Knock, Knock, Ditch It

Why do you suppose many of us as kids were so brave?

Or is the word really stupid? I’ve often said there is a fine line between courage and stupidity, and at first it might be difficult to tell the difference. Entering into a relationship, for example.

Did we have too much time in our youth with not enough work and few responsibilities? It seems summertime was filled with fun, friends, and finding creative things to do.

When I was 14, I spent the summer with my aunt, uncle, and their four kids on Trump Lake in Wisconsin. During the day we’d ski or hang out with the next-door neighbors who had a large summer home for their family with 14 kids. Yes, fourteen. I don’t think they owned a television or condoms.

After it got dark, we’d walk the lake road and try to scare each other with ferocious-animal stories, running into the woods to rouse the fierce beasts, scaring ourselves as much as the others.

Sometimes we’d play knock, knock, ditch it—a game invented to scare and irritate home dwellers who were otherwise relaxed and happy and enjoying their evening brandy. We’d bravely tiptoe up to the door and take turns being the knocker. Then, like antelope scattering at the rush of a lion or a bird flying into a window, we’d dart and hide or crash and slide.

At least one of those was the plan. But night plans without night-vision goggles present unseen challenges—nocturnal creatures with thick fur, sharp claws, and spiked projections.

“Ahhhhh! Help! Scott! Where are you?!” I whisper screamed. “Something’s got me! Help!”

Just then, the homeowner turned on his light and poked a shotgun out his door. “Who’s there?” he coarsely grumbled.

I pictured my peppered ass as I wriggled and ripped to get free.

And I did.

Released now from the barbed-wire fence, I quietly moved my stupid, wounded flesh back where it belonged…and never played knock, knock, ditch it again.

copyright © 2010 by Auntie Eartha. All rights reserved.

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Staying Healthy

Do you think we’d be healthier if we were mindful and fed, rested, and exercised our bodies as if we were sick? thoroughly took care of our minds and bodies with positive thoughts and actions?

I do.

Usually when people draw an illness into their bodies, they try to rest more, dine more nutritiously, exercise more if they can, and swallow a few more vitamins. So if we treated ourselves decently all the time, would we never get sick?

For most of us, I would answer yes. I have not gotten sick in years. Well, I had a sore throat, so the potential was going from dormant to active in my body, but the next day I was clear. You see, I detested being sick half my childhood years, so I become lightly angry when people who live in my home become ill, namely, daughter unit and momlet.

Each autumn during the first week back in school, my daughter finds a cold virus floating around and decides to carry it around in her body for a few days just to show how tough she is. She misses a day of school, then doesn’t get sick for the rest of the school year or summer.

So when she said to me last night that the lymph nodes in her neck were swollen, I asked if she’d been staying hydrated, eating a salad at lunch, and taking her vitamins. To all three, she answered yes. But lately she has avoiding going outside to walk and absorb rays, so I’ve encouraged her to take a vitamin D capsule, but not to replace sunshine. She’s feeling better today.

That’s when it occurred to me: If we consistently honored ourselves with a balanced life, we’d probably never get sick.

What do you think? Please comment.

copyright © 2010 by Auntie Eartha. All rights reserved.

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Verity

“Wife? When you say you’re his wife, what exactly do you mean?”

Imagine my deep sadness when a good friend e-mailed a seven-person group to say his son was near death in the hospital, asking for prayers and for God’s hand to move positively in his son’s life.

Imagine my calling him that morning immediately after receiving his message to express my sorrow and assure him of my prayers and his emitting a nervous laugh. I thought it odd but attributed it to the frightening situation.

Imagine further my shock, calling later that eve and having a female answer his phone—a female who declared she was my friend’s wife.

I have a lot of married friends, and none are scared to tell me that they’re happy or not happy in their relationships. But I have known this guy for 10 years and never has he displayed any sign that he was married. He’d indicate in subtle ways that he was interested in me, though not as overtly as some. He’s always been quiet, intelligent, and a good writer, not one who would sit and openly converse as friends do.

Listening is something he maintained he did better. Now I see that listening was better because talking might have inadvertently revealed verity.

My eyes are now wide open, and my mind is satisfied that I listened to my intuition. The last time he stopped by, I actually said that I have a rough time trusting people who don’t openly express themselves, fearing they were hiding something. I told him that I felt guys were after one thing and often sluts, thus averting any potential advance.

My gut spoke, and I listened. I have found it to be the best intelligence and my true friend.

So as this guy updated his now-undisclosed e-mailing list about his son’s daily condition, he’d sign off with “Yours in Christ,” or sentiments like that.

Hello? What does that mean? A guy who seemed willing to cheat on his wife, weak and lacking self-discipline, a guy who declares himself Christian? Give me the life of a heathen, so at least I can commit myself to a sinful life eating alfredo and meat, drinking wine, and eliciting choice remarks.

Yes, I am imperfect and hurt. I feel betrayed. Not because this guy and I would have gotten to first base, but because he had thoughts that surpassed his vows to both his wife and me. As a friend, truth is imperative. Truth allows a person to freely be with another. Sans judgment.

I will admit, I thought he and I were friends, but now, judgmentally, I wonder how many other me’s were out there, how many times he lied to his wife, and how deep his faith in Christ really is.

I wonder if he wonders if the fate of his son had something to do with his behavior.

I will never know, because I will never communicate with this fool again.

copyright © 2010 by Auntie Eartha. All rights reserved.

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Here I Come Again!

When I came to Colorado Springs 25 years ago, I didn’t know a soul. I just knew if I stayed in Wisconsin much longer, I’d become a hippo from eating to stay warm. I’d wait for the furnace to kick in and sit next to my heat register, hoping to get the frost off my caboose.

In the three years before I escaped Wisconsin, I researched several United States cities, examining info on weather, culture, environment, education, and economic climate, and decided to move here.

I immediately took a couple sales positions, so I could meet people and simultaneously interview for jobs. Sales and networking groups were popular back then, so I joined two SWAP groups, the Chamber of Commerce’s membership committee, a School District 11 board, and Win-Win. SWAP isn’t as fun and risqué it sounds—it’s an acronym for Salesmen with a Purpose, but they let me join anyway.

Within a couple months of attending Win-Win, I started managing the group, inviting speakers to talk, writing the newsletters and thank yous, and helping to maintain our 200-member list. Each Friday we listened to a speaker share how he or she conducted their work in a win-win way.

We’d learn from judges, educators, preachers (even Ted Haggard), psychologists (two now relatively well known), trainers, political leaders, business owners, criminals (one gal kidnapped a child, was detained, and missed her speaking engagement)—a wide range of professionals and at least one amateur. Enlightenment was continual, even newsworthy.

One thread I felt throughout our membership was deep spirituality. There was a closeness and connectedness among people, no matter what their beliefs. An atmosphere of acceptance wrapped warm arms around those in the room with only occasional dissonance and coffee breath. Unconditional love flowed through our meetings.

One recurrent belief many in this group held was that they had lived before—like parents before having children. They experienced another lifetime. They would tell me about their former lives as males or females, Nazis, victims of murder, Egyptian princesses, you name it. Each person had somehow remembered former experiences through past-life regression or simply through living. They just knew it.

Believing things I cannot see or prove is rather difficult for me. I lived in Eau Claire with two Christian girls who prayed in tongues, while I only ate and spoke with mine. Being instantly healed outside of gradual skin repair seemed a bit far-fetched for my little cerebrum…until 1982 when I attended a Christian concert at our church.

The Celebrant Singers were wonderful and full of spirit. After the music ended, the lead singer prayed to conclude our time together. He prayed and he prayed and he prayed, and I thought, I want to go home and sleep. And with that thought, he beseeched, “And Lord, may all those with throat afflictions be healed.”

Whoosh! A warm energy shot from above my head, through my body, hit the soles of my shoes, and returned up through my body with a chill. And poof! my tonsillitis was gone. Little white dots plagued me on and off for years. They were gone!

So I had proof. Healing is real. Sold.

But this past lives thing…I can’t seem to wrap my presence around it. But I shall be open and receptive to the concept, as well as the healing that purportedly accompanies the process.

So after I croak and you’re at a concert, and you see a confident, hot mama in a skimpy red dress belting out “Here I Come Again!” That’ll be me.

