Smuggling Marshmallows in Our Pants (A Classic)

The way a family spends its weekend is a real indicator of just how nuts a family is, no matter how not nuts they want people to believe they are.

My family is an excellent example of this working theory. We would like you to believe that we are sophisticated intellectual sorts who spend our leisure hours having deep philosophical discussions, frequenting places of stimulating cultural interest, and engaging in recreational activities. Here’s how the weekend really shakes out.

THE DEEP PHILOSOPHICAL DISCUSSION:

After watching The Lord of the Rings—again—we begin our post-movie, round table discussion by answering the following question, “What would you do if you had a ring that made you invisible?” Answers include . . .

Phillip (the son-in-law) - “I’d go around doing good for all mankind.”

Sherwood (my husband of forever) - “I’d sneak into women’s locker rooms.”

Phillip (when he heard Sherwood’s answer) -  “I’d sneak into women’s locker rooms with Sherwood.”

Me (the voice of reason and sanity) - “I’d sneak up behind Sherwood and Phillip sneaking around women’s locker rooms and bop them on the head.” But then I added, “Invisibility ring! I’m already invisible.  What I need is a VISISBILITY ring.”

 Adam (Please see my essay, Only A Nimrod Would Think that he could Tip Over a Whole Cow) – “I’d sneak up behind cows and tip them over.”

Maren (nineteen at the time) – “Men are dogs.”

 Heather (after twenty minutes of deep thought) – “Pants people?”

 THE FEATURED CULTURAL ACTIVITY:

Before Disney, before Universal, before civilization there was Gatorland. Gatorland is a semi-tropical ode to tacky tourist traps.  We love it.

Murky pools of fetid water swirl as Florida alligators and the occasional crocodile glide by the tourists. Reptiles, roughly the size of sofas, bask in the shimmering heat. We throw marshmallows at them. Visitors can buy hotdogs to toss to the gators, which bring them to a boiling frenzy, but why? For ninety-nine cents and the thrill of watching Adam smuggle a bag of Jet-puffed marshmallows in his pants you can bring these pre-historic handbags to the point of hysteria.

(Please note: It is wrong to do this and you should never, ever smuggle foodstuffs in your pants when visiting Gatorland—ever. I’ll tell.)

And before anyone complains that we’re probably causing cavities in the alligators with our contraband marshmallows, let me remind you that alligators use their teeth for grabbing you, not chewing you. Alligators eat you—after they death roll you, drown up, stuff you under a submerged log, and tenderize you. Then they snack on you. Believe me, those marshmallows never touched their teeth.

Culture is 150 alligators lined up and waiting—breathless—for the next Jet-puffed marshmallow. Our working theory is that they’re sick of eating hot-dogs, biting chunks out of each other, or jumping for dangling chickens. (Note:  Yes they do jump, no matter what Sherwood and Philip say. They don’t jump great, but they jump.)

RECREATIONAL ACTIVITY:

Once a month, we indulge in Sunday dinner with the Chevrier family.  Note: Sometimes the Chevrier’s temporarily adopt one or more of our children and raise them, like in the Middle Ages when you sent your kids to other people’s castles to check out the alligators in their moats. 

So we have dinner. We eat. We talk. We discuss deep philosophical issues like, “Will marshmallows give alligators high blood pressure?” And if we’re really in a wild and crazy mood we take our own temperatures with Carol’s way cool ear thermometer. Aren’t you glad I didn’t say rectal thermometer?

There’s crazy and then there’s weird.

There you have it, philosophy, culture, and recreation. One of the things I like best about our family is that we can really laugh at ourselves. I can’t think of people I’d rather be invisible with or get busted with while smuggling marshmallows in my pants.

Linda (Puffy Pants) Zern

Deliver This

Someone pointed out that the last “normal” day we enjoyed as a nation was a Friday the thirteenth. I don’t doubt it. The irony of it all is just so cosmic.

