walk another step. It is quite likely that Charlie the Horse is smart, lazy, and thinking ahead.
Sherwood brought him home early from the fund raiser, whereupon he (the horse, not Sherwood) ran out to his buddy (Tracker), frolicked, whinnied, and got back to the serious business of eating his weight in salad.
Note to self: Try to outsmart the horse in 2017.
I was supposed to be out riding with Sherwood and Charlie the Wonder Horse, but having contracted my traditional New Year’s viral snot head, I felt lousy and stayed home. At 3pm, when Sherwood’s horse was giving up his will to walk, I smelled smoke. I was already in bed and wrapped in a bathrobe, sans brassiere or eyebrows.
I leaped to my feet, sniffing like a bloodhound. Smoke, burning rubber, and the odor of my own panic mixed about my head like gnats looking for a sweaty cowboy. Something was on fire. I checked outside to see if my neighbor was burning crazy crap. Nope.
I screamed for my cell phone. It did not answer. I got lightheaded. I raced to find my phone. It was next to the bed, in its spot, charging—the sneaky bastard. Dialing 911 and struggling into my bra, I breathlessly reported a possible house fire.
The ladder truck, fire chief, ambulance, and a cop roared into the yard ten minutes later. Facts: the garbage disposal tried to burn my house down; it was too hot to touch; there was a short in the wall switch; the fire fighters checked for heat signatures in the wall and turned off the power; they insisted I get an electrician.
The boss fireman said, “Lady, this is exactly the kind of thing that burns down houses.”
All the firemen were cute. I still had no eyebrows.
Note to self: Start the kitchen remodel even if I have to take a sledge hammer to the garbage disposal myself.
Two Sundays before these incidents, Sherwood tried to cut off the end of his thumb with a pocketknife, while trying to hack his way into a cinnamon candy cane. But that’s a story for another day—same year—but another day.
Ahhhhh . . . 2017 . . . I’m worried already.
Linda (Sniffle Gal) Zern
Monday, January 16, 2017
ONCE MORE WITH FEELING
When I realized that my kids, a third and second grader, could not read, write, or compute basic mathematics, I took them out of public school and began homeschooling. No one seemed worried that they were growing up to be illiterate dunces, but a lot of people were very concerned that they would not be “socialized” properly or get to go to the prom. As their mother, I was more concerned about phonics than cummerbunds.
Over the years, I have found the socialization arguments . . . well . . . muddled. What exactly is socialization? And will I recognize it when I see it?
“I hate my family,” the young college student said, flipping a trendy fringe of hair out of his eyes. “But they’re paying for my college so I’ve got to go home for Thanksgiving. What a pisser.”
Wanting to be social, I tried to figure out how to respond, because being curious and interested in others is my favorite social strategy.
“Maybe you should pay for your own college?”
“Are you nuts?” he spluttered.
I thought it might be possible.
In a moment of companionable socialization, I shared with some of my classmates that college algebra was giving me hives and panic attacks.
A highly social young man offered to help. He whipped out his cell phone.
“Just put this,” he said, holding up his phone, “in your sock and then I’ll show you how to get the answers for the test by texting.”
“You’re assuming I can text,” I said.
“Are you nuts?” he said.
No! Just arthritic—and honest.
Recently, before class, I was chatting socially with a few of my young college classmates. One highly social young man (I know he was social because he NEVER stopped talking about himself) began regaling us with tales of his high school cheating years.
“Yeah, so I had the answers written on my arm, from my wrist to my juggler vein.” He laughed. “When the teacher got wise to it, I smeared the answers off, destroying the evidence.”
Everyone joined in his clever, social laughing.
“Don’t you feel bad about cheating your way through high school?” I asked.
“Are you nuts?”
Apparently.
When my wildly educated professors use the “F” word in class or hilariously cop to having smoked dope once, twice, or always, I realize that they’re just trying to be hip and social and one with the organism known as “the group.” I get it. I was a social creature once.
Now, I’m just nuts, because I don’t care what the group thinks about my being a drug free, sober, religious, monogamous, honest chick. It’s not social. I know. But it does allow me to sleep better at night.
Besides, I’m the one those people try to cheat off of . . . the jerks.
Linda (Eyes On Your Own Paper) Zern
Over the years, I have found the socialization arguments . . . well . . . muddled. What exactly is socialization? And will I recognize it when I see it?
“I hate my family,” the young college student said, flipping a trendy fringe of hair out of his eyes. “But they’re paying for my college so I’ve got to go home for Thanksgiving. What a pisser.”
Wanting to be social, I tried to figure out how to respond, because being curious and interested in others is my favorite social strategy.
“Maybe you should pay for your own college?”
“Are you nuts?” he spluttered.
I thought it might be possible.
In a moment of companionable socialization, I shared with some of my classmates that college algebra was giving me hives and panic attacks.
A highly social young man offered to help. He whipped out his cell phone.
“Just put this,” he said, holding up his phone, “in your sock and then I’ll show you how to get the answers for the test by texting.”
“You’re assuming I can text,” I said.
“Are you nuts?” he said.
No! Just arthritic—and honest.
Recently, before class, I was chatting socially with a few of my young college classmates. One highly social young man (I know he was social because he NEVER stopped talking about himself) began regaling us with tales of his high school cheating years.
“Yeah, so I had the answers written on my arm, from my wrist to my juggler vein.” He laughed. “When the teacher got wise to it, I smeared the answers off, destroying the evidence.”
Everyone joined in his clever, social laughing.
“Don’t you feel bad about cheating your way through high school?” I asked.
“Are you nuts?”
Apparently.
When my wildly educated professors use the “F” word in class or hilariously cop to having smoked dope once, twice, or always, I realize that they’re just trying to be hip and social and one with the organism known as “the group.” I get it. I was a social creature once.
Now, I’m just nuts, because I don’t care what the group thinks about my being a drug free, sober, religious, monogamous, honest chick. It’s not social. I know. But it does allow me to sleep better at night.
Besides, I’m the one those people try to cheat off of . . . the jerks.
Linda (Eyes On Your Own Paper) Zern
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