But I won’t be singing about reincarnation.

copyright © 2010 by Auntie Eartha. All rights reserved.

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Big Blue and Raising the Belly Button

I quite enjoy my work as a copyeditor and writer. But, as with any trade or profession, it has its downside: sitting.

Sitting is something I don’t do well for very long without wine or duct tape. I was raised in the Midwest with physically hardworking parents, and reading was not a part of their repertoire. Sitting too long meant you were lazy, unless, of course, you were watching football. I was lucky to be able to read a cereal box while eating.

I imagine I would have had much better grades had I learned to sit, read, and study. But since 2003, I have acquired a taste for all three. That year I added editing to my stable of salable skills, rather than giving it out for free. My work is peaceful, educational, and time efficient. And what’s best: I am paid to find mistakes and help a book become more clear, cohesive, and readable. When I offered these services to my former husband, he never paid me…with money.

One hint publishers offer is, when editing, take frequent breaks, get fresh air, and eat a large dark chocolate bar. That way you will do your best work—quicker. I have another idea to keep one’s body from succumbing to inactivity, aside from asking your partner to come home for lunch: change seats and positions.

Changing positions sprinkles spice into life. Some days I do it on the sofa, other days at the dining room table. Sometimes I’ll stand next to the island, then later move to a comfy living room chair. But my newest position is sitting on George my neighbor’s big blue ball with my iBook on a chair. My back bathes in the sun’s warmth while the screen sits in the dark.

After almost a week of working in this new position, I checked myself out after a shower and thought, just maybe, my belly button was higher than it was the week before. Sitting on the ball forced my body to stay erect and, therefore, to develop firmness.

God did not bless me with a flat stomach—ever. And I’m still a little hurt about that. Even my friend since eighth grade, George (not blue-ball George), wrote to me recently, “As for the stomach? Yes, you always had one. Depending on the day and time of month, it was there, in different framework. But still there.”

Oh, and he threw this one in: “You always had little boobs.”

And now, my friend, I have a belly button that is reaching them.

copyright © 2010 by Auntie Eartha. All rights reserved.

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I Swear

When I was in my last year of school, I told my unconventional mother that I planned to share a home with a couple of Christian girls. Her first reaction was, “So what are you gonna say if you hit your thumb with a hammer? Oh darn? Bummer?” Concluding with, “Good luck.”

They say some behaviors skip a generation or they continue. Well, not in my wild family. Nana was discreetly wild. Mom was out of control. And then there’s me. But when my daughter was 14, she declared, “Swearing is the dumbing of America.”

Well, in England one group feels a lot like my mom.

Apparently there is physical relief from swearing. And though this is not about Tourette’s syndrome, it could be related. In the University of California–Berkeley Wellness Letter (Nov. 2009), they report that Keele University’s School of Psychology in England conducted a study indicating swearing helps people better endure pain.* Researchers determined that using an irreverent word “triggers not only an emotional response but a physical one too.”

I’ve seen both responses—emotional and physical—demonstrated in close succession in bars when some guy says to another guy something about his mother. “What did you say?” Pop in the ol’ kisseroo. Response time from emotional to physical: one nanosecond.

The sixty-four undergraduates participating in the Keele study placed their hands in icy water while repeating their favorite naughty word, such as twaddlefart or poppycock.

Once thawed, the students repeated the icy-water dip, but this time each said a more mundane, no-one-would-cast-a-finger word, such as wet, chilly, or well whadaya know…more ice water.

The result: While using the more unpleasant word, students, in general, withstood more icy pain.

The deduction: When heading into a painful situation, such as court or hiatal hernia surgery without anesthesia, first soak in ice water and fully express yourself, so all your maledictions will be dispersed beforehand. (Though if court is the dreaded destination, I’d suggest icing the lawyers instead.)

So if it’s uncommon for you to curse, you may want to find one or two gems to tuck into your cache of infrequently used words, just in case you find yourself in pain. Ocr around one.

copyright © 2010 by Auntie Eartha. All rights reserved.

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* See research study at http://74.125.155.132/custom?q=cache:T3lpZixdkckJ:www.keele.ac.uk/depts/ps/people/RStephens/NR_Stephens_etal_2009.pdf+swearing+and+pain&cd=1&hl=en&ct=clnk&gl=us&client=google-coop-np

Soirées

It’s all worth it.

Our Christmas Eve soirée was filled with so much love and friendship that I will feel abundantly fulfilled for a long time.

So next time my tank’s on not-quite-full, I’m having a party!

How ’bout you?

copyright © 2009 by Auntie Eartha. All rights reserved.

If you like it, link it!
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’Tis the Season

It starts with a little sadness when cooler weather lingers longer. Leaves begin shriveling up and don’t look a whole lot different than my skin. When the back yard is covered in dried, brown foliage and winter’s approach is inevitable, melancholy dances atop my deepening sadness, thickening any atmosphere near me. Life feels like potato soup—with corn starch.

Then I’ll make the mistake of rousing the words Christmas and bank account in adjacent thoughts, and whap! depression moves into my heart like mice when the cabin owners are gone.

“But Christmas isn’t about marketing, buying stuff, and being materialistic.” Right. But it would be nice to have an option.

Along with the gloom come ruminations of decisions that could have been wiser, relationships that could have lasted longer, opportunities that I didn’t pursue, relationships that lasted too long. But now, at my age, starting over is like having a cold car with a dead battery in the middle of winter. I think you get the drift.

“But what about the white-bearded guy who started Kentucky Fried Chicken when he was two hundred years old?” He was too blind to see that his chicken had hair all over it.

Yes, folks, ’tis the season. The holidays are upon us like a thong on a hippo, and they may not be pretty.

So what can pull a po’ ol’ gal out of her heavy-hearted humility?

A party! Sharing food year-round is my way of giving. (I can listen well too.) But eating nutritious fare with friends is one of the best things in life. It makes the sun shine brighter on a cloudy day and the moon look twice as good against a window.

So c’mon and join the Christmas Eve soirée, no matter what your persuasion. ’Cause like a little tree growing out of a chunk of granite, Auntie’s leaving dormancy and sending out (s)hoots.

copyright © 2009 by Auntie Eartha. All rights reserved.

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Conversion

Praise God! I never thought I would hear these words out of my daughter. I mean, she’s a tough cookie, extremely opinionated, and unwavering in her beliefs, to a point that I find her insular at times.

So today is a monumental day. After nearly 17 years of life, she is converting.

As she finished dinner—barbequed chicken, rice, and her favorite veggie, corn—Ivy whispered, almost inaudibly, while covering her lips, “I want you to start cooking…(hushed) lentils. I don’t want to eat meat anymore.” Oh, and I might add to her list of characteristics—comedienne, hilarious, and dramatic wild woman.

My eyes widened. “Really? I mean, you joke around with me all the time. You really want to go vegetarian?”

Her eyes wandered to her left as she contemplated this commitment, then transitioned into discussing the movie her video production teacher has been showing them on the horrific abuse and torture of the still-living animals at slaughterhouses. “Yes,” she replied.

“The reason I went vegetarian at 18 was for the same reason. I saw one of those movies too. Even when we were beef farmers, we never raised the one we were going to eat, because we’d get very attached to each of our cows, calves, and bulls.” Plus I had a friend who didn’t eat meat. “You’ll feel better, look better, and be a better steward of Earth!”

But I backslid 27 years later. In 2005 when “that man” joined our family, he took us down the evil path. He was a wolf, a wolverine, a lion—a carnivore. So being the dutiful little wifelet I wanted to be, I began serving roasts and other dead animals. To my amazement, I uncovered a gift I didn’t know I had for preparing these lifeless creatures. I experimented with herbs, spices (my specialty), and marinades I’d concoct. Ooo-la-la, I felt like hot chilies!

And by the next year when “that man” had moved on (with a boot in his arse), I could have gone back to my meatless ways, but Ivy had an affinity for animal carcasses. Being a dutiful little momlet, I continued to permeate our home with these odors.

Ivy also went on to reeducate me about corn’s omnipresence in our lives and as livestock’s unhealthy filler feed. I added that the reason I’ve rarely consumed corn for three decades is because it’s comprised of starch, sugar, and used as filler. When she agreed, I smiled broadly.