It didn’t take much to convince me that I should stay home. It takes a bit to convince me to go out. I’ve had Amazon on speed dial for years and years, and I’ve been ready for the apocalypse for a long, long time. Ask my kids, they’ll tell you.

“Why doesn’t YaYa go anywhere?” the grandchildren ask.

“She’s a hermit,” their parents say, “waiting for the apocalypse.”

“Mother, what’s a hermit?” they ask, big eyes blinking.

“ A hermit is almost a troll, but not quite a pooka.” Their mothers tell them, sometimes winking, sometimes smiling.

“Does YaYa live under the troll bridge in the garden next to the zinnias, Mother Dear?”

No one answers that question.

I don’t live under the troll bridge. No matter what anyone says while winking.

That doesn’t mean all has sailed smoothly since the great germ lock-down began. The Amazon delivery man has gone and gotten himself a bit frazzled.

Even in the good times, he brings me about a thousand boxes a week. Please note: I don’t buy a thousand pairs of shoes a week as some might imagine. But do the math, everything in your grocery cart shipped to your front door in a separate box. Yeah. Crazy. A box for dill seed and a box for a box of noodles and a box for vitamins and boxes inside of packages tucked in boxes.

Recently, after delivering yet another gaggle of boxes to my garage, the delivery guy raced back to his van, flung himself behind the steering wheel, and hit the gas. Children scattered out of his way. He hadn’t bothered to shut the sliding, side door of the vehicle. That guy was in some kind of big time hurry, I can tell you. He whipped out of our yard. Packages and boxes flew out of the open door into the yard like a dumpy dinosaur shedding great, honking scales.

Throwing myself into action, I screeched and ran and waved and yelled. The van disappeared in a fog of dust.

“Hey, Mister, your package!” I wailed. Okay, it was one, only one package.

It felt like more. An air fryer meant for some expectant woman in Kissimmee tumbled to a stop at my feet. It’s still in my garage, waiting for me to do the right thing. Sorry, I’ve been busy ordering more boxes from Amazon.

Linda (Deliver This) Zern

Six Acres and a Mule

The problem with public parks? The “public” has no say.

People who sit behind desks can shut public parks down, lock them up, and patrol them with low flying, whirling knife-bladed, spy drones. And a person can shake their grubby little fist at the sky only to have their picture taken and then placed on the wall of the un-desirables and trouble mongers who violate parks.

You cannot touch the king’s grass or swing on the queen’s swing set, or feed the royal ducks.

The answer? Everyone should own a big-a$$ed park, just like the Obamas in Martha’s Vineyard. Big cities, zero lot lines, sewage shooting past your head in the apartment wall next to your face cannot be good for human animals, in my opinion. Better to roam open spaces and breathe big air.

So, that’s my proposal. A park for everyone.

Give me a park or give me death. Six acres of park and a mule.

We have a park, of sorts, but no mule. It’s six acres and a back-breaking amount of work, but our park is open.

Activities include: Fence building under the blinding, sterilizing Florida sunshine, social distancing easily enforced; animal poop moving, equipment provided; spent bullet digging in the sandhill on the shooting range, keep what you find; branch, log, and stick dragging, cardio and strength building guaranteed.

My husband often sits in the glow of a gently setting sun, sighs, and talks of life in a condo. I hush him and send him out to feed the chickens.

He once tried to get me to sell everything, travel the world with him, and live in Marriot hotels.

Stunned, I said, “Do you know how fast I’d be out pulling weeds in their tasteful landscaping?”

“You could live on room service,” he countered.

“But I need dirt.” I smiled around the grit of sand in my teeth.

“I know,” he sighed.

My son-in-law once described hobby farming. “Farming is buying animals that poop and then moving the poop around.”

My response? “What’s your point?”

Parks are a lot of work. It’s true. But it’s good honest, back-to-nature (real nature, not that crazy Disney crap that makes people think ducks wear pants or don’t eat the entrails out of other animals) work.

Dirt . . . it does a body good.

Dirt for everyone.

Linda (Digger) Zern