A HORSE CALLED POMMEL

  

“Put a mask on,” I commanded my husband.

“I’m not wearing a mask to go to Home Depot. No one else does.”

“If everyone stripped naked and went jogging, would you do it too?”

He looked confounded. “I used to streak on motorcycles naked.” He had that been-there-done-that-nude look on his face. “But I always wore tennis shoes so that I didn’t hurt my feet when I shifted.”

He always includes this last bit of information about wearing shoes while naked when he reminisces about his wild and wooly teenage years. I don’t know why. But he does.

So the mask debate rages on. But not at our house. Truthfully, we’ve been on lock down for about a decade and so not a lot changed when the world went mad and started setting their hair on fire to kill possible infection.

Sigh. Besides, we’ve already survived the big, bad germ war.

My husband, the former naked motorcycle rider, works for an international computer titan, headquartered in the heart of California’s nerd land. Early this year, he traveled to the edge of our fine nation where herds of nerds like to hang out. There are nerds from every land and clime—gross wet-market countries included. So in January, my husband headed to Santa Clara county in California to hang out in the cafeteria and to touch lots of grubby surfaces, door handles, and computerly stuff.

He came home with one kick-butt cough.

I blamed dirty airplanes.

The cough was so bad he headed to the doctor to be told he had a virus. “Go home,” they said. He did. And promptly gave the unknown, creepy virus to me.

I got the weirdest cold of my life. “This is the weirdest cold of my life,” I said to anyone who would listen. No one did. “This is the weirdest cough of my life,” I said to no one. And no one noticed. After three weeks enduring a cough that left me in danger of passing out, I lived to tell the tale.

How do we keep our spirits up during lock down? We watch gymnastics on YouTube and pretend we understand the scoring system. I like to imagine my nerdly husband trying to hang from the high bar the men use to fling themselves around on. Since Sherwood can’t straighten his legs and point his toes AT THE SAME TIME without inviting muscle contorting foot cramps, the vision leaves me in hysterics.

“I would pay money to see you hang from that bar,” I gasp.

“It would kill me,” he admits.

“Better that, than the ‘Rona.” I pat his hand and reach for a bowl of boiled peanuts.

And so we wait and watch and wonder what happened to all the non-judgmental memes from the pre-pandemic days of live and let live. Now, it’s judgment 24-7 about everything from the number of micro-inches between my nasal passages and yours and whether or not that mask I’m wearing is cute enough to be scientifically effective.

“How’s the pandemic raging?” I ask my husband.

He slides the bowl of boiled peanuts my way. “Hard to know. The headlines are ripped straight from the front page of the National Inquirer. Outer Space Alien Toddler’s Eyeballs Explode From Skull – Covid Suspected,” he reports.

“Sounds like things are slowing down then.”

“Ready to watch the pommel horse competition from Rio?”

“Sure. I would pay money to see you flip over a horse called Pommel.”

“It would kill me,” he confesses.

We eat boiled peanuts and wait for the end of yellow journalism.

Linda (Happy Streaking) Zern

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Scratch Resistant

The fourth and littlest brother in the grandkid gang was snotty, crying, dirty, and done. I pointed at it and told my daughter, “Take that one home, wash it, pat it, and put it to bed.”

The third brother in the gang felt that I had dissed his littlest brother. He began to mutter. His face closed like a fist.

I tried to interpret his three-year old muttering.

Nothing.

“Heather,” I said to my daughter, “what’s he saying?”

She listened for a while.

With more optimism and hope than knowledge she reported, “He’s saying, ‘I’ll love you forever.’”

Zac’s face now resembled angry granite. 

“Heather, look at his face. I don’t think he’s saying, ‘I’ll love you forever.’”

She sighed and then reported, “He’s saying, ‘I’ll scratch you all over.’”

Ah ha! That was more like it.

This incident typifies what I like to call the Wishful Thinking Syndrome. It was wishful thinking that Zac was waving a fond goodbye to his old YaYa with charming declarations of undying devotion. 

There’s a lot of Wishful Thinking Syndrome going around I’ve noticed.

It’s wishful thinking that professors who are busy trying to sell their books will be available to help you sell yours.

It’s wishful thinking that low self esteem, broken hearts, damaged egos, and sociopathic behavior can be fixed with quick cash. 

It’s wishful thinking that food without butter, salt, fat, and sugar is going to be as good as food with butter, salt, fat, and sugar.

It’s wishful thinking that bread and circuses are going to work forever. (See history of the Roman Empire)

It’s wishful thinking to believe that hot flashes will make you grow taller after age fifty or before age fifty.

It’s wishful . . . well, you get the picture.

Wishful thinking is a direct result of the modern notions that human beings deserve trophies for breathing, that buying a Wraptastic will change your life, and that everything billed as ‘based on a true story’ is true.

Get real. The three-year old kid is not telling you he’s going to love you forever—this time. This time he’s threatening to claw you with grubby fingernails. Sigh. It happens.

The news isn’t all bad, however. 

It is my hopeful wishful belief that for every busted thought-wish, there are those rare and dazzling moments when our wishful thoughts actually reflect reality and the kid is saying that he’s going to love you forever and the purchase of a Wraptastic does, in fact, change your life. But those moments are both rare and dazzling, which makes reality way better than wishful thinking—sort of like having a unicorn to ride to the free puppy store.

Linda (Scratch Resistant) Zern

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