Could life be any better? She’s becoming more like me!

copyright © 2009 by Auntie Eartha. All rights reserved.

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My Fish is Dead

My little fish flipped out again, but this time she was out too long. By the time I found her, Angel was harder than the last time and her tail had turned black.

Just the night before I was telling someone fish stories (see auntieeartha.blogspot.com/2009/06/angels-nine-lives-i-pray.html): about the last time I found her crispy and two flip-outs just this week. She was like the Little Mermaid who wanted to grow legs.

As I slept that night, I worry-dreamed about the fish, and at 6:18 a.m., I flew out of bed, thinking I had heard her hit the floor again. But instinctually I let Shiloh outside instead of checking on my fish. When we came back in, there was Angel on the kitchen rug again. This time I knew she was dead, but because I’ve been able to revive her in the past, I put her in her bowl, held her upright, and prayed.

This time, though, her energy was completely different than all the other times she’d flipped out. Then, a minute later, she slightly moved her gill. Within a half hour, she could keep herself upright, and throughout the day, she improved and the black in her tail turned white again. But it was obvious, her color and personality had declined.

My friend looked at the fish, shook his head, and said, “She’ll be—”

“No! Don’t say it!” I cried.

His mom used to raise fish for Colorado Springs pet stores and had numerous aquariums that she constructed, so he knew what a dying fish looked like.

All night the worst thoughts pervaded my mind. At midnight Angel was barely alive. I had more strange dreams. By three she was sideways on the bottom.

I have never handled death well. My connection to everything is so strong that I feel subtle energy emanating from not only humans and animals but from trees and mountains. Sometimes all this stimulus is too much to deal with. It makes me wonder why I adopt animals…and I won’t anymore.

The night my Nana died, I parted company with her prior to her departure. She had raised me, yet I couldn’t handle being with her at that moment. I’m not sure I should feel guilty, so I justify my retreat. At the precise moment her spirit left her body, though, I was amidst a crowd and gravitated to a quiet corner where I sat and felt her pass.

When my little yellow Lab and almost human, Alex, transitioned May 20, 2000, I knew the exact second he died and came upstairs to find him. That experience is still one of my worst. Not sure I could even write about it. No matter who dies, I know I’m partially to blame. And I should have gotten my little fish a different bowl.

I will bury Angel in my rose garden and never forget her. I will still hear her noises—the small ploop, ploop sounds of her eating or blowing bubbles, the foraging between stones to find fallen food. I’ll miss looking into her bowl and greeting my little fishy-poo—’cause that girl had personality.

copyright © 2009 by Auntie Eartha. All rights reserved.

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Testosterone

Practically all year they graze and drink together, walk side by side or in single file, keep each other company, and even lick each other…or themselves…because they can.

But when the leaves fall and the smell of crisp, dry foliage fills the air, they become, shall we say, frisky and downright mean toward each other—and anything else in their way.

Rutting season is here. It’s when I feel trapped in my house and don’t hike for fear a buck will charge, ’cause they never pay cash.

On a recent hike, one scoped me while Shiloh was off trail relieving himself. When my hiking buddy calmly said, “Turn around,” and I saw this 14-pointer leap over the wood fence aiming toward me, I almost relieved myself. Fortunately, he made an abrupt 120-degree angle and headed up the hill. What a relief.

And yesterday when a 5 by 5 (ten tines on his beams) looked through our garden-level window, his knees at my eye level, and he started scratching the ground, lowering his ears, and steering his rack toward me, I closed the blinds.

He then turned left, snorted at his contender on the other side of our fence, and Mr. Testosterone Two, in turn, wheezed his reply.

Elks bugle; mule deer wheeze through their noses like elephants trumpeting through their trunks (sec 0:17 on clip). Hormones drip from their noses. I saw it. As many times as these powerful animals have been in our yard, I have never heard them make that sound.

All day long, they engaged in a standoff, each on one side of our fence, posturing like little kids who have to pee. Hindquarters lowered, knees bent inward, small movements back and forth, eyes watering, then a quick rearing of the head with a snort.

What a tedious chore this hostile escalation is. Occasionally, one of the adversaries will lie down and drink a beer, while the other rolls his eyes and exhales, miffed because he was so close to engaging. These two are proof that evolution can go in reverse. They’re supposed to be challenging each other for female access, but yesterday no does were to be seen in our yard.

At dusk, with the smell of musk overpowering the aroma of cracked leaves, I heard the neighbor dog whimper and felt the earth move beneath my chair. “Quick!” I shouted to my daughter, and we ran to the living room window. There were Jack Lemmon and Walter Matthau, horns locked, buck snot flying, doing an intimate tango, and destroying one of my gardens.

Crack! Two large pieces of pottery holding my stand of parsley ruined. Over bricks and flagstone, scraping and dragging their hooves across the ground, they forced each other from one side of our yard to the other. While it was as exciting as the Thunderbirds flying over the house, it was clear how much these horny deer could destroy.

Finally, one sperm donor heard his mommy calling him home for dinner, so he extricated himself from the lovelock and sprinted east through the woods, his hungry rival trailing close behind.

So now my backyard looks like the war zone it was. Jack-o’-lantern remains are strewn about. Deep, muddy gouges slice through the carpet of green grass. Flagstone is scratched white and peppered with mud. Chunks of fur lie on the grass and rock.

And the dazed doofi didn’t even leave me an antler.

copyright © 2009 by Auntie Eartha. All rights reserved.

If you like it, link it! http://auntieeartha.blogspot.com/2009/11/testosterone.html

The Golden Years (my ass)

When I was young, it drove me crazy that older people—usually my boyfriends—would turn their conversation around to their health. Well, it wasn’t really about health, it was their lack of health. Dialogue gravitated to aches, pains, their wives, and what didn’t work that used to, how they used to be able to do something they no longer could, and how hard it was to keep up.

That was during a time when I’d rather have been talking about whose parties were coming up, sales I’d made, music I’d played, weekend jaunts I’d taken or planned, dinners, and sex. Now those topics were exciting.

Even ten years ago I said, “I’m so much more comfortable with myself as I get older. I look better, feel better, and have more confidence. But now? You know what I think of “the golden years”? They suck like a pool drain. I hate getting old. What makes it even harder is that I’m still a teenager in my brain.

But when I hit 49, the declining-health talk I’d formerly cringed at began to eek out of me when I spoke. It’s not as if I planned it, it simply emerged. I began talking about what was happening to my body: cells that needed to be destroyed, movements that weren’t being inspired, not feeling like a hottie, shrinking boobs. And whereas talking about bodily events used to lead to interesting discussions, the exchange became more of a dirge.

And you know that phrase “There are those who do it and those who talk about it”? I was talking about it. By choice. I got so self-conscious about all the purportedly uncontrollable* things going on in my body that I couldn’t imagine being too close to someone, not even the dog.

If this rings any bells with you, we’re part of the same club. The dreaded Silver Club, like a golf club—not the building, the silver rod with a mallet at the end to hit balls with. Hard, ’cause you’re so pissed off. How can you feel so young in your brain yet have a body that looks and acts so different, so old?

When I aged another year and joined Club 50, I decided to view the physiological changes as natural and not fight them. You know, start loving myself in this evolutionary stage. For 50, I figured I didn’t look too bad anyway. ’Course I need glasses. Plus the only person who sees me in the morning is my daughter, and she’s way past the shock.

So what do I do with the wrinkles around my eyes? Fill ’em with makeup. When the inner tube that used to be a stomach area gets too big, I wear long shirts. I use the little bumps that used to be my boobs as an excuse for not wearing a bra. Really, what’s the point?

When my pants feel tight, I don’t wear any. And because I work from home, when I look old, fat, and unacceptable, I can forgo being seen, except of course by the critical chick in the mirror. But I’m learning to ignore her criticism. (She-devil.)

So if you see a caulked-up, long-shirted, brassiereless gal wearing no pants, walking her dog, don’t think, Whoa! There’s a golden girl who’s lost her marbles. Think, teenager. Think, Woodstock. Think, titillating!

copyright © 2009 by Auntie Eartha. All rights reserved.

* purportedly uncontrollable: I’ll elaborate on this topic later.

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Soldier in Hiding

In 1953 my friend was stationed at the Fort Ord army base in Monterey, California. By that time, he’d already graduated from college with a bachelor’s in music, had lived through basic training, and was enrolled in the army’s clerk school.

After a short stint in the army, he and another private were promoted to a different unit and ordered to collect their personal items. Together they headed to the barracks to pack. When they arrived, they quite unexpectedly found a young private already in the barracks, which was forbidden without permission.

As my friend and his cohort gathered their belongings, they occasionally glanced to the barracks’ other side, trying to ascertain why the other private was there. When they heard voices outside, all three men turned and looked out the window and saw two captains approaching.

Frightened, the obviously prohibited private jumped into his wall locker and shut the door.

The captains strolled in, and conversation indicated there would be a changing of the guard. Protocol dictated that an outgoing officer review equipment and tour the buildings with the incoming one, so the assuming officer would learn the ropes.

As the outgoing captain walked and talked through the routine, he casually opened a locker for inspection—the one containing the scared private. Noticeably shocked, but maintaining his composure, the captain said, “Soldier! What are you doing in there?”

The young man sheepishly drawled, “I don’t know, sir.”

With that, and trying to suppress his laughter, the captain closed the locker door and continued with his instruction.

copyright © 2009 by Auntie Eartha. All rights reserved.

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Bee Dipper

Adam’s Mountain Café has grown from a quaint, eclectic restaurant in Manitou Springs, Colorado, to a more cosmopolitan, cultured enclave in the old Spa Building, on Manitou Avenue, the street where it first began.

During the 25 years I’ve dined there, the chefs have continued to create amazing dishes with a classy flair. Primarily known for exquisite vegetarian fare, they also serve tasty dead animals too. With nuts, cheeses, herbs, spices, and sauces, they transform ordinary into an extraordinary expression of flavors.

On a cool summer day, our friend treated my daughter and me to lunch. It felt so good to get out of the house and have someone wait on me. When the waiter brought our beverages, I inhaled the steam from my warm peppermint tea and began to thaw.

I drew the ceramic honey bowl closer to me and removed the notched cover, so I could drizzle some sweet stuff into my tea. As I lifted the little wooden honey dipper, I watched the viscous liquid slowly cascade back into the bowl.

When the dipper was almost drained of its honey, I leaned in to get a closer look. It appeared something was stuck to the wood.

After my eyes focused better, I giggled and said, “Look! Isn’t this a clever idea. This honey dipper has a bee as a decoration to keep the honey from falling so fast.”

My daughter looked into the bowl, then inquisitively at me, “It is a bee, Mom,” she said, “but it’s still a great idea.”

So the moral of the story is, look closely at food or drink before moving it past your lips, because recently, in the middle of the night when I drank my water, I swallowed a spider.

copyright © 2009 by Auntie Eartha. All rights reserved.

If you like it, link it!
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Psychopaths, Spiders, and Hotrods

A reader called Hotrod responded to my “Internet Dating” story with some astute points that have made me reconsider my narrow viewpoint, so I encourage you to read his comment.

I would agree, psychopaths are everywhere, and there is no requirement for honesty, whether you meet someone in person or online. And I should know. I had a financially disingenuous guy in my life for a year. His deceitful behavior cause creditors to call my number and send collections notices to my mailbox continuously—after four years of my boot in his arse. It’s extremely disheartening to know that I could make such a poor choice, like if I shopped at Wal-mart.

Hotrod asked, “How is it that your hot tub has so many strangers happening by for you to meet?”

Thank you for asking. Here’s a story of only one stranger in my tub that I can recall. One eve I jumped into the hot tub for a little plumping. I slid into the lounge, closed my eyes, and meditated for a while, when I sensed something behind me. Slowly I turned around, and there, inspecting the color of my roots, was a sweet little gray jumping spider with furry legs.

I said hello with my eyes, six fewer than my new acquaintance’s, and he greeted me. Rather than acting frightened, he moved closer to the end of my big nose, which was still quite a distance from my eyes. His forward nature intrigued me, so I pulled my finger out of the water and moved it toward him. This made him jump back a few spider lengths.

He sensed I wasn’t a predator and was as curious as he, so we performed the meeting dance. Finally he indicated he had dinner to catch, made a right turn, and cascaded down the tub’s wall.

I was so fascinated by my little visitor that I went upstairs and learned about jumping spiders. Though their field of vision is narrow, it is incredibly sharp.

A characteristic I find most interesting is that they have an internal hydraulic system. They alter the pressure of their blood, which extends their limbs, and it enables them to jump 20 to 80 times their body length. Wherever the spider goes, it tethers a silk filament to whatever it is standing on, so if it falls, it can climb back up. [Taken from http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Jumping_spider] Cool!

And these little creatures are stalkers. They use the features God gave them to hunt, see, pounce, and bite. So next time I meet my acquaintance, I may give him a wider berth, in case our meeting dance is really a meating dance.

Here’s another informational site: http://www.everythingabout.net/articles/biology/animals/arthropods/arachnids/spiders/jumping_spider/

Now I ask, with an epithet like Hotrod, would you find cool chicks at the racetrack? With a name like Eartha, I look up to the sky.

copyright © 2009 by Auntie Eartha. All rights reserved.

If you like it, link it!
http://auntieeartha.blogspot.com/2009/09/psychopaths-spiders-and-hotrods.html

Endurance

In 1953 my friend was in the army’s basic training at Fort Ord in Monterey, California.

I’m pretty certain I could not live through the rigors of basic training, and in fact, some have not, due to the strenuous endurance training our men in the military must survive before moving to the next step.

For eight weeks back in ’53, sergeants drilled our future soldiers who withstood heat, exhausting exercises, mentally fatiguing drills, and obstacle courses only the fit can complete. Without preparation, these can be near-death experiences.

On a hot, humid day, a platoon of men had to do double time during an all-day, on-foot exercise with their gear that included rifles weighing just over 10 pounds. Their burden was beyond tolerable and enough to kill an overheated, dehydrated man.

Miles into this exercise and after walking at a slower pace, the sergeant shouted to the men to pick up their speed, and they began marching at double time again. Many detested this sergeant, a large, surly black man, whose only emotion seemed to be irritation.

A young private, a white man, was noticeably fatigued and appeared to be close to exhaustion. Seeing this, the muscled, temperamental sergeant moved toward him, grabbed the young soldier’s rifle, and carried it for him in addition to his own, then ran by the private’s side for the rest of the exercise.

Such inspiration the sergeant’s action aroused, that all the soldiers had renewed energy and purpose and successfully completed their mission.

copyright © 2009 by Auntie Eartha. All rights reserved.

If you like it, link it!
http://auntieeartha.blogspot.com/2009/09/endurance.html

Paper or Plastic

The following story is one I just received from a friend.

I am back working at the suicide prevention hotlines and admissions to the psychiatric unit at our local facility. Although it is often a sad endeavor trying to keep the humblest of God's human creatures alive from day to day, there are some occasional bright spots.

The other night a couple of guys in their mid to late 50s came in. They were brothers, and one of them was bringing in the other for admission.

I asked the potential client/patient why he was there. He told me he had been thinking about killing himself and had planned, and even rehearsed, his method of suicide. This is very sad but true that suicidal people will rehearse killing themselves.

I asked the client what his plan was. After some elaborate detail during which he evaded my question, I finally asked, “How were you going to kill yourself? What were you going to do?”

He replied, “I planned to put a bag over my head.”

I responded with the only thing I could at that moment: “Was it going to be paper or plastic?”

Go ahead, you can laugh. Even the client and his brother laughed.

Sometimes in the tunnel of darkness, there are small lights and great lights. They can either be a train thundering in your direction or lightning bugs sent to amuse. I prefer the lightning bugs.

The man was admitted and is alive to this day.

copyright © 2009 by Auntie Eartha. All rights reserved.

If you like it, link it!
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Puddy-tats

A male friend has always called cats “pussies.” For years I expressed my disgust of the term to him, and after 23 years, I laid down my sword and took his side.

One day I was in a hurry to get out the door and leave with my daughter. Part of the leaving ritual involves getting the cats to the lower level, because I don't trust Piercing, the long-haired cat, upstairs (though I do trust Tattoo, the short hair).

As I scurried about, looking for the cats, I said to Ivy, “Where are the pussies?”

She cocked her head, squinted her eyes at me, and replied, “I think they’re in our pants.”

And so goes life at the zoo.

copyright © 2009 by Auntie Eartha. All rights reserved.

If you like it, link it!
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Internet Dating

Disclaimer: Internet dating has served a few of my friends. In fact, at least two of my guy friends have married their cyberlovers. One’s still in love, but the other gave his back.

I’ve always thought Internet dating was a freaky way to meet someone. I can imagine the headline: “Unsuspecting Girl Meets Clutter-Freak Psychopath via the Internet.” Considering I’m a mom, I am superselective about whom I drag home by the hair. And I probably wouldn’t knowingly date a guy who does iDating.

If by fat chance I were to meet someone, I’d probably be doing something I enjoy, such as eating in a decent restaurant, hiking, perusing in a bookstore, grocery shopping, socializing, shooting pool, singing, playing guitar, tasting wine, sitting in my hot tub, or writing.

As a matter of fact, I did meet someone, or something, in my tub and at the grocery store. More in upcoming stories.

But writing it was when I met my match.

In October 2008, I e-mailed a Neighborhood Watch update to about 66 neighbors in the area, many of whom I’ve never met but who have asked to be on my mailing list.

One kind person thanked me for my work and shared some insight about the neighborhood that I found valuable, so I e-mailed back, asking more questions. Well, that e-mail led to another and another, and we, quite innocently, started our relationship.

It turns out we had mutual friends and enemies, shared complementary problems, so we could help each other, and we encouraged each other as no one else would have. We have been open, honest, giving, sharing, and when we disagreed on a couple of issues, we recovered quickly.

It wasn’t until June 2009, when I needed professional advice on how to help a friend, that we finally spoke briefly on the phone.

But it’s as if we don’t want to break the spell, and we haven’t met in person. But I consider my iDating match Gayle a true friend, even if she isn’t a member of the opposite sex.

copyright © 2009 by Auntie Eartha. All rights reserved.

If you like it, link it!
http://auntieeartha.blogspot.com/2009/08/internet-dating.html

Scotland Bomber Released

My hiking buddy asked me what I thought of releasing the convicted Lockerbie, Scotland, bomber, because he is terminally ill with prostate cancer. Although former Libyan secret service agent Abdelbeset Ali Mohmed al-Megrahi has maintained his innocence, he was handed a life sentence for murdering 270 people around Christmastime 1988.

My thought? Release him from a jet at 27,000 feet over the Atlantic—100 feet for every person whose life was lost.

But what if he really wasn’t guilty?

copyright © 2009 by Auntie Eartha. All rights reserved.

If you like it, link it!
http://auntieeartha.blogspot.com/2009/08/scotland-bomber-released.html

http://www.cnn.com/2009/WORLD/europe/08/20/scotland.lockerbie.bomber/index.html

Streaking

It’s so much fun to do things that are on the fringe, like wearing whipped cream, not wearing panties, and streaking. Most of us have stories from our high school or college years that would make our parents (or kids) cringe.

Streaking slid out of vogue soon after the song “The Streak” was released in 1974, yet even recently I’ve thought, What would the neighbors think if I dashed outside naked? Would they turn me in? Would they think I fell off my rocker? Would they even notice? It’s not that I’m as proud as I can be of my anatomy, as Ray Stevens sang. Frankly, I’m quite boyish in my appearance. The act would be for effect.

Naturism is a part of many cultures, even in a few spots in Colorado, where there are vacation spas and pools, such as Mountain Air Ranch and Orvis Hot Springs, where it’s clothing optional.

For years I had a recurring dream. I’d be changing from my gym uniform into street clothes in our junior high girls’ locker room when, all of a sudden, the bell would ring, girls would rush, and I’d end up sprinting to my next class, shall I say, without my books and normal looks. I was mortified and couldn’t find my way back to the locker room, so I’d dart aimlessly, overexposed, amid a gawking student body.

I’ve talked with others who have had almost the same dream. Fears. Or is it a desire to do something we’re not supposed to do?

Back in 1974 or ’75 my cousin Hope was having a slumber party. We girls started talking about streaking, and eventually devised a plan for one of us to streak. Being the odd one of the bunch and three years older than the others, they voted me Most Likely to Streak.

So, I slipped on horizontal-striped socks and a trench coat. Don’t think dirty old man, think, skinny blonde with legs up to her neck.

The plan: My cousin’s friends would accompany me to the designated Release Spot on seldom-traveled Trump Lake Road. When a designated girl would yell “Now!” I’d drop the coat, the girls would catch it, and they’d follow me, in case someone drove around the curve. That way they could cover me quickly.

What I didn’t know was that these clever little defectors had a different plan.

“Now!” someone yelled. I dropped my coat and started running. But their giggling voices were moving farther away. Rather than catching my coat and acting as my entourage, the little traitors ran with my coat in the opposite direction!

When I turned to see them running away from me, I gasped! Oh my gosh! What am I gonna do?!

Realizing I couldn’t catch them and not wanting to sprint in my birthday suit alone on the road, I decided to run for cover. Though I was closer to my aunt and uncle’s home, getting caught in this predicament was more punishment than I could handle, so I decided to run into the neighbors’ summer home.

I opened the side door, flew through the kitchen, and gasped again as I saw poor, sick, little Joe raising a spoon of Corn Flakes toward his mouth. His eyes grew as big as his bowl, he dropped his spoon, and I leaped into their bathroom. “Hi, Joe,” I cautiously peeped from behind the bathroom door.

A while after I heard him push in his chair and walk upstairs, I wrapped myself in a towel and headed back to my aunt and uncle’s—to devise a familial redress.

copyright © 2009 by Auntie Eartha. All rights reserved.

If you like it, link it!
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Between a Wall and a Toilet

For years I’ve said, “I’d rather clean a toilet than paint.”

I’m not sure when my aversion to painting began, but it could have been when I painted my Nana’s house, the summer “Afternoon Delight” was released. Let’s see. I had just turned 17.

Being a singer who loved the outdoors, painting Nana’s large home emerald green while earning a little green seemed ideal. Enough space and trees separated her home from the neighbors, so I could belt out the high notes without any apologies.

The worst part of the two-week job was on the last day. And believe me, it wasn’t because I was sad to be almost done. I was exhausted, my arm ached, and I really started hating the color green, which for an ecologist-environmentalist is sacrilegious.

During the final days, I ascended and descended the ladder numerous times as I painted the trim white. Finally, at about 4:00 in the afternoon, I was delighted to be on the last side, a short one.

As I climbed the ladder and lifted the paint can up to set it on the fold-out tray, my aim was a negative attitude off. I hit the side of the tray causing the can to tip, slosh, then fall out of my grip. I watched in slow motion as white paint glopped all over my emerald green work. I screamed.

Painting is not just about coating a surface with a liquid. It’s also about preparation, gathering the needed materials, and cleanup.

The interior of our current house was looking shabby last year. I knew that touching up the white baseboards would perk up the place, but I had to tease myself into the job. First I got the can out and set it on the kitchen counter. Three weeks later it remained unopened, so I put it away. Three weeks after that, I went into the garage and shook the can, then put it back.

“How does Joanne do it?” I asked aloud. My former flatmate painted rooms all the time. Wild thing.

Finally I thought, Maybe I’m scared of big brushes! So I shook the can, cracked it open, slipped on latex gloves, and started painting baseboards with a small watercolor brush. Sure it took longer, but cleanup was a breeze.

Eventually, I graduated to using a small rag moistened with paint to complete the baseboard project. I felt empowered!

By Christmastime 2008, I bit the bullet. I hadn’t remodeled my daughter, Ivy’s, room in five years, so I decided to Africanize it. Bed, Bath & Beyond had a fabulous sheet and comforter ensemble, a friend donated African fabric and a vase, and another friend allowed me to enlarge and frame photos he shot in Africa. Ivy’s dad contributed a new ceiling-light cover, and all that was left to set the scene was paint.

On Christmas Eve I suggested terra cotta for the color, which Ivy and I decided should be on two adjacent walls. I spread most of the paint with a spongy applicator. Oh my gosh! It turned out beautifully. At night when she illumines her room, a warm glow flows into the hallway, creating a warm, inviting welcome.

I was on a roll, preparing mentally for my next project.

There were two special paints I’d purchased in 2005 to match my dining room furniture—cerulean and mauve. The plan: Atop the one tan wall, I’d use a rag to create a design with the cerulean. Once dry, I’d rag on the mauve, so the colors would bring out those in the chairs.

The plan never materialized. But as I lay in my bed one morning, I realized those colors would look good in my room too. After thinking about this for several months, I did it!

The result? Everyone who sees it is in awe. My real estate agent even said, “People pay thousands for work like this!”

I might have to start singing a new commode-free tune: Rubbing moist liquid on a bumpy or smooth surface can be an afternoon delight and create ecstatic results.

copyright © 2009 by Auntie Eartha. All rights reserved.

If you like it, link it!
http://auntieeartha.blogspot.com/2009/08/between-wall-and-toilet.html

Colonoscopy

What’s the first thing you think of when someone says, “I just turned 50”?

Maybe you wonder if they scheduled their colonoscopy. It’s the second stage in the rite of passage; the first is admitting that you actually are 50.

The week before my procedure, I brought up the topic to everyone I met. At a wine and music event, I sat at a table with folks who’d endured more than one colonoscopy. All of them said it’s no big deal. But the day before isn’t any fun.

So the day before “the day before,” I ate very little. And on Sunday when I was allowed nothing but clear liquids, it wasn’t much different from Fridays, when I generally don’t eat. Preparation C, for “cleanout,” also consisted of four tablets of “the worldwide no. 1 selling overnight laxative,” Dulcolax, which on me acted like pepper triggering a sneeze: It was not an overnight phenomenon. My neighbor’s advice of staying home and not going to the neighborhood potluck was sage.

A couple of hours after swallowing Dulcolax, I was directed to pour seven doses of MiraLax powder into 64 ounces of chartreuse-colored Gatorade. MiraLax is polyethylene glycol, a synthetic resin used as a solvent or wax. I’m guessing in this case, it’s a solvent. In the drug facts, it reads, “Stop use and ask a doctor if you get diarrhea.”

Kind of ironic.

Because I’d consumed so much liquid already, I had little room for much else, yet after three hours, the Gatorade was gone, along with everything inside me.

The next morning at 4:30 I was back at the bottles—MiraLax and Gatorade. My tongue fell out of my face at 6:10 a.m. No more.

Showered and lighter, I floated next door to Bette’s for a lift to the gas blower. You know how some women have a husband to take them to doctors’ appointments? Well, I don’t need a husband—I have Bette.

In the waiting room, we waited. When nurse Kris called my name, we jumped up and went into a preparation room. “I’m scared,” I told Kris. “I’ve never had an IV before. Do I have to have drugs? Do you know how much to give me? I’m rather skinny. Have you lost anyone yet? Why would you want this job?”

Nurse Kris patiently answered my questions. “You don’t have to be sedated. Would you like to have the procedure done without drugs?” Her tone of voice and expression formed my reply.

“Maybe not,” I whimpered.

“And who’s this with you?”

“Bette. She’s my confidante, neighbor, and drives the short bus for me.”

“So is it all right if she hears all the bad news that the doctor might tell you?” she sort of asked.

“Oh yes, please. All the news from North Korea too.”

“Okay. Take off your clothes and put on this cute little gown that exposes your rear,” Kris sweetly ordered. “Be right back!”

While she was gone those two minutes, I said to Bette, “What do you suppose is behind these curtains?” I peeked around the side to find sliding glass doors, a hallway, and another room across the hall that looked like a laboratory. Suddenly I felt as if I were in a university hospital and a whole class planned to observe my procedure from the hallway, giggle, and make anatomically correct comments about my hemorrhoids.

Kris skipped back in, pulling me out of my nightmare. “Now lie back on the bed and relax.”

Sure.

When nurse number two walked in, I realized they were ganging up on me for the kill. “This is Elizabeth,” Kris announced. “She’ll be inserting your IV and feeding tube.” I could picture the straitjacket with a chink cut out for my butt hole.

“Will it hurt? I think I hear my daughter calling me.”

“No, it’s nothin—”

“Ouch! How long will this hurt?” Elizabeth, pretending to be mute, strapped the needle hole to my arm with several rounds of tape. I was stuck now. “It still hurts,” I whined. I noticed the pleasure she took in using my body as an oversize pincushion. Bet she’s mad at her boyfriend.

Behind me, Kris kindly interrogated in rapid-fire succession. “When was the last time you ate solid food?”

“I think, a month ago.”

“When was your last drink of liquids?”

“I had a shot of tequila at 6:10 this morning.”

“Have you had any aspirin or anti-inflammatory drugs in the past week?”

Drugs, that’s what I forgot. “No.”

“Have you any allergies?”

“Onions,” I said, “and men. That’s why I have Bette here.”

They liked that. “Do you have a family history of colon cancer?”

“My family’s full of it,” I honestly replied.

“Wheel ’er in!” Back flew the curtains, slide went the glass door, and whoosh went the gurney on which I rode.

“Never been on a gurney before!”

In the laboratory I met Gail, the drug-prep nurse. I suddenly felt like a character in Young Frankenstein. We chit-chatted about painful topics, probably to get me in the mood.

Then I felt something move inside of me. “I think I have to go to the bathroom,” I told her.

“We have a suction.”

“Oh? What are you doing with all those needles?” I hesitantly asked.

“I’m preparing your drugs.”

Then I heard someone waltz in behind me and slide over to the sink by the window. As she washed her hands, I asked, “Are you Sue the doctor?”

“Yes, I am!” the perky little 15-year-old blonde answered, then pranced over to me. As she sat down and looked at me, she asked, “So why are you here today?”

“I’m here for the interview. Did you clean those instruments?”

“Yes. And are you having any problems?”

“Well, I may have irritable bowel syndrome, because you know as we get older, we have fewer enzymes to digest— What are you doing with that needle?!”

“Oh, I’m just putting a little sedative in you,” the little bombshell said as she injected Versed and fentanyl in me.

“I’m really small, so you don’t have to put very much in,” I uneasily offered. “And I’ve been having pain right here, and I’m thinking maybe it’s my colon and not my left ovary and…” I crashed.

I faintly heard, “Can you roll over on your left side for me?” I grunted and rolled like a beached whale. I did feel a sharp pain when they turned on their gas blower.

“Bette!” I eeked when I awakened in the first room. “How long have I been here?”

“About 15 minutes.”

“Am I going to live?”

“Yes.”

So I slipped on my sundress, opened the door, and in my Versed-induced hypnotic state said thank you to everyone and wiggled my butt to the car. I think.

copyright © 2009 by Auntie Eartha. All rights reserved.

If you like it, link it!
http://auntieeartha.blogspot.com/2009/08/colonoscopy.html

Fresh Versus Bottled Water

Reading the local Gazette, I see that Colorado leads in fitness, yet our fitness seems to be physical, not mental. In some ways, we Coloradans are as clogged as a sluggish bowel.

If you’ve traveled to other places in the world, maybe you’ve tried their water. In Mexico, it tastes like tequila; in Germany, beer; in France, wine; in Scotland, scotch; in Iraq, trouble.

No matter where I’ve visited, I have never had water as good as it is in Colorado Springs. Nestlé must agree. They want to buy Chafee County Colorado’s water and bottle it under the Arrowhead label.

Bottled water. Why don’t people think before they do things?

Pour good, fresh water into an outgassing petroleum container and take a swig. Not quite the same, is it? It’s awful, empty, and tastes like (gasp) plastic. With the world’s thirst for oil and plastic, though, bottled water slides past gums like petrol through an Expedition.

After drinking the contaminated serving or two, many still throw bottles in the trash! Makes me want to slap someone. Hard.

According to the Gazette, the national average for recycling waste is 28.5 percent. Coloradans recycle only 12.5 percent of our waste. Laziness.

In general, American water is safe to drink from the tap. We’re running into leeching problems in the eastern states where the infrastructure is old, but we typically try to keep water flowing as purely as possible. That’s what our tax dollars are for. And when we run out of tax money, we just print more.

The recession has been such a blessing. People are finally buying less, so there will be less excess crap to fill.

People are opting for birth control, rather than bringing another person into the world who would need space, food, water, and all the ancillary junk humans accumulate. Sometimes people act like bowerbirds adorning their nests with colorful shells and feathers that will be discarded after the children have flown away.

Whatever happened to common sense?

I hope that bottled water is banned, unless there is honestly a reason to drink from a plastic bottle.

But I can’t imagine beer or wine mixed with the taste of plastic.

copyright © 2009 by Auntie Eartha. All rights reserved.

If you like it, link it!
http://auntieeartha.blogspot.com/2009/08/fresh-versus-bottled-water.html

Party Games

Saturday night at dusk, my daughter and I heard people hootin’ an’ hollerin’. I glanced over at my daughter and gave her my best “oh well” look. She said, “It’s obvious someone’s playing a rousing game of pin the tail on the donkey.”

copyright © 2009 by Auntie Eartha. All rights reserved.

If you like it, link it!
http://auntieeartha.blogspot.com/2009/07/party-games.html

Silence and Its Antithesis: the Barking Dog Syndrome

If I were a dog, I’d be the type that people would only hear barking when there was a reason to bark, like if I saw a cute guy or spotted a skunk or heard a mountain lion or was upset with my owner for not giving me a juicy bone.

And I’d wag my tail a lot—particularly after I barked at the cute guy.

I would not bark garrulously, for fear someone wouldn’t like me, or would walk away and not say why, or would kill me. Like most, I lack complete confidence. I’d do my best to behave, so hopefully others would like me.

Last year we had a lot of burglaries in our region, so perhaps homeowners bought dogs to protect their property. But like car alarms that only seem to go off on non-break-in occasions, barking dogs don’t seem to be alerting anyone to danger.

The dogs and their owners in my home’s vicinity must have their fur stuffed with groundless confidence, because all I hear is obnoxious, incessant, peace-draining barks. Sometimes perpetual barking fills what should be our night’s silence. I hear more noise than a bar filled with bikers and a band on a Friday night.

I must be the only one who hears the commotion, though, because if someone lived even a couple of houses from any of these abhorrent dog owners, they would conquer the explosive cries with a neighborly little chat or love note, right?

But I live two or three blocks from these thoughtless meatheads and know not precisely where they are. You see, many of the barking-dog owners in a three-block radius of my home sense when I put my jammies on. They know I won’t venture out in the dark wearing jammies to hunt them down.

But soon I may. The mercury is rising.

Oh my God! This just happened. It’s 11 p.m. Two dogs have been barking at each other like jealous boyfriends for 10 minutes. A shot just rang out. Not a firecracker or bottle rocket, a shotgun sound—and the dogs aren’t barking anymore. Hmm, silence : )

Is there something wrong with silence? Apparently the law thinks peace is a good thing.*

The other evening as I prepared to sit in my hot tub, a backyard neighbor’s high-pitched-yipping dog indicated displeasure with its life via uninterrupted yapping for 12 minutes. Mindless little moron.

Preparing to help its yelp with a little pop of the pea shooter, I summoned my strength and opted for a little silence-breaking soliloquy myself.

“No!” I yelled out the window. The pinhead barked a little louder—then went inside.

Minutes later while sitting in hot water, a retriever-sounding dog wailed and screamed and sounded as if it were being castrated without aid of brandy just four houses east of the first dog. I decided to pour vinegar on its wounds later, but first loudly sang, “Staaahaaaaaaaap!” (That’s an elongated “stop,” but if I’d typed a series of o’s, it would look like “stoop.”)

Shortly after my song, the dog stopped—then went inside.

My home should be my sanctuary. Things in my midst should evoke peace. That’s not been the case.

I wonder, 

Am I the only one who hears these dogs yelp?
Are these dog owners deaf?
Are the neighbors of these owners deaf?
Are these dog owners ever home?
Do these rude dog owners give a hoot whether their neighbors three blocks away can’t sleep all night because their dog barks and lives without the attention it apparently needs?
What about all the neighbors in between the dog and three blocks away?

If I were a dog, I’d hunt down the owners of neglected and abused dogs and bite them. Real hard.

To the inconsiderados:
Your dog is driving us nuts,
and frankly, we haven’t the guts
to say to its face
“you’re invading our space,”
so perhaps you would do it for us. Amen.

I’m thinking about starting two new services:
(1) I’ll post barking-dog videos with addresses on Auntie,
(2) for $10, I’ll send an anonymous letter with a nicer poem, or just the letter of the law, to the person you request.

Let’s hear your story of how you got a dog owner to stop his or her dog’s barking.

Remember: It is not the dog’s fault.

copyright © 2009 by Auntie Eartha. All rights reserved.

If you like it, link it!
http://auntieeartha.blogspot.com/2009/07/silence-and-its-antithesis-barking-dog.html

* For El Paso County, Colorado:

http://hsppr.org/NetCommunity/Page.aspx?pid=221&srcid=627
Is there a set time that animals are allowed to bark?
Per the City/County ordinance an animal is not allowed to bark and disturb the peace and quiet of the neighborhood at any time, day or night. Please visit the Animal Control Ordinances page for more information.

http://hsppr.org/NetCommunity/Page.aspx?pid=227
Barking Dogs
Incessant barking can be very disturbing to the peace and quiet of a neighborhood. In addition, it violates County ordinances to harbor such a disturbance. If your neighbor's noisy pet is habitually disturbing you, please call the Humane Society at 473-1741 to learn about possible courses of action.

City/County Law
It shall be unlawful to own or keep a dog which, by barking, howling, baying or other utterance, disturbs the peace and quiet of the neighborhood. (6.7.115) (Res. 78-136, Sec 16)

I Am What I Ate

When I was 24, I sat in front of the mirror with my hairstylist behind me clipping away, and she said, "Wow! You sure eat a lot of carrots."

I slowly turned to view her eyes rather than her reflection and gave her an incredulous look. "How do you know that?"

"Because your skin is orange," she remarked.

It had happened so gradually, I hadn’t noticed the effect of eating the carrots I craved in the morning with my coffee. I was what I ate—orange. Maybe I needed beta carotene, the precursor of vitamin A.

Or maybe I just wanted to be more like my bright, beautiful, orange-haired friend Sue. (I love you : )

copyright © 2009 by Auntie Eartha. All rights reserved.

If you like it, link it!
http://auntieeartha.blogspot.com/2009/07/i-am-what-i-ate.html

Cheap Date

(I’ve always said I’m a cheap date, but I’ll admit, when it comes to dining, I prefer very nice restaurants and they’re never inexpensive. For every rule there’s an exception, however.)

My friend suggested we go grab a bite to eat. I was hot, hungry, and dressed casually, so we headed down the street to a Texas Roadhouse, certainly not one my regular spots. They had a 35-minute wait, thank goodness, so we left. It was very noisy and we would have had to yell to talk with each other.

We jumped back in the car, headed south, and kept looking for a viable alternative. “Let’s try Estela’s Mexican Restaurant,” he said, and up the driveway we went. The place had always looked vacant to me, although their sign remained up for 16 years.


When we greeted the hostess, she asked, “Can I get your name?”

“Is there a long wait?” I asked.

“Oh no,” she answered. “We’re just taking everyone’s name.”

So my friend, being the smart aleck he is, said, “Schmaltz. Spelled S-c-h-m-o-l-p-f-t-z.”

The hostess’ grin got a little scrunchier while I cracked up and rolled my eyes. Promptly someone escorted us to a table for two.

The place was a whirlwind of activity with more waitstaff than I’ve ever seen in any restaurant. The atmosphere was spirited, positive, fun.

“Coming in!” waitpersons would yell as they approached the dual-swinging doors and entered the kitchen. Unusual, but they didn’t have a mirror to see if another person was coming out. So to avoid smashing a burrito on someone’s bust, they’d shout their arrival.

My friend and I caught up with life’s events, crunched on chips, and sipped water while awaiting our food and watching the flurry of people around us. Our waitress, Ashley, was a delight—friendly, attentive, and she genuinely laughed at all my friend’s quirky comments after I explained that they only let him out for a couple hours each week.

During one of Ashley’s visits to our table, she must have recognized that we were wondering why our dinners were taking so long, and she said, “Your dinners are coming. At least they’re free!” Amid the voices, people running back and forth, and clatter of dishes, I wasn’t sure I’d heard correctly, so I just kept smiling and said thank you.

After about a half hour, our meals arrived, steaming hot and smothered in a burnt orange sauce. We dove in. Halfway through, a beautiful woman who appeared to be the owner stopped by and in a breathless, happy tone asked, “How is everything? Are you enjoying your food? And who invited you to our party?”

“Party?” I started to laugh, “We’re at a party?”

“Yes! Tonight is our training night and private party, because we’re reopening!”

I couldn’t contain myself, and the laughter bubbled out of me. “I’m so sorry. We weren’t invited. Are you Estela?”

“No, Estela’s my mother. My sister works here too. We were open for years, then closed for the last nine. But you’re fine. It’s okay,” she said graciously with a huge welcoming smile on her face and perhaps muttering a Hail Mary that we’d vacate our seats soon so the invited guests could dine free.

We’d crashed a party, and the hostess was simply compiling a list of the invited guests who’d shown up. I had tears streaming down my face from semiembarrassment, yet felt overjoyed by this serendipitous faux pas.

My friend left a generous tip for Ashley. Then we thanked our host, Estela’s daughter, and made room for the invited. And I became a cheaper date.

Pretty Schmaltzie.

copyright © 2009 by Auntie Eartha. All rights reserved.

If you like it, link it!
http://auntieeartha.blogspot.com/2009/07/cheap-date.html

Should English Be Spoken in the U.S.?

I’m beginning to believe being PC isn’t politically correct anymore.

I was at Gnashing, the sprightly restaurant where I recently had my birthday party, and its manager whom I’ve known for years approached me, asked me to step out in the hall with him for what I expected to be marketing ideas, and shocked me with, “Auntie, someone heard you in the bathroom say through the stall to one of our employees, ‘Speak English. You’re in America.’”

The girl had been talking on her cell phone to someone in Haiti, so her language would not have been too unfamiliar to me, given my heritage.

But really, what would be unjust with saying those words, asked my friend who joined me. Is there something wrong with speaking English, or even Americanized English, while in the U.S.? Knowing the aid and intervention the UN and U.S. have given Haiti in 1994, 2004, and more recently, I would think she’d appreciate Americans.

And if she was supposed to be working, why was she in a public restroom talking on the phone? If I were an employee of an establishment, I’d pay homage to those who paid me—the patrons and my employer—showing public honor and respect, which is a good principle for us all.

If she were truly offended by being asked to speak English, why would she tell her American-born boss? As a friend familiar with the establishment wrote: “I don't know what was said, but you are living in America and people can say what they want! Why didn't this girl say something back to you if it was such a problem???? She could've stood up for herself.”

And isn’t it politically correct to respect the language of the people whose country you are living in? I’m not referring to tourists, who would typically speak their native tongue with a smattering of English, unless they’re European and learn English in grammar school.

But this girl was supposed to be working, so she must be living here.

I said to my world-traveler friend, “If I were going to another country, I’d do the best I could to learn some basics of the language before I visited. In fact before I went to Italy, I practiced with books, tapes, and a dictionary. Even though they couldn’t understand me, they appreciated my feeble attempts.”

He, having visited numerous African countries and China a couple times, several Middle Eastern countries, and Europe and Mexico numerous times, responded, “I always try to learn common phrases before I leave. And though Chinese was somewhat difficult, I worked toward educating myself. People really appreciate that I’m making an effort. It’s always said how rude the French are. Well, when I was there, I did my best to speak their language, and they were very gracious to me.”

It’s about respect.

When asked the question, Do you think people should speak English in America? a female interviewee wrote: “Absolutely, it pisses me off when they speak their native language in public or place of business!”

A man said he’s been to Haiti and they spoke English, though according to a few sources, their languages are Haitian Creole and French. “Don’t you know,” he asked, “that there is a current conspiracy against Americans and that we are seen as evil and must be destroyed?”

All I’m discussing here is that we have the United States Constitution, and I’m defending one’s right to exercise our First Amendment right and support a country with its diverse heritage.

It’s about respect.

In 387 A.D. St. Ambrose said to St. Augustine, “When I am at Rome, I fast on a Saturday; when I am at Milan, I do not. Follow the custom of the Church where you are.” Eventually his thoughts evolved into “When in Rome, do as the Romans do.”

The Gnashing manager wants me to apologize to Miss Haiti or I’m not welcome back. Being obsequious, I probably will. But he wasn’t specific about what to apologize about.

Am I sorry for purportedly saying the obvious: she’s in America, in a public place speaking other-than-American-English? for purportedly exercising the Constitution’s First Amendment right? for interrupting her conversation?

Is it okay to speak your mind in a declarative sense, or is Iran on the right track?

Is it PC to speak French in France, German in Germany, French or Creole in Haiti, English in England, American-English in the U.S.?

Please click the comment link below and let me know how you feel. Go ahead—rip me a new one!

copyright © 2009 by Auntie Eartha. All rights reserved.

If you like it, link it!
http://auntieeartha.blogspot.com/2009/07/should-english-be-spoken-in-US.html

Skiing at Fifty (not miles per hour)

I turned 34 Friday…for the seventeenth time.

So I decided to celebrate by accepting Rick’s invitation to go waterskiing. It wasn’t an easy decision, though, so I stalled by saying, “I have to ask my daughter first. I’ll call you right back.”

Why would I stall saying yes to do something I enjoy?

Fear. If you’re older and don’t do a sport regularly, maybe you can relate. Like golfing, bicycling, or sex, you hesitate because you’re just not sure you can do it anymore.

When I was young, there wouldn’t have been a second thought. I’d just do it. Except back then it was, “Hey, you wanna go night crawler pickin’?” Or “Let’s play hide-and-seek in the cemetery tonight!” Or “Whoa, slow down! I think that was a skunk. Let’s catch it and throw it on the dance floor at that disco bar! Yeah!”

Life was simpler back then.

Realizing the game I was playing with my mind, I called Rick back and said yes, please.

When we were on the water, I also accepted the invitation to be first to ski. I made a series of exaggerated noises: screamed at the cold water, giggled at the huge fish that was going to bite my foot off, grunted as I slid on the tight Jobe, and yelled, “Hit it!”

It was great, refreshing, invigorating, and followed by interesting compliments, like how much bigger my breasts looked when I covered them up with the ski vest. What little ego I have quickly dissipated.

As always, my friend Rick, a filmmaker, actor, voice talent, and fabulous skier included wonderful people: Bud, a very well-known professional piano player here in Colorado Springs; Steve, a young, retired filmmaker from our library district; and Ivy, my daughter.

Next up to ski was Steve, up on two right away! Then Bud, up on two, dropped one, and oh my God! This guy knows how to work a ski! Like a lot of the Wisconsin boys I grew up with, Bud spoke some German, drank PBR, and kept a firm build. But Bud is an exception: He still does all this stuff at 50-something!

Rick has always been a pro at skiing and sort of reminds me of Jesus walking on water. They’re both strong, trim, and dark, but Rick’s faster and much more handsome.

After we had all skied, except Ivy the No Sayer, we ate lunch near my favorite tree, as Rick dubbed it. The tree is the largest in a cluster of several dead, ashen ones rising from deep in the reservoir. As usual, a colony of about 20 double-crested black cormorants perched and squawked like old women at a coffee klatsch. I think of the big, dead tree as Cormorant Commune.

Enthralled, we inched the boat underneath the tree, but when two of us felt moist manna dropping from the sky, we opted to be less intimate with the birds and use our own mayonnaise.

Nearby, another slightly less populated colony sported one blue heron standing in its nest, the priestly knight amidst a Halloween gathering of Grim cormorant Reapers. We saw ospreys, a pelican, yellow-breasted chat (I think), and fish jumping out of the water.

Each of us enjoyed another dance on the water, more bold and reckless than our first rounds. A bunch of fearless old farts with youthful spirits!

Go ahead. Give me another birthday!

copyright © 2009 by Auntie Eartha. All rights reserved.

If you like it, link it!
http://auntieeartha.blogspot.com/2009/06/skiing-at-fifty-not-miles-per-hour